recalled Senilde’s prediction: “The moment the tanks finish the job, they’ll register the ship as an enemy again, and turn around and blast it point-blank.”
He fought back his panic, and peered intently, trying to see beyond the limits of his vision. He just discerned the arc of tanks. Then, presently, he could see the hairlines of the cables stretched back from them. But he couldn’t make out whether the ship was stuck temporarily at that angle or whether it was imperceptibly moving.
He thumped the platform rail with his fist. “If only we could make this blasted crate accelerate!”
“What is troubling you?” asked Mara.
He sketched the position.
She took the telescope. “My sight is keener than yours, George.” Then: “I’m afraid the ship is still rising. Very slowly, but steadily. If it continues at the same rate, and if we can’t better our speed—which we can’t—then the ship will be standing upright before we can get there. It’s just a matter of simple—”
The word came through the Teleo as an amalgam of “counting” (Mara’s term) and “arithmetic” (George’s term).
“How can we warn them?” asked George, in agony.
“They must be able to see the chariot coming now,” said Mara. “Maybe they’ll stop and take cover.”
Before the skipper saw, on his TV screen, the huge bulk of the distant chariot, the instruments in his tank detected it with a flutter of nervous movements. But the tank made no atempt to take up a battle position. It continued to respond to his manual control.
Retrospectively, Freiburg wondered why. Did the other vehicle belong to some neutral force? To some sane Venusians coming at last to help?
Or was he kidding himself again with wishful thinking?
Could be it was a new kind of trick attack.
The spaceship was coming up faster now. If he halted the operation at this juncture, the cables might give.
He looked up at the white flag hanging limp in the air. He knew the crew, in their tanks, were watching it, poised to switch off the moment he yanked it down.
“Hell!” he swore, and left it.
First get the ship erect and balanced. Then he’d be free to give his full attention to this approaching monster vehicle, whatever it might be. The ship continued to rise smoothly.
… 69… 70… 71… 72… 73… 74 degrees
George and Mara were waving their arms to draw attention to themselves. Almost uselessly, they felt sure. They were still nowhere near enough. George could see the ship still rising. He judged it to be less than 20 degrees from the perpendicular. Maybe only 15…
Within minutes those friendly, helpful tanks would complete their task—then swiftly turn and rend. The resultant havoc on the ship would be quite irreparable. Any human survivors would, like themselves, be marooned on Venus, with small chance of rescue, less chance of finding food… Until either they starved or Senilde’s mad war machine hunted them down at last. The chariot plowed on at the same obstinately unhurried pace.
… 78… 79… 80… 81… 82 degrees.
Captain Freiburg was strained as tautly as any of the cables. At any second now the shifting center of gravity would cause the ship to swing to the vertical position automatically, without need of further hauling. He glared angrily at the nearing armored vehicle, resenting its presence at such a crucial moment. He noted that it carried no visible armament. Nor could he see either a circle or a triangle sign on it. Perhaps it intended no harm, after all. All the same, it was an untimely disturbance.
But then, events had never timed themselves to suit him. Quite the reverse, in fact.
Was that something moving on the flat top of this huge, ugly intruder? A speck. Two specks. People?
Damn them, nothing was going to stop him now. He’d failed too often because of unexpected, ill-timed interferences from the extraneous world. He was in rebellion against the unjust treatment of a lifetime. He’d see
… 84… 85… 86 degrees.
