'You have one chance to save your life.' The surrogate maintained the even modulation of tone which was the mark of every cyber, but the smoothness held an iron determination. 'You must place yourself in our hands. Don a suit, leave your vessel and head to where we are waiting. You have seven minutes.'
The ultimatum was no bluff. Yet the surrogate had made a mistake Instead of addressing him alone it should have spoken to the crew, offering riches in return for handing him over, bound and helpless. Or had it been a mistake? The Kaldari, curious, could have learned the value of his secret. An unwanted and unnecessary complication.
Chapman turned from his instruments as Dumarest returned to the bridge. 'Well?'
'We're in trouble. They -'
'Why did they ask for you? How did they know your name?'
'I don't know. It doesn't matter. They want everything we have in return for our lives. We'll spend them wearing a collar. They want me to go over and talk.'
'No!' Chapman was emphatic. 'I don't like this. They know you and that makes for problems. They can talk to me direct.'
'They want me.' Dumarest snarled his impatience. 'You don't trust me, but I've no time to argue. We can't afford to waste time.'
'If you go you'll be giving them a hostage.'
'That worries you?' Dumarest gave the captain no time to answer. 'Let me get at the board.' A button sank beneath his thumb. 'Badwasi? Stand by. Have everything loaded and ready to fire. Mauger?'
'Here.'
'Get ready.' Dumarest checked the time. 'You've got exactly four and a half minutes.'
'Everything's set.' The engineer added, 'You want to see it go?'
'I'll be with Badwasi.'
'What the hell's going on?' Chapman glared as Dumarest straightened from the screen. 'You going out there?'
'No, but a suit is. One fitted with a bomb and a proximity fuse. The faceplate's been darkened and we've incorporated a device to emulate heartbeat and respiration. A recording,' he explained. 'If they listen they'll think it a man.'
'You didn't just make it.'
'No, but I thought we might need it.' Dumarest headed towards the door. 'I had it done hours ago.'
'You knew they'd be waiting?'
'I guessed they might be.'
More than guessed. He had sensed it, feeling a premonition so strong it was almost clairvoyant, one which had driven him to act as he had.
In the gunnery room Dumarest studied the other vessel, the planet against which it was framed.
'Earl!' Badwasi was sweating. 'It's going to be damned close!'
Dumarest ignored the comment, concentrating on the screen. Earth – to the monk it represented abomination, but that had to be a judgment based on emotive reaction. The Cyclan would have a different frame of reference. Logic and reason would only accept conclusions based on solid evidence. They would have made a thorough investigation.
What were they protecting?
To Badwasi he said, 'Check the missiles. We'll only have one chance.'
If they tried to run, the shimmer of the Erhaft field would betray their intention and they would be fired on before it could be fully established. The other vessel could move faster in normal space. It would be able to dodge or destroy any missile aimed against it. But, if those in control could be distracted they could have a chance.
Thirty seconds left. Dumarest thumbed the intercom.
'Ready to go, Zoll. Pass out the suit.'
It emerged looking like a man, one hunched over the jetting flames of twin, side-set reaction pistols. The flames died as, slightly off-course, the figure moved towards the Cyclan vessel.
'Listen.' Badwasi increased the gain on a speaker. From it came the rasp of breathing, the pounding of a heart. 'That should fool them.'
'How did you pick that up?'
'Laser contact. The suit acts as a diaphragm and the beam reflects the deflections. It works both ways.'
'Then talk to it,' snapped Dumarest. 'Pretend it's me in there. Use my name and act natural. Hurry!'
A time of tension in which the orb of the planet seemed to pulse as if a great, watching eye.
'That's it.' Badwasi turned from his microphone. 'They're coming out. If they spot the beam they'll be warned.'
More waiting, calculating, a gamble with life itself as the stake. The Cyclan would have predicted the possibility of a trap and could have set one of their own. Dumarest frowned, remembering. Why had the surrogate been willing to talk at such length? Why the specific time allowed for him to leave the ship? Seven minutes, barely enough time to don a suit and pass through the lock. No time to spare for thought or action. Why, at the end, nothing had been said as to the safety of the ship and the others.
Abruptly Dumarest knew the answer.
'Badwasi! Open fire!'
Dumarest heard a metallic crack, saw the gunnery officer spin on his feet, a hole in the back of his head, a ghastly pulp where his face had been. Another crack and he felt the impact of something which ripped at the side of his scalp, sending blood to gush down his face, blinding his eyes, smearing his tunic. More cracks echoed with spiteful violence as he lunged towards the panels.
The Cyclan had sent a cloud of non-metallic missiles from a point far to one side of the Geniat. A lethal rain which riddled the hull like a blast from a gigantic shotgun.
Air whined from the vessel, slowing as the inner coating of sealing compound blocked the apertures. An alarm blared as Dumarest clear his eyes. Buttons sank beneath his fingers and he felt the shudder as missiles flared from their housing.
One expanded into a glowing ball of brilliance as it met a blocking missile. Another did no better as the men from the Cyclan vessel thrust the suit they had collected into the port. As a third missile wasted itself the Cyclan struck back.
The Geniat slewed as if kicked by a mighty boot, hull yielding, air gusting into the void together with a cloud of debris; the shattered bones and mangled flesh of those who had taken the brunt of the impact. Doors slammed, sealing compartments, saving the living at the expense of those hurt or already dead. A second hit would create total destruction. It never came.
The screens flared as, within the Cyclan vessel, the suit-bomb vented its energy. Like a stricken beast the ship jerked, darted to one side, turned into incandescent vapour as it ran into the missiles Dumarest blasted towards it.
'It worked!' Chapman had been too close to death and it showed. 'Your plan worked, Earl. We got them, but they damned near got us. The hull damaged, equipment ruined, half the crew dead or injured. We've got to land and soon!'
Dumarest didn't hear him. Nor the voice of Nadine as she came to make her report. His whole attention was on the planet swelling before him in the screens. A white-mottled blueness wreathed by a diadem of stars.
Earth!
His search was over. He was home.
