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Sybil was ru
“Where’s the sniper?” she called out.
“Top of the slope we were climbing. I had a quick glimpse, just something moving.”
“Any particular color?”
“The local favorite.”
“Next?”
“Get our breath back. Then spread out and hunt the hunter. Sorry but I dropped our supplies. We’ll worry about that later. After we find this redskin. All right with you?”
“Agreed. Whoever it is I want him in front of me rather than behind.”
I made the first rush, slanting across the hill then sheltering behind a boulder. A shot hit the rock, sending fragments clattering; another hit the ground. But even as our ambusher was firing Sybil was ru
In rushing spurts we slowly made our way up the hill. Our attacker kept shooting; he appeared to have plenty of ammunition.
We were approaching the summit when I saw him. Big, red, ru
The end came suddenly. I heard him fire in the other direction; he must have seen her. I put my head down and plowed up the slope as fast—I could. There he was a few meters away, turning the gun towards me—when a fast—thrown rock caught him in the back. He squealed, jumped—tried to aim.
And I was on him. Twisting the gun away and kicking him hard in the chest. He shrieked again as he fell; the sack dropped from his shoulder, spilling out shiny tubes.
Sybil stumbled up, as exhausted as I was, and looked down at our fallen adversary. He was fat and he was red, with the now normal horns and tail. But he was very familiar. He scrambled backwards, turned to look for a way to escape and I saw his profile.
“It can’t be! But he looks like—” Sybil finished the sentence for me.
“It could be Slakey!”
“Or Master Fanyimadu or Father Marablis.”
He was that familiar. But of course this could not he. He looked at us with wide eyes, trembling, frightened. Spoke.
“Have we met before?”
“Perhaps,” I said, “My name is diGriz. Is that familiar?”
“Not really. Any relation to the Grodzynskis?”
“Not to my knowledge. And your name is…?”
“That’s a good question. It might be—Einstein?” He looked hopeful, then stopped smiling when I shook my head no. “Wrong answer. Do Mitchelsen or Morley sound familiar? Epinard?”
“Yes, those names are familiar,” Sybil said. “They were all physicists. They’re all dead.” “Physics!” He brightened up at that and pointed in the direction of the bloated sun. “Burning continues always. But the nucleus isn’t stable, you see. The core, a Fermi sphere. Then the nucleus, lithium not stable..
“Professor…?” I called out.
“Yes? What? But those nuclei simply break up again.”
He closed his eyes and swayed slowly back and forth muttering to himself softly all the time. “He’s mad,” Sybil said firmly. I nodded agreement.
“Like the others—only more so. But he’s saying something about physics. And he did respond when I called him professor.”
“There are a lot of professors around.”
“Too true.” I picked up the gun and turned it in my hands. “And where did he get this? It’s in good condition, fires all too well.” I tapped a dial on the butt, fully charged, then pointed to the spilled tubes on the ground. “You recognize the weapon?”
“Of course. Linear accelerator gun. The military calls them Gauss rifles.”
“Exactly. No moving parts, lots of juice in the nuclear battery—with plenty more steel slugs in these tubes. How did it get here? Do you remember what happened to all that gear that I brought with me, mechanical and electronic? None of it would work. We’ve seen no other artifacts—until this.”
Our demonic friend stopped muttering, saw the gun and jumped to grab it. Sybil put out a foot and he sprawled onto his face. I held the gun up so he could see it.
“Professor—where did you get this?”
“Mine. I gave me the He looked around bewilderedly. Lay down and closed his eyes and appeared to be asleep.
“Not exactly a bubbling font of information,” Sybil said.
“I think this madness is catching—or grows on you the longer you stay here.”
“Agreed. So let’s go back to the original plan. The cave.” “The cave.” I retrieved and shouldered the bag, seized up the gun and ammunition. We looked back as we walked but he never stirred.
“Do you get the feeling that the longer we are in Hell the more questions there are to ask—and the fewer answers?” Sybil nodded glum agreement. Then pointed.
“Isn’t that it ahead? The—opening in the rocks?”
“Looks like it.”
I felt more depressed than I had ever been before in my life. Which says a lot since I have been in some very depressing situations. This search for the cave was a token gesture born of desperation. If there had been any device, any machine—anything at all in the cave—we would have seen it before we left. This was a dead end.
As we approached the cave entrance there was a cracking explosion of sound inside, accompanied by a sudden burst of bright light. Sybil dived aside and I raised the gun, flipped on the power.
Scraping footsteps sounded from inside the cave, something horrible coming towards us. I sighted along the barrel, put steady pressure on the trigger as a man appeared in the entrance.
“Throw that away and come with me—quickly!” my son said.
“Coming, Bolivar!” Sybil shouted as she ran. “We’re right behind you!”
Chapter 8
I dropped the gun and the bag of ammunition, the colimicon, and ran—with Sybil right behind me. Bolivar led the way, stumbled to a halt towards the rear of the cave. He looked around, shuffled his feet. “No, more to the left,” he mumbled. “Back, back. Good.”
“Fast!” he shouted, raising his arms. “Take my hands!”
We weren’t arguing. He seized our hands and, with a powerful muscular contraction, pulled us tight against his chest. I opened my mouth to speak——
It was a completely indescribable sensation. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before, had no relation to heat or pain, cold, emotions, electrocution.
Then it ended; bright light flared and there was a thunderous sound.
“Get down!” someone shouted and Bolivar dragged us after him to the floor of the room. Rapid explosions sounded, gunfire. I had a quick glimpse of a man firing a hand weapon, clumsily, for when the gun recoiled he dropped it. From his left hand; his right arm was bandaged. He turned then and ran, followed by other ru
“James!” Bolivar cried out.
“Fine, fine,” a muffled voice answered. He came out from behind the ruins of the burning machine. His face was smeared black and he was brushing glowing embers from his shirt. “Very close. Good thing he wasn’t shooting at me. He did a good job on the electronics though.”
“Thanks, boys, for getting us back,” I said, then coughed raspingly. “My throat hurts like Hell.”
There was a hiss of white fumes and the fires were blotted Out by the automatic quenchers. An alarm was ringing in the distance.
“Explain later,” James said. “Let’s get out before anyone else shows up.”
I didn’t argue. Still numb from the events of the past day. Day? We ran out of the church, it was night, the van was parked at the curb just where we had seen it last—how long ago?
“Into the back,” James ordered. He started the engine as the rest of us struggled in through the open rear doors. Barely had time to close them before he kicked in the power. We sprawled and rolled and heard the sound of sirens getting louder—then dying away as the van broadsided around a corner. He slowed after that, drove at what must have been something like normal speed. Turned a few more times and stopped. James spun his driver’s seat around to face us and smiled.