Norr wasn’t entirely sure what was taking place in the physical realm, but allowed herself to be drawn back into her body, where it was necessary to grit her teeth against the pain. Conscious now, but still laid out on her stomach, the sensitive heard Rebo speak. “Sogol? Can you hear me?”
The AI slithered up the sensitive’s bare arm to gather itself on her shoulder. “Yes,” the computer answered, “I can hear you.”
“Good. Lonni damned near got killed stealing that gate seed . . . So the least you can do is get us out of here!”
“I would be happy to,” Logos 1.2 responded. “But before I can activate the gate seed you must remove the sphere from the cage that presently surrounds it.”
Now, having been reminded, Rebo knew that the AI was correct. Once activated the globe would start to spin—
which wouldn’t be possible until the object was released from the lamp. But how to free it? And do so before the police came to get him?
The runner swore a long string of oaths as he secured a grip on the big instrument cabinet, wrestled the piece of furniture over to the door, and pushed it into place. The obstacle wouldn’t keep the authorities out for very long, Rebo knew that, but fi?gured any delay would help. Having bought some time, the runner began to rifl?e through the cabinet’s drawers. He had already rejected a number of instruments, none of which looked like they would be appropriate to the task, when he saw what appeared to be a bone saw. But would it cut through metal?
Rebo was about to experiment when Sogol spoke. “What about Norr’s sword? Would that do the job?”
“Damn!” Rebo exclaimed. “I should have thought of that.” The bone saw clattered as it hit the fl?oor. The nuns had removed both the sword and scabbard shortly after bringing Norr into the operating room. The runner hurried over to where the weapon lay and heard the whisper of steel as he pulled the blade free. Norr, who had been witness to the conversation, managed to croak his name. “Jak . . .”
Rebo felt his heart leap. He hurried to the young woman’s side. “You’re conscious! Thank God! How do you feel?”
“Never mind that,” the sensitive whispered hoarsely. “Be careful with the sword! The blade is extremely sharp. If you aim for the center of the lamp, it will cut through the framework and the gate seed.”
“Which would be most unfortunate,” Logos 1.2 put in.
“Because the resulting explosion would destroy this room, the nunnery, and half of Pohua.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Rebo said dryly. Then, having placed the lamp well clear of the operating table, the runner brought the sword up over his head and brought the supersharp edge down along the right side of the lamp. There was a shower of sparks as metal parted, the runner took a nasty shock, and the acrid scent of ozone fi?lled the air. His arm was still tingling when Rebo returned the weapon to its scabbard and bent to retrieve what remained of the lamp. He was relieved to see that the sphere was intact. Then, as the runner struggled to bend a piece of metal out of the way, someone began to pound on the door. “This is the police!
Open up!”
Rebo drew the 9mm, fi?red two shots into the very top of the door, and heard loud scuffl?ing noises as the police beat a hasty retreat. “Okay,” the runner said, having returned the pistol to its holster, “where were we? Ah, yes, the gate seed. I press on both dimples for sixty seconds . . . right?”
“That’s correct,” Sogol assured him. “Then, when you feel the locks give, twist both hemispheres in opposite directions.”
Rebo pressed, heard noises out in the hall, and knew the police were getting ready to take another crack at the door.
“Hurry,” Norr croaked. “Or we’ll rot in whatever passes for Pohua’s jail.” The sensitive made an attempt to rise, but the pain was too intense, and she collapsed.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the locks gave. Then, having secured a good grip on both halves of the sphere, the runner twisted them in opposite directions. Beams of bright light stabbed the walls, the object started to oscillate, and Rebo had to let go as a battering ram hit the door.
TWELVE
The Planet Zeen
—Saylo Imono, phib philosopher,
The elders had been hung by their thumbs from the framework that normally served to smoke meat during the fall months, when the entire village labored to make itself ready for winter, and the dogs grew fat from eating scraps. The villagers’ bare feet had been weighted with rocks, and hung only six inches above the coals, which meant that those who were conscious could smell their burning fl?esh. All because the village’s chief had been so brave, or so stupid, as to spit on the crippled man.
But, in spite of the systematic torture, the locals refused to surrender their secrets. Or so Tepho assumed, as he ordered one of the metal men to throw another bucket of water onto Subchief Milo Vester, in hopes that the shock would revive him. The water hit the villager’s smoke-blackened face, brought him back into full consciousness, and provoked an explosion of steam as it hit the hot coals. The subchief screamed, or tried to, but produced a strange choking noise instead.
Meanwhile, those villagers lucky enough to survive the spitting incident stood in a sullen group with downcast eyes. Tepho made use of the dead chief ’s hand-carved totem stick to point at Vester’s badly charred feet. “You
