muscles, he hurled the bomb almost straight up into the air.
For a heart-stopping instant Jason thought it was coming right at him, then he realized it was going off to one side. It seemed to siow as it reached the summit of its arc, before it disappeared behind the curve of rock. Jason pushed hard against the cold stone.
The boom of the explosion was transmitted to him through the stone, a shuddering vibration. Fragments of rock and bodies blew out into space behind him and he knew his flank was safe. Kerk would be ready if the same trick were tried again. Yet there was still a feeling of unease.
“Kerk!” Jason shouted. “The piton!” He spoke in Pyrran. “What happened to the piton I dropped? If Temuchin should see it.
One glimpse would be enough to reveal that they were off-wonders. The nomads were familiar enough with the appearance of alien artifacts.
One, two thudding heartbeats of time Jason waited before Kerk called back to him.
“All… right…. I saw it drop… picked it up while they were all looking at you. Are you hurt?”
“Fine,” Jason whispered, then drew a deep breath. “Fine!” he shouted. “I’m going on now.”
After this it was just work. Twice Jason had to sling a loop of rope through the carabiner of a piton and sit in it to nest. His strength was giving out and he had used the most potent stimulants in the medikit by the time he reached the foot of a chimney that went right to the top of the tower. It looked to be about ten meters high and the two faces appeared to be parallel all the way up.
“One last try,” he said, spitting on his hands and instantly regretting it as the saliva chilled and froze. He brushed the ice from his palms and took off the pack The less weight, the better; even the hammer had to be left behind now. He piled the discarded items at the foot of the chimney and slung the coil of rope around his neck so that it nested on his chest.
Wedging his back against one wall he walked up the other until his body was parallel to the ground, held up by the friction of his shoulders and his feet. He pushed higher with his arms, then walked upward with his feet. Centimeter by centimeter he worked his way up the chimney.
Before he reached the top he knew he would not make it.
Yet, at the same time, he knew he had to make it. Going back down would be just as hard as keeping on upward. And if he fell, he would break at least an arm or a leg at the foot of the chimney. Where he would simply lie and die of thirst. There was no chance of anyone else’s getting up here to help him. It would be better to keep on.
With infinite slowness the sky appeared above, closer and closer, and slower and slower as the strength ebbed from his limbs.
When he finally reached the spot where his toes were actually at the lip of the rock, he had no strength left to pull himself over the edge. For a few seconds he rested, took a deep breath and straightened his legs. He twisted as he did so and clutched at the crumbling edge of rock. For a moment of time he hung there, neither falling nor able to pull himself out of the chimney. Then, ever so slowly, he pulled and scraped with bloody fingertips until he dragged himself out and lay exhausted on the tilted summit of the pinnacle.
The top was amazingly small; he saw that as he lay gasping for air. No bigger than a large-sized bed. When he was able to, he crawled to the edge and waved at the waiting men below. They saw him and a ragged and spontaneous cheer went up.
Was there anything to cheer about? He went to the fan side and looked, moving back as the waiting bowmen on the difftop below fined at him. Only two arrows rose high enough to hit him, but these were badly aimed. He looked again and sa* the enemy position spread out like a model below him. Everything was visible and within easy range, both the men on the rim of The Slash and the rows of bowmen protecting the top of the rockslide.
He had done it.
“Good man, Jason,” he said aloud. “You’re a credit to any world.”
Sitting cross-legged, he made a large loop in the end of the line and passed it around the summit of the rock itself, making an immovable anchor. Then he let the leather-tipped end over the edge and paid it out slowly, until a signaling tug told him that it had reached the ground. He shortened the rope with a quickly knotted sheepshank and gave the agreed upon signal, three tugs on the line, to show that it was secured. Then he sat down to wait.
Only when the rope began to jerk violently and stand out from the cliff did he get up. Kerk was right below, looking unwinded and fresh, with an immense load of bombs slung on his back. He had taken the rope in both hands and walked straight up the face of the cliff.
“Can you reach down to help me over the edge of the cliff?” Kerk asked.
“Absolutely. Just don’t squeeze or break anything.”
Jason lay face down, with the rock rim in his armpit, and reached oven. Kerk let go with one hand and they seized each other’s wrists in an acrobat’s hold. Jason did not try to pull, he probably could not have lifted Kerk’s weight if he had tried, but instead he spread-eagled and anchored himself as well as he could against the stone. Kerk pulled himself up, threw an ann oven the edge, then heaved his body oven.
“Very good,” he said, looking down at the enemy below. “They do not stand a chance. I have extra microgrenades that we can use. Shall we begin?”
“You’re letting me throw out the first bomb of the season? How nice.” As the explosions roared and rumbled into a continuous thunder, Temuchin’s army shouted a victorious echo and started up the rocky slope. The battle was decided and would soon be won, and after it, the war would be won as well.
Jason sat down and watched Kerk happily bombing the natives below. This part of the plan was complete. If the next step worked as well, the Pyrrans would have their mines and their planet. Their last battle would be won.
Jason sincerely hoped so. He was getting very tired.
15
Jason dinAlt reined his morope to a stop at the top of the broad slope and searched for a path down through the tumbled boulders. The wind, damp and cold, funneled up through this single gap in the high cliffs, struck him full in the face. Fan below, the ocean was gray steel, flecked with the spray-blown tops of waves. The sky was dark, cloud-covered from horizon to horizon, and somewhere out to sea thunder rumbled heavily.
A faintly marked path was visible, threading down the rock-covered slope; Jason spurred his mount forward. Once he had started down he saw that the path was well-worn and old. The nomads must come here regularly, for salt perhaps. An aerial survey from the spaceship had shown that this was the only spot for thousands of kilometers where there was a break in the palisade of cliffs. As he descended, the air became a little warmer, but the dampness after the dust-dry plateau cut into him. A final turn brought him out in a circular bay, with great cliffs rising on both sides and a beach of black sand below. Two small boats were drawn up on the shone with yellow cloth tents set up beside them. Farther out in the bay a squat two, master, with a smoke-stained funnel aft, lay with furled sails, swinging at anchor. Jason’s approach was seen and, from the knot of men around the boats, a tall figure emerged and strode purposefully across the sand. Jason halted the morope and slid down to meet him.
“That’s a great outfit you’re wearing, Rhes,” he said as he shook the other man’s hand.
“No more exotic than yours,” the Pyrran said, smiling and running his fingers through the purple ruffles that
