"No! Go on. Go on. Get up there. Get the door open again."
"Okay," she shouted. Moving off, she offered, "It must have closed automatically in response to the drop in pressure."
"Maybe," he shouted after her. "Maybe not. They move so slowly. And that one's already closed. I don't know . . . but . . ." The ambassador went quiet for a minute, trying to catch his breath. Still running, he yelled out, "I don't think this was any accident."
Martel did not answer, save to pick up her pace. As she ran ahead, Hawkes felt himself going slightly dizzy. The tunnel was so long, the bunker so far away. Both of them were trying desperately to run a three-minute mile. Soon they would be running it without oxygen.
The ambassador continued to struggle, making the best time he could across the sandy floor of the tunnel. He saw his aide reach the rent in the passageway's plastic side. Air was being sucked out at a horrifying rate. Hawkes watched as she stumbled, trying to pass by the pull of the outward stream. Then, lowering his head, he narrowed his eyes and pushed forward, telling himself, Move, old man. Move! Keep running. Keep moving. Crawl if you have to, but keep going. Don't let them win. Whoever these goddamned bastards are . . . don't . . . let . . . them . . . win!
Hawkes threw his legs out in front of him, one after another, again and again, forcing energy into every step. Halfway to the end of the tunnel, water splashing down on him with every new shudder of the rippling plastic sheets above him, he had almost reached the hole when Martel shouted, "It's . . . locked!"
"What?" Hawkes puffed in disbelief.
Hanging off the bunker, holding her aching side in exhaustion, the woman sucked down a deep breath and screamed, "It's locked! Someone's locked it from the other side."
The ambassador saw the sabotage point at that moment, and realized what had happened. A small oxi-candle had been triggered near the base of one panel. It must have taken the flame generator at least five minutes to burn even the smallest pinprick through the plastic wall. Once that had been accomplished, however, vacuum pressure had done the rest, and the panel had been split from top to bottom by the explosion of escaping atmosphere.
Hawkes stumbled through the escaping stream. The whipping air whipped the dust and sand of the floor up in violent swirls, filling his eyes, choking him. The current tore at the ambassador, dragging him away, along with all the oxygen. Fighting it all, Hawkes hung on, thinking grimly, Damn you. Damn you, bastards.
He thought of the miracle of the garden behind him, already dying without ever being seen except by him and Dina and its unknown creator. Enraged, he forced himself through the gale. His vision going red, he thought, You're willing to kill every chance this planet has, just to get whatever it is you want. Well . . . you're not killing me. Goddamn you all to hell—you can kill the whole universe . . . you 're not killing me.1
Reaching Martel's side, gasping for air, Hawkes stabbed at the heavy yellow button. There was no click, no noise at all—only the harsh scarlet of the legend SEAL IN PLACEglowing in the readout area of the door controls. He stabbed it again and again, punched in the black button next to it as well—all with the same results.
"What're we going to do?" shouted Martel, panic flooding her eyes. "What can we do?"
"We can think," said the ambassador, gasping. Falling against the door next to her, he reached up, grabbed her shoulders, and said, "We can act. We can try!"
Then, desperately looking around the area for something with which to force the door, trying to purge the sound of the escaping atmosphere from his ears, he asked, "What are you carrying? Do you have anything we can use to get the panel open?" Slapping at his own pockets, checking every lump he felt, he continued, "Maybe we can play with its wiring . . . get it to—"
And then his hand closed over the round shape in the upper left-hand pocket of his vest. The form had been there for so long—so much had happened—he had almost forgotten about it. Praying he had found what he thought he had, he grabbed at the zipper over the pocket, fumbling to get it open. He tore at it in desperation, jamming it halfway.
Roaring in frustration, he grabbed at the half-open pocket and tore it away from his vest. The Graamler 10SA-11 he had carried there since the night his ranch had been attacked fell out into his hand.
"What's that?" asked Martel, already panting from lack of oxygen.
"Hope," answered Hawkes.
Blinking at the stinging dust filling his eyes, he searched the smooth dull black metal for the proper controls, trying to remember everything Tony Celdosso had told him. Praying he had remembered correctly, he slapped the bomb against the lip where the door met the wall and then threw himself against Martel, shouting, "Down!''
The pair had no sooner hit the ground below when the Graamler exploded, blasting the heavy decompression hatch inward. Pulling each other upward, the two struggled against the escaping atmosphere, pushing their way toward the twisted wreckage of the door.
Forcing his way into the air lock, Hawkes threw himself against the far wall. The escaping atmosphere continued to howl in his ears, sucking him backward. His hands aimed at the control box; he caught hold of it, slamming his index finger against the release button.
As Martel struggled to Hawkes's side, the ambassador slumped against the still-locked door. As he did, he revealed the readout panel of the door controls. The woman gasped in horror at the sight of the flashing red words:
SEAL IN PLACE.
The cynical
