“Shan Damzel?” asked Spiggy. Then, suddenly, “Shan Damzel!” Yes. Shan Damzel might, could …
“What are they doing here?” cried Harribon Kruss.
“They came to kill the Gods,” said Saturday. She howled angrily. “He’s afraid of the Gods, so he sent these people to kill them. They think they have.”
“Get us into CM,” Dern directed Spiggy. “Quick as you can.”
“Quick as I can without letting those bastards see us,” amended Spiggy. “Twelve fliers, Dern. And there’s smoke, everywhere. That’s not just Shan Damzel and his sister. That’s a bunch; they’re armed, and we aren’t!”
They hovered just below the ridge, waiting for twelve fliers that did not return, not seeing the one that did, though they saw the cloud of dust when it was de-bonded. Only when there was no further activity did Spiggy speed the flier south and set it down outside the CM offices. Dern ran toward his office, shouting something about communications. Spiggy summoned two engineers from the nearest repair shop and went to examine the Doors. All gone, blown, destroyed. On his way back from the tumbled wreckage, Spiggy discovered Tandle’s body, crumpled like a doll.
He stood up to confront Dern Blass, his eyes blazing, who cried, “Messages from the settlements coming in upstairs, Spig. Get up there and start putting information together. Anybody know where Jamice is? Find her, get her to help you. Ah, God, poor Tandle. Shit, Spiggy. Get Sam and Africa Wilm to help you, too. Find out what’s happened.”
What had happened was that all the Gods had been burned. What had happened was approximately three hundred Hobbs Landians dead, a twelfth of their total strength, another two or three hundred wounded, some seriously. Among the wounded were Friday and little Wednesday, two of Africa’s children. Among the dead were Willum R. Quillow, almost-twelve-year-old Thash Tillan, and the even younger Miffle twins, who had died attempting to defend Birribat Shum. Wounded and dead were brought to CM, where a hospital was set up, and a temporary morgue, in the largest gymnasium. Hastily mobilized clerks were set to securing identification and filling out forms. Medically trained people from the settlements poured into CM to care for the wounded.
“As soon as people have been identified for sure,” Dern directed, “take the bodies up on the escarpment and bury them. Call the settlements and ask for volunteers.”
“Let’s not forget there’s a Door out there in the canyons,” said Sam. “We saw it!”
“We weren’t supposed to see it,” said Africa, wiping her face. Her children would survive. Other children hadn’t. She could not stop crying over them, but duty would not wait while she grieved. “I’ll take a crew and find the damned Door.” She didn’t wait for approval. A moment later they could hear her voice raised, demanding volunteers.
“What’s the Door out there for?” asked China, who had spent the last hours carrying bodies, alive and dead.
“So they can come back,” said Sam with absolute certainty. “We weren’t supposed to know it was there. They set it up so we can’t get out, but they can come back.”
“Well,” said China, “I imagine Africa will see about that.”
“Who do we tell?” asked Spiggy of Dern. “How do we tell? We used the Doors for all communication.”
“We have a radio data link from our Archives to Tran-system headquarters on Phansure,” said Dern. “Nobody uses it for anything. It’s too slow. Takes too much redundancy to get anything through accurately. I’ve never used it, but old Mysore Hobbs the first insisted on it. He said the Doors might break down. He always had this thing about Doors. He didn’t trust them. I thought we’d never need it, not in a million years.” His own face was as wet as Africa’s, as China’s. “The instruction manual’s on my desk,” he mumbled, mopping at himself. “Oh, God, I already miss Tandle. She’d have had it all set up.”
“Let me do it,” said China, beckoning to Harribon Kruss. “Harribon and I are good at that kind of thing.” They went uplevel to dig out the manual and set up the emergency linkage.
Since the death of Bondru Dharm, Jep had not felt so grieved. None of them had. They worked, and cried, and worked. Whenever they thought the worst was over, they heard that someone else they knew had died. They cursed, and worked. Missiles had gone all the way through rows of sponge panel buildings, breaking water lines, setting fires. Essential machinery had to be checked for damage. Children had to be comforted. Wounded had to be cared for. Burial parties had to be manned. Pain and weeping. Blood and sorrow. And eventually night came, and people fell onto whatever flat surface was available and slept.
A day later there was more of the same, but it came in more orderly chunks. Everyone knew who had died and pretty much who was dying. Everyone knew who lived and would probably go on living. People, including Mysore Hobbs on Phansure, knew who had done it. There was no question whatsoever. One of the Baidee troopers had been found in Settlement One, still unconscious from a blow on the head administered with a large rock by Gotoit Quillow while the trooper was attacking Willum R. The trooper was now chained to a wall in the basement of CM, his uniform, weapons, and equipment set aside as exhibit A, his head shaved in order, they all agreed, that his head wound could be treated. Actually, when Sam had seen the length of the hair which had been hidden under the turban, he had had a violent reaction and had assaulted the unconscious man with his belt knife, sawing everything off but uneven stubble.
“It’s the same damned kind of thing,” he kept muttering, remembering the men of Voorstod. “It’s the same damned kind of thing.”
“I don’t feel any different,” murmured Zilia. “They burned all the Gods, but I don’t feel any different.”
Jep patted her on the arm. “Never mind, Zilia. All they did was cut off the
