Chapter VII

Fear stalked the base. It hung in the air ... seeped through the hush ... showed in trembling hands and on strained faces.

Stone felt it, too. Fear and something else.

Something that crawled and gnawed and ached within him. Something that reached out spidery tendrils to the farthest cell of his very being.

It came out in a name, pulsing in his brain: Reva ... Reva ... Reva....

He paced the night, hour after hour. But nowhere, nohow, could he escape her. Misty and wraithlike, her face swayed before him. The soft curve of her cheek, the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips--they wouldn’t leave him alone.

Her eyes were the worst: Gentle grey eyes, imploring....

He cursed aloud in the stillness.

Only there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

Seething, he sought out the headquarters.

A young captain looked up as he entered.

Stone said, “Well? What’s the decision?”

“Decision?” The officer shrugged. “We’re still waiting. That tank unit’s coming. We got through to it before the bugs clamped down their wave-shield.”

“But Doctor Adams--MacDougal--”

“The base comes first. We can’t risk it--not just for two prisoners.”

Stone choked harsh words off unspoken. Pivoting, he strode back out into the darkness.

A whole base, versus two prisoners.

Calculated risk, and the greatest good of the greatest number.

The commandant’s attitude made sense. Of course it did.

Except for one thing:

One of the prisoners was Reva.

Only that was individual, personal, a pain deep inside him. The commandant didn’t know about that. And even if he did, he couldn’t afford to let it matter.

The answer? Stone scuffed at the gravel. That was the trouble: There just wasn’t any answer.

Or was there?

Suppose you reversed the equation, turned the figures upside down.

The commandant saw two lives against thousands. That was his duty.

But for him, Carl Stone, it was different. He had one life; that was all.

One life, to gamble for two. His own neck to risk, on the off chance that he might save MacDougal and Reva.

It was a good thought. It made the odds look different.

Stone laughed abruptly. Who was he kidding? The odds didn’t matter, nor even MacDougal. Reva was the one who counted, and Reva only.

Because he loved her. In spite of everything, he loved her.

It was decision.

Stone’s breathing quickened. All at once he felt alive again, no longer numb or bowed down. The years, the bitterness, the heartbreak--like shackles struck off, as one they fell away. Cool, purposeful, his stride firm, he struck out towards the Central Project Area’s main gate.

The weary guards waved him by on the strength of his security pass. Beyond the last barrier, then, he broke into a dogtrot and stayed with it all the way to the administration building lot where his car was parked.

One brief detour, to his quarters to pick up a thirty-eight. Then out onto the highway, heading east towards the spot where he’d watched the woman die.

The sky was greying now, along the horizon far ahead; another day aborning, out of the chill shadows of a desert dawn.

Bleakly, Stone wondered if he’d live to see it end.

Then tire-churned gravel marked the turn-off point. Slowing to low gear, Stone wrenched the steering wheel around and bumped off the road, out across the shoulder into the open desert.

* * * * *

The trail the woman had left proved surprisingly easy to follow, still--a broken creosote bush here, kicked-over clumps of fishhook cactus there, ground shoe-scraped in between.

The tracks pointed to a high, rocky tableland perhaps three miles back from the road.

What was it the dying woman had said--“robots beyond the mesa”--?

The back of Stone’s neck prickled.

His car gave out less than three-quarters of a mile from the road, ambushed by rocks and a mesquite tree.

Stolidly, Stone abandoned it and set out on foot. The trail, at first so clear, had vanished now, so he set his course for the mesa and hoped for the best.

Slowly, the sun edged up. The day began to warm.

Stone plodded on, dodging cactus and keeping a sharp eye out for snakes.

He was nearly to the hill when he heard the helicopter. Before he could find a place to hide, it was hovering directly overhead ... settling slowly, rotor whishing.

Hastily, Stone slid his gun out of sight beneath his coat and stood waiting.

Landing on a nearby patch of open ground, the whirlybird’s pilot threw open the door. “Hey, you!”

“Yes?” Stone picked his way toward the craft. “What is it?”

The pilot scowled. “You’re out of bounds. I got orders to come out and pick you up. The CO’s taking no chances of getting those bugs stirred up till he knows just where we stand.”

“I might have known that gateguard would say something about me.” Stone managed a rueful smile. “Well, so goes it....”

He clambered into the helicopter not even protesting; closed the door. The pilot manipulated the controls. The engine roared. Slowly, the ’copter rose, straight up into the air.

Stone reached beneath his coat. Not even bothering to speak, he brought out the thirty-eight and leveled it at the other’s side.

“Hey!” The pilot stiffened. “Put that thing away. You want to get into trouble?”

“I’m already in it, friend,” Stone said gently. “I might as well go whole hog.” He gestured with the revolver’s muzzle. “Let’s have a look on the other side of that mesa.”

Muttering, the pilot sent the helicopter higher.

Only then, before they had more than reached the edge of the tableland, a sound bore in upon them ... a high, shrill, droning sound....

It was Stone’s turn to stiffen. Swiveling in his seat, he peered out, searching.

Beyond the mesa, a flight of the flying robots climbed into view in a swift, tight spiral, swirling up and around straight into the morning sun.

Simultaneously, the pilot exclaimed, “Look--! The tanks!”

Stone strained his eyes.

Far off in the eastern desert, tiny beetle-like vehicles ground slowly towards them, churning up long streamers of dust. A distant sound of firing, heavy guns, echoed on the morning breeze.

In the same instant, the first of the tanks lurched from its path. The distance was too great for Stone to tell just what had happened. He only knew that the armored titan was veering, jerking, rolling over.

A fraction of a second later it disappeared in a spurting, concussive burst of flame.

Now beyond it, a second vehicle was in trouble. A third.

The fourth exploded like a gigantic exclamation point of fire.

From then on, the battle turned into a rout.

With no survivors.

Sickness twisted at Stone’s belly. Fighting it down, he swung back to the pilot. “I won’t risk your neck, lieutenant. Land me on the mesa, and be on your way.”

* * * * *

Wordless, the pilot shifted the whirlybird’s controls, setting the ’copter down on a rocky plateau.

“If your CO bawls you out, remind him I had a gun,” Stone said. He opened the door; jumped to the ground.

The helicopter was rising again almost before he could turn.

But not for long.

Because suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, half-a-dozen flying robots swooped down.

Stone never could be sure that the pilot even saw them. They came that fast.

As they passed over the ’copter, the one in the lead dipped slightly.

A tentacle speared out, whipped round; stabbed into the blur of spinning rotor blades.

Then it caught, with a jerk so violent that the robot spun from its course, too fast for the eye to follow.

But only for a moment. Then, bobber-like, it came into balance again, the rotor still dangling from the tentacle.

Like a crippled bird, the helicopter plunged earthward ... struck with a rending crash ... shattered into flames.

Shuddering, Stone crouched motionless in the shadow of a boulder.

Yet, incredibly, the robots gave no sign that they sensed his presence. A moment later they were gone.

Tight-lipped, Stone left his haven and trudged on across the mesa. A mile. Two.

Then, abruptly, the tableland fell away before him. Dropping flat on his belly by the rim, he stared down in grim fascination into the canyon below; for there, surely, lay one of the strangest things the eyes of man had ever seen.

It was a sphere--a shining gigantic metal ball, fully three hundred feet in diameter, if Stone could judge. No lines or ports or crevices marred its gleaming surface. Nowhere about it could he see any sign of life.

Quickly he drew back from the rim, well out of view of the sphere. Then, rising, he strode left, following the mesa’s edge till he came to a spot where the eroded lip cut back enough to hide him from the globe-shaped craft.

Slipping and falling, bruising and tearing, he descended to the canyon’s floor, then made his way back towards the sphere.

Here, studying it at a lower level from a hidden vantage-point amid the talus, he gained a better, clearer picture. Three stubby legs gave the globe balance on the uneven bedrock of the canyon floor. A broad, inclined ramp led to a slot-like belly hatch. Of monsters or robots he could see no trace.

Stone sucked in air--a long, deep breath. This was the thing he’d sought, the aliens’ ship; and now he’d found it.

To what avail?

Somewhere in its maw, by all odds, lay Reva and MacDougal. Yet what could he do about it? How could he, alone and armed only with his Smith & Wesson, hope to invade it or to save them?

But he’d known the odds before he started--and he’d still come. Logic and hazard simply had no bearing.

Surging up, gun in hand, he moved warily forward, hugging the mesa wall.

Now he came abreast the sphere. The ramp to the belly hatch beckoned, smooth and inviting.

Inviting as madness.

A nervous spasm knotted Stone’s belly. When it had passed, he stepped out from the wall, moved forward, cat-footed, towards the ramp.

Still nothing happened.

Going around the edge of the ramp, he peered up through the open hatch, into the sphere-ship.

* * * * *

The interior shone with a dim, greenish glow. Overhead loomed a bulwark. He could see nothing more. The stillness was deafening, unbroken save by the whisper of the desert breeze far above.

A new chill shook him.

He might have turned back, then. He almost did.

But in that same moment, as he started to draw away, a voice echoed thinly deep in the globe-craft. Reva’s voice, ragged and strain-straught.

It caught Stone like a magnet. His doubts fell forgotten. Soundlessly, he swung up onto the ramp ... crept shadow-silent on into the hatchway.

A corridor yawned, dim in the ghostly green glow. Hardly daring to breathe, Stone sidled along it past doors, littered chambers.

It ended at a tube-like, vertical shaft set off by a guard-rail.

The ship’s axis, probably.

Stone strained his ears, listening. Again Reva’s voice came--louder, this time; vibrating down the shaft.

Swinging out over the guard-rail, Stone peered upward.

The shaft was smooth as glass--without hand-holds or bracing.

He dropped back to the corridor floor.

A closed double door to his left, next to the shaft, tempted him. He stepped towards it.

Like magic, it parted before him, silent as death. A steep ramp curved to the right, following the tube-shaft.

Finger tense on the thirty-eight’s trigger, he moved up it, higher and higher.

Each ninety degrees arced brought a new door, a new level. When he approached them, they opened; when they opened he listened. And each time, Reva’s voice sounded closer.

He could hear MacDougal, too, now, on occasion, speaking in rumbles. The very nearness brought sweat oozing. A dozen times he had to switch the gun from one hand to the other to scrub his palms dry of slickness.

Another level. Another. Another.

_The level_.

Tension drew a band tight over his chest--compressing, constricting. His neck ached. His blood pounded.

Jaws tight, gun-hand rigid, he moved down the passage.

A doorway. An open doorway, flooding out brighter, whiter light.

Back to the wall, Stone edged to it ... stared into the room it revealed.

Reva sat on a low, curving divan across from MacDougal. Her pale face showed deep strain-lines; her hands twisted, white-knuckled.

MacDougal’s whole body sagged limp and exhausted. The shaggy brows stood out over eyes deep-sunk in dark hollows. His right arm hung in a sling.

Stone swayed for a moment, not daring to think, then slid forward--taut, noiseless.

MacDougal’s head twitched. His eyes flicked towards the doorway.

“Quiet--!” Stone shook as he whispered. “For God’s sake, be quiet!”

Reva, MacDougal--they both jerked like puppets.

Stone hissed, “This way--quick!”

MacDougal’s jowls quivered. His left hand gripped the divan as he heaved up from it.

Eyes distended, breasts rising and falling too fast, Reva followed.

Stone stepped back.

The tentacles folded round him, then.

He triggered his gun by sheer reflex.

The thirty-eight roared--wild, aimless. The bullet rang, bouncing off metal.

The tentacles only drew relentlessly tighter. One slapped at the gun, tore it loose from his fingers.

Another looped round his throat. It was like a nightmare--a mad repetition of that blood-curdling moment outside Reva’s building.

The tentacle drew tighter. Stone’s lungs exploded.

The blackness closed in....