Hot Sky at Midnight

But Farkas was still standing between him and the exit from the shell. And Carpenter had no idea of what lay behind him, closer to the satellite world’s skin.

Further retreat might be just as unwise as Farkas had told him it was. Ahead of him was Farkas. He’s terribly quick and strong, Jolanda had said, and he can see in every direction at once. Yes. But there wasn’t much choice. Carpenter pulled his head down, getting his center of gravity as low as he could, and went running straight at Farkas. As Carpenter came within reach, Farkas caught hold of him, and they grappled furiously for a couple of moments. Carpenter was altogether unable to budge him. Farkas was huge and immensely strong, and Farkas was braced. His hands had found Carpenter’s throat and he was squeezing.

Carpenter went into manic overdrive, jigging about wildly, writhing, going limp and suddenly tightening up again. Somehow he twisted himself about and wriggled free of Farkas’s grip and danced away. A lucky shift of his weight: it was, he knew, probably not a trick he could manage a second time.

Farkas came after him, moving unerringly as they passed into a zone of deeper darkness where Carpenter had almost no notion of what lay around him. Vaguely he saw Farkas’s long arms stretching toward him, dark lines against the darkness. Carpenter probed cautiously backward with the tip of his foot, trying to find out whether he was approaching the abyss of which Farkas had spoken, or, conversely, whether Farkas was backing him into a dead end. But he was able to learn nothing. He was practically unable to see, now.

Farkas could see, though.

In front of him and behind, too. The blindsight gave him 360-degree vision, Jolanda had said.

Carpenter heard Farkas’s rough breathing. He sensed but did not see the massive form approaching him. Carpenter had superhuman speed on his side, but Farkas could see, and he was bigger and stronger. Here in the dark it was an unequal match.

In one smooth rapid motion Carpenter pulled his woolen vest off and held it lightly, by the tips of two fingers. Farkas came barreling forward. Carpenter waited for him, bracing himself as solidly as he could.

Their bodies collided. Carpenter felt a tremendous blow against his chest and he thought that all the air would leave his lungs in a single gust. His whole rib cage seemed to be collapsing.

But he was able to put the pain away and stay upright. He brought the sweater up, holding it like a noose, and as Farkas leaned down toward him for the coup de grace Carpenter drew it quickly down over the dome of Farkas’s head, twisting it around Farkas’s neck at the bottom end, pulling its hem up and tucking it through, tangling and knotting it, fastening it like a hood over Farkas’s head. He seemed to have plenty of time to do what needed to be done. Actually it took probably no more than a tenth of a second.

Farkas howled. He bellowed. He stamped his feet and uttered muffled roars of fury.

There, Carpenter thought. Does your blindsight work through a layer of wool?

Evidently not. Farkas raged and blundered in the dark like a blinded Cyclops, and Carpenter, a lithe, frantic Odysseus, moved quickly around him, giving Farkas a powerful shove as he went past, spinning him completely around. Farkas stumbled, regained his balance, came charging toward Carpenter with enormous velocity.

He was fast, but Carpenter was faster. Once more Carpenter stepped aside. In the blackness he could make out almost nothing, but he was aware of a breeze as Farkas, arms pinwheeling, went rushing past, growling angrily, taking huge clattering steps.

Then a sudden shriek of—astonishment? Rage? Horror?

A long outcry, dopplering off into silence.

And then what sounded like an impact, a dull sound far away.

“Farkas?” Carpenter called.

No reply.

“You fall down the hole, Farkas? You dead down there?”

All quiet. Silence. Silence.

Farkas was gone, then. Really gone. It was hard to believe, all that dark force snuffed out. That strange man. Carpenter stared into the darkness.

But he felt no sense of triumph in the moment of victory, only disorientation and fatigue. He knew that at just this moment he had reached the hyperdex high and was beginning the journey down the other side. The high had been very high; the descent was going to be awful.

He was assailed by a dizziness of a kind he had never known before, and an almost overwhelming nausea. The whole universe was reeling about him. He dropped to his knees and clung to the rough invisible surface below him. It was swaying, pulsating, rippling. His stomach began to heave. They were dry heaves, and they went on and on, until he thought they were going to turn him inside out like a starfish, and when they were over he crawled a short distance away and lay with his cheek against the rough scraggy ground for a long while, feeling the triple dose of hyperdex blasting through him like a trio of hurricanes. No news bulletins came out of the darkness from Farkas. Farkas was gone. Farkas was dead.

It might have been hours that Carpenter lay there. He spent a good while in a kind of hallucinatory state. Then he returned to full awareness again, or something close to it.

He quivered, he shook, he moaned, he wept, as the last of the hyperdex overdose burned its way through his over-stressed nervous system.

When he tried to stand, he found that it was impossible. His legs were rubbery and his skull felt hollow and he had no physical strength at all. He lay down again, and waited, and after a time he became a little more calm. Slowly he started to crawl forward, feeling his way, making absolutely certain that no abysses were before him, and eventually Carpenter realized that he had returned to the zone where the faint light of the incandescent bulbs provided him with a little guidance.

He found the door that led back into El Mirador.

“Farkas?” he called one last time, looking behind him into the dark.

Nothing. Silence.

He staggered out into the cobblestoned plaza.

He had no idea what time it was. Somewhere during the struggle in the shell, his wristwatch had been ripped away. But the morning seemed to be well along. Most of the tables at the plaza-side cafes were full, now. Carpenter found one that wasn’t and slumped down into it. He sensed that people were looking at him curiously. He wondered how battered and bruised he was, and how filthy.

He felt drained, numb, dazed.

The hyperdex was still blazing in his brain. Its accelerative force had worn off somewhat, and he was able to move now at a normal pace, but his thoughts were driving in wild circles at the speed of light and then some.

Was a triple dose fatal? Should he get himself to a medic?

One will be enough for ordinary circumstances, Jolanda had said. Two, if very unusual. He had taken three.

He shivered and trembled. It was an effort to keep from falling face forward onto the tabletop.

An android waiter said, “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

That seemed like an incredibly funny question. Carpenter burst into wild laughter. The android stood beside the table, patiently, politely.

“Or something to eat, perhaps?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Carpenter forced himself to say. “Nothing at all.” His voice still sounded blurry and too fast. Thanking an android, too!

The android went away. Carpenter sat quietly. Breathe in, breathe out.

After a time, Carpenter remembered that Davidov’s plan had called for Farkas to get in touch with a certain Colonel Olmo of the Guardia Civil at seven this morning and tell him that bombs had been planted all over the habitat, that Generalissimo Callaghan would have to abdicate by noon or the whole place would be blown up. Had Farkas actually delivered the 0700 ultimatum to Olmo?

No. No. At 0600 hours Farkas had been chasing Carpenter around the shell of the satellite. Farkas had wanted to dispose of the Samurai Industries spy first thing, before getting on to speaking with Olmo. So the ultimatum had never been delivered, most likely, unless Farkas had jumped the schedule and spoken to Olmo in