Yet ¢le had given him the hint. The Masters could be deceived. They tended to underestimate the Slaves, then to overreact when surprised. This could be exploited—maybe.
A beam stabbed out from the saucer. ¢le screamed: pain this time, not fear. The beam had crossed her foot. She fell among the vines, rolling, and the beam lost her.
Flint grabbed a burl berry and ripped it from its plant. It was a green fruit, unripe and hard and solid, and his savage jerk uprooted the parent plant. He hurled it at the saucer, his arm moving in a kind Of backhand swing that would have been impossible for a human.
The berry struck the underside of the craft and bounced off harmlessly.
Now the beam found him. It touched his arm as he tried to throw again. It was twelve-pain; paralyzing, intolerable! It was as if the bone were splitting open, the flesh burning to ash, the blood boiling and vaporizing right within its conduits. The berry fell from his hand and his arm knotted in utter agony, every one of his six fingers twisting spasmodically. He, too, fell among the vines.
But these were random beam-tags. It was difficult to keep the beam on target when both saucer and target were moving. And when it left, his arm recovered quickly, undamaged. Now he was glad of the Masters’ design: pain without injury.
By this time he had more berries, and so did ¢le. He aimed higher.
The saucer was not an armored flyer. It was more like a concave dish, open on top, so that the Master could look out over the fields conveniently in any direction. But this also meant it was vulnerable from any direction, as long as its protective shield was down. And if that shield was raised, it would not be able to attack.
Flint could see the occupant now. It was a lone Master; evidently that was deemed sufficient for the occasion.
The berries struck the saucer on both underside and upperside. But they did not do any real damage, and only annoyed the occupant. The Master did not raise the shield. Instead the saucer circled low, the pain-beam sweeping about, orienting on Øro. No hysterical reaction here! This Master had full confidence that the fugitives had no bombs; the only concern was to maneuver the craft so as to allow maximum effect of the beam.
Flint dodged, but the beam caught him again: a swipe across the chest. Instant agony collapsed his lungs, and he began to lose consciousness. As he started to fall, the pain receded. With an effort he recovered his balance. He couldn’t take too many more of those!
The saucer was now down almost to his eye level, hovering. The Master was looking over the rim at him: a slender dark shape, hooded against the sun, seemingly featureless. Flint discovered he didn’t know what a Master looked like; Øro had never seen one close up, and had averted his eyes whenever a Master was visible.
The muzzle of the beam projector swung around to lock on Flint. This time the pain would not be transitory; the Master had taken time to be sure of his quarry.
Flint threw Øro’s body to the ground. The beam grazed his back like a searing knife. He scrambled toward the saucer, getting under its edge, using it as a shield against the beam.
But the Master was no slouch at maneuvering. The saucer dodged aside, dropping ever lower. Once more the dread beam searched for him.
¢le rose up on the opposite side and threw a handful of dirt over the saucer. The Master whirled to cover her with the beam. The aim was excellent; she stiffened and fell, her mouth frozen in a soundless scream.
Flint leaped for the saucer. His fingers caught the rim. The weight of his body jerked it down.
The Master compensated beautifully. The saucer shot straight up, righting itself—with Flint still hanging.
In a moment, he knew, he would feel the pain-beam on his fingers. The saucer was now high in the air; the fall would be fatal.
Flint swung crazily, using Øro’s muscles in a way Øro never had. The saucer rocked; the ground far below seemed to tilt. He flexed his torso, thrusting a foot up.
The pain caught his hands, but now he had a leg hooked inside the center depression. He twisted and rolled, cursing the backward joints that made this activity much more difficult than it would have been in a human body, but he made it up into the bowl of the saucer.
The beam played over him, a flexing python of agony, but inertia kept him rolling. He crashed into the Master.
Øro’s memory carried only a dire warning: it was death for any Slave to touch a Master. The very act was unthinkable. But Flint, raised on the free, unruly, primitive Outworld of Sphere Sol, had no such restriction. The beam was off, the projector knocked out of the Master’s grasp and lost over the rim of the saucer. Flint reached around the cowled figure and hauled it out of the control well in the center. The creature came up easily; it was paper-light, like a winged insect.
The saucer veered, angled, and skated down, out of control. Flint held the Master helpless. “How are you at dying?” he inquired.
The creature’s face turned to him. The eyes were faceted, and the mouth parts had mandibles. “You are no Slave!” it said, no trace of fear in the melodious voice.
Flint plumped it back down into the well. Immediately the craft pulled out of its dive, as the segmented feet resumed operating the controls. The Master seemed completely unshaken.
Now was Flint’s chance to tell the Master of his identity and mission. Yet he balked. Why deal with these parasites, further entrenching them in their power, when the Slaves were the humanoids? The natural affinity of human beings was with the downtrodden Slaves, not the insectoid Masters!
“I’m no Slave now,” Flint said. “Now tell me how to manage this craft, or I’ll see that we both crash.”
Still the insectoid was unruffled. Did it have nerves of steel, or did it lack real emotion? “I am taking you in for interrogation. You evince none of the mannerisms of a Slave, despite your history. An extreme oddity.”
Flint had to admire the thing’s courage. The Master was trying to bluff! And it proposed to do exactly what Flint had wanted—up until an hour ago. “I’m taking you to the FreeSlaves!” Flint shot back. “Unless you’d rather die right now.”
“Die we may,” the Master said calmly as the saucer looped smoothly about. “But I control the vehicle.”
It simply would not be shaken. “Then I must take over the ship,” Flint said. He hauled the Master up again.
Pain lanced into his arms. Numbed, he let go.
“I have activated my personal shield,” the Master said. “You have the option of coming—or going.” It nodded toward the edge of the saucer. Flint saw there could be no bargaining. A Master simply did not give way to a Slave—or any other creature.
Flint swung his half-closed hand at the creature’s head, hard. The contact felt as though he had smashed every bone in that hand, but mere pain could not abate the force of his blow. The Master’s head caved in like a structure of woven grass.
The saucer veered again. Flint grabbed the corpse, receiving no pain input this time; the creature’s death had deactivated the shield, fortunately. He jerked it up and out of the well and threw it overboard. Then he lowered his own feet into the hole. They barely fit, for his torso was larger than that of the Master, and constructed differently.
There were knobs and pedals down there, inconveniently placed. Flint had no idea how they worked, but he experimented rapidly. Suddenly the saucer flipped over, redoubling its acceleration toward the ground. This was no Earth-type shuttle-capsule strung on a safe wire; this was a free ship, and any hesitation or mistake could quickly smash him flat. Flint clung to his perch and wiggled his toes, searching for the right combination of controls.