‘They’ll destroy it,’ grated one of the Tripsingers, wiping blood from his forehead where a flying crystal chip had cut him. They had managed to hold the gunners at bay. They had managed to kill a good many of them. The Colonel who had set off the shell that had killed Jamieson had left some time ago, marching hastily away toward the south with a handful of men, but he had left enough men behind to pound the Tower to rubble once they got close enough.
‘No. Black Tower won’t let them. It knows how, now, but you must go away. Quickly. Eastward, back into the ranges. Go, and cover your ears.’
The defenders fled, covering their ears as they had been directed. The sound began almost immediately, a painful intensity of sound, and they increased their speed to get away from it as soon as possible. As they got farther away, the sound increased and went on increasing, always only bearable, and they did not stop running.
The troopers, who had not been given permission to run, were soon unfitted for further attack. Some of the weapons detonated by themselves, quite harmlessly so far as the Tower was concerned, though the recumbent and unconscious men would not have agreed.
Thereafter, there was no more destruction.
The CHASE Commission, delayed by explosions in the city, which rocked the building they were in and blanketed the participants with dust, convened belatedly at noon for the sole purpose of announcing their findings.
Sentience: of two types.
Human persons, including their livestock and crops
are to be allowed to remain on Jubal
only at the invitation of the sentient species.
The commission members relaxed. It was done. Facing a corner, the iron-jawed man silently chewed his lips, relieved that he need no longer stand almost alone. If certain people wanted their money back, they’d have to whistle for it. He didn’t have it anymore. One and then another of the members began moving toward the doors. Now if they could only get off the planet.
To the east of and far below the piled rubble of the BDL building, Harward Justin awoke to an almost darkness, a cavernous, echoing emptiness in which shadows moved and gathered. After an unfocused time of half consciousness, he began to concentrate on the light. He could see several flickers from where he lay, dancing light that gleamed from along the floor and walls. Fires. Small fires. Nothing dangerous. Nothing threatening. He tried to get up and found himself pinned by one arm. The car had overturned, throwing him clear except for the right arm. He struggled to drag himself free and almost fainted from the pain that surged through his shoulder and chest. Something there was injured, broken….
He was in the garage, he told himself. He had come back into the garage, and then the rockets had gone off. The garage was still intact. Of course, he had built it and the tunnel to take anything except a direct hit from something major – something nuclear, perhaps. He stared at the flickering light. Perhaps they were electrical fires. By squirming a little he could see a narrow and broken line of light in one direction – the large doors through which he had driven the car, now fallen almost closed and partly buried. In the opposite direction there was only a dark hole, a black ellipse. That was the tunnel back into the wreckage. He stared into it, not really aware for a time that what he heard coming from its depths was voices. Voices. The only people who had been in the headquarters except himself were the security people. Those on the lower levels must have escaped.
‘Hi!’he called. ‘I’m down here.’
There was silence, then a whispering. Then silence once more.
‘I’m caught under this car,’ he shouted again. ‘Get off your asses and get over here.’
Now he heard the voices again, the shuffle of feet. The car blocked his vision. He couldn’t see who it was. Only the feet coming. Bare feet. Why would security men have bare feet? Then another set, shoes this time. He relaxed. Not only those two, however. There were others…. ‘Mr. Justin,’ said a voice from beside the car. ‘Harward Justin?’ A woman’s voice?
He turned, fighting the pain, turning his eyes upward in their sockets to see who it was. A woman. A haggard, burning-eyed woman.
‘Number six,’ he said in disbelief. ‘Number six.’
‘Gretl,’ the woman corrected him gently, her eyes quite mad. ‘Gretl Mechas. With some of your other friends….’
* * *
It was late in the evening before Rheme Gentry came to the General’s room to greet his uncle.
‘Has the destruction been stopped?’ the General asked.
Rheme Gentry nodded wearily. ‘We understand it has. Little thanks to us. The Presences found a way to defend themselves.’
‘Are they holding that against us?’
‘No. Not according to Tasmin Ferrence and his group. Tasmin and friends have turned out to be our main spokesmen. Them and the viggies.’ Rheme shook his head, surprised to find tears coursing down his cheeks. ‘The damned troops destroyed the Eagers,’ he cried. ‘And Redfang!’
‘You’re crying,’ said his uncle, shocked.
‘Oh, General … You just haven’t been here long enough.’
‘No. It’s obvious I haven’t.’
‘In fact, I’m not sure I know what brought you here at all.’
‘There were two things that brought me, Rheme. One was not hearing from you. Considering your unremitting and frequently irrelevant verbosity, I found that somewhat ominous. The other reason was that I did hear from someone else. I got a letter a few weeks ago, evidently just before Justin shut down communications entirely. It was from a former employee of mine, a remarkable woman who used to be the head of our cryptanalysis division. Cyndal Prince. Cyndal retired and came here to Jubal where her only living relatives were. A sister, I believe, and
