Other commanders were hearing this and Rogodeter had not thought it would become public property. He had reckoned without the publicity hunger of his uncle. “Not exactly,” said Rogodeter quickly. “I meant to say that I tried but he always ran away.”
Quarter-Admiral Snowleter's voice came from the background behind
Arsebogger, “But he won't get away again!”
“Now in your opinion, Rogodeter, do you truly think this is 'the one'?”
The small gray man had been watching all this on his viewscreens. He detested reporters and this Roof Arsebogger had earned his particular dislike: the reporter's fangs were stained nearly black, there were blotches of some disease on his face, and one could almost smell his unwashed condition over the viewscreen.
Unfortunately or fortunately, whichever way you looked at it, his courier ship had come in just yesterday. It had brought lots of odds and ends but among them was the clear-cut statement that the one had not been found.
Along with that, there was a prize addition. The one hundred million credits originally offered by the Hawvin Interrelated Confederation of Systems had been doubled by the Bolbod Equality Empire. The small gray man did not know what was going on in other sectors, much less other universes, but he could suppose that the same mad scramble was in progress.
The courier dispatch box contents, when viewed as a whole, said that these were indeed very strange and troublesome times, that a problem like this had not existed in any past history they were aware of. And there had been some hints about the vital necessity of his presence “where he could do some good” instead of out here sailing around “a twelfth-rate rim star's only planet.” There was no direct criticism, of course. There were just hints, an undertone.
But actually, it would not matter whether he were home or not. Unless some solution presented itself, the chaos that was going to ensue would be so vast that neither he nor others could hope to control it.
He was going on listening absently to this asinine reporter interview an asinine military mind when his bridge buzzer sounded and his watch officer's face appeared on the screen.
“Your Excellency,” said the watch officer, “there is something going on down in that capital city area. The infrabeams are scrambling. We cannot tell what is happening. There are no clear pictures.”
The “interview” cut off suddenly. Other commanders seemed to have noticed it.
The Hockner commander appeared on the small gray man's screen. “Your Excellency, I believe you said that was the central seat of government. We are getting pictures of massed troops and recordings of excessive heat. In your opinion, is this political?”
The small gray man looked at his own screens of the area.
Bad as they had been before, due to a local storm, they were incredibly bad now. One couldn't make out a thing. Some sort of interference was blasting them off the air.
Wait! That jagged traveling line on the screen.
A teleportation trace.
Hastily the small gray man thought of an answer. “I believe,” he said conservatively to the Hockner, “that it is probably political in some connected way. All the information that-”
His screens almost caved in!
There was a tremendous flare, then nothing.
A squawk horn was going. “Screen overload! Screen overload!”
Good heavens, you never got that except in a major battle area.
The small gray man rushed to his port as he knew the commanders must be doing.
He stared down. There was a babble of incredulity on the remaining voice channels from the other ships.
The storm there had almost been exploded away.
A fireball was climbing heavenward. Spreading, rolling masses of coiling smoke and flame were rising to incredible heights.
Daylight was dimmed by the flash.
It looked like the world had been torn apart!
Chapter 6
Sir Robert hardly waited for the earth to cease rumbling. He did not even ask himself what it could be. He had only one idea in mind: to get his hands loose and help Jonnie.
He had seen the arrow strike Jonnie.
He had seen the lad pull it out. Sir
Robert knew it was a poisoned arrow and he had some idea of the consequences. After such venom entered, physical exertion would spread it all through the body much more quickly. And Jonnie had been moving violently.
When the hatchet had cut the cord, it had not gone all the way through. Sir Robert strained every sinew to part the remaining strands. It was dark as pitch in this dome. He could not even see where Jonnie had fallen or which way he lay. But these confines were very close. He could and must get to him! Even though it was probably already too late.
He almost tore the skin off his wrists. The cord parted!
In feverish haste he reached out, felt around, and found Jonnie's arm, the wounded arm. Sir Robert closed his huge hand around it just below the armpit and held it tight, shutting off the blood flow.
The hatchet had fallen here somewhere. The rocking must have sent it skidding. Moaning with urgency, Sir Robert felt around the metal floor, under the console, under Jonnie. Suddenly his fingers contacted its handle in a corner.
He got hold of the head just back of the blade. He tried to cut through Jonnie's radiation suit sleeve. It was so hard to work with just one hand.
And in the dark.
He was also trying desperately not to cut into Jonnie's flesh.
He got a fold of the suit and sawed through it. The hatchet had been dulled and chipped while cutting the cables. The leaded sleeve material was very resistant. He was not making it. Not with one hand.
Suddenly he remembered that Jonnie always had thongs in his pouch. It lay under his body but he got it loose. He reached in and found broken glass that sliced his fingers. He paid it no attention.
He found the end of a long thong and drew it out.
He put a piece of twisted mine lamp metal under the arm and against the artery and wrapped it around and in place with the thong. He drew the thong as tightly as he could and tied it. Now he could work.
He cut the radiation suit sleeve away just below the tourniquet. He stripped it off the arm. The cloth was matted with blood. The arm was slippery with it.
It was hard to find the wound because of the blood.
He found it.
He took the edge of the hatchet blade and cut an “X” across the wound hole.
He got out of his air mask and put his mouth to the wound. Anything to get all the poison out that he could.
Time and time again he sucked the wound dry and spat. The taste of the blood was stinging and bitter. There was venom in it all right.
Finally he thought the blood was cleaner. He did not know how deep the arrow had gone but there was no way to probe.
He worked the flesh of the arm in a way he thought would force more poison up to the surface of the wound. He again applied his mouth to it. Yes, there was more bitterness. Then it seemed cleaner.
Sir Robert felt around Jonnie's belt for a wound compress pack. He didn't find one. Well, the bleeding was slightly less now. Maybe no vein had been hit. It was probably better without a compress.
He felt the pulse of Jonnie's other wrist.
Devils in hell! It was racing! The pulse was way above anything he could count.
Jonnie's body was stretched taut. There was a tremble in the limbs.
Sir Robert, in the dark, tried to find the ampule in Jonnie's pouch. Planning dictated there should be one. That broken glass might have come from the mine lamp. He found the bottom half of the ampule.
Although he couldn't see what he was doing and it was just a gesture more than anything else, he opened the wound and upended the broken bottle over it, close to it, pouring in anything that might be in it. He held and massaged the flesh in such a way as to let any liquid drop lower in the wound. It was probably just his imagination, he thought, but the arm area felt slippery.