Lotus swallowed half her drink in a single gulp, batted her eyelashes to hold back tears as the strong liquor burned down her throat.
“But you hit it partly right, Jack. I can give you the chance to kill. Not me, of course. Others. Others who—”
Buronto’s eyes narrowed, and he grabbed one fist in the other as if cracking a large nut. “You’re crazy!”
“Hardly.”
“Impossible.”
“No.”
Buronto looked at the three of them, searching for some sign that it was a put-on, a ruse to make fun of an Unnatural. It wasn’t entirely comforting not to find such a sign. His voice rose an octave with the excitement. “The medics would narco-dart me and keep me in drug stupor the rest of my natural life!”
“No, they wouldn’t.”
Silence a moment.
“Okay,” Buronto said at length. “You have me hooked. What the hell is the deal?”
Sam explanied. Several times, he had to threaten Buronto to keep him still and quiet enough to listen. The giant refused, at first, to believe it. Extra-galactics. Slug-forms. Raceship. Too much for him and his limited concepts. But after much cajoling and a mass of detailed testimony, he was more willing to believe though still somewhat skeptical. “Well, anyway,” Sam said, “you’ll see for yourself in—” he looked at his watch. “You’ll see for yourself in less than ten minutes.”
“That soon?” Coro asked, his eyes popping open wide.
“You said two hours,” Sam replied. “That gives us just eight minutes.”
“Purgatory is supposed to be longer than that,” Lotus joked. But it wasn’t particularly funny.
Then, abruptly, there was a fierce booming, a whine of metal cooling, and the street outside was alive with a gush of crimson flame. Centuries-old walls cracked open and tumbled before the onslaught.
“They’re early,” Sam said.
Buronto was on his feet, moving toward the door. They followed. The room had suddenly become a place of panic and not a place of entertainment. People shoved and kicked to be the first outside, the first to break for an escape from whatever terrible business was occurring. Buronto stepped aside and let them rush out, aware — as they were not — that it was a great deal safer in the Inferno than on a street where fire ate the asphalt and buildings dissolved in deafening roars.
In moments the bar was empty, save for the four of them. They stood in the doorway, watching the black magno-sleds that cruised above the street and between the spires of Hope. There were four slugs per sled, one to steer, one to man the heavy-duty laser cannon, and two to fire laser rifles. They swept down the long avenue, burning down the masses of fleeing people.
“You see?” Sam said.
Buronto’s mouth hung open. “They… they’re killing!”
“And you can kill their Central Being and get your kicks while still playing it legal. Up and up. No sweat. What do you say?”
Buronto turned, stared, eyes flaming with desire that had washed away most of the fear and hatred. “But why don’t you do it? You kill. Why not save the kicks for yourself?”
Sam had anticipated that question ever since he had begun their conversation. At first it had thrown him, the possibility of the giant asking that. He had gone through a dozen answers, considering each and the effect it would bring about, finally rejecting eleven of them. It was no use trying to fake the giant. No sense in putting him on. If Buronto thought for one moment that he was being used, and realized that Sam was afraid and unable to kill, he would turn on them and the end would be swifter and bloodier than anything the slugs could manage. “Because,” he said, smiling what he hoped was rather an evil and superior smile, “it is dangerous. You may have to fight your way from Ship’s Core. The Central Being may be ten times more powerful than we can imagine. Your chances in a battle with It are probably no better than fifty-fifty. I like to kill sure. But not enough to risk dying for the pleasure.” But you, Sam thought, are willing to die for that pleasure. Or risk fifty-fifty odds for it. Fool that you are, you’ve swallowed the slimy bait, and you’re ready to run to hell and back with the line.
A blue explosion tore four floors from the middle of a nearby office complex. The top part wiggled, fell. Stone crashed down on the streets, huge hunks of it smashing into the surging crowds that were trying to run from the slugs. Truck-sized plastic mortar blocks tore off heads, ripped limbs free, crushed others beyond identification. Sam saw one man split down the middle by a sliver-like portion of a steel beam. Blood fountained up and gushed over the sidewalk as the man fell forward — one half slightly to the left, the other half slightly to the right, organs spread in between. The people were like animals in panic. Mindlessly, they fled first one direction, then the other. The slugs were moving down both ends of the avenue, cutting them down in a murderous crossfire that would insure total annihilation.
Bodies piled up at a frightening rate, torn and mangled, charred unrecognizable or, when struck directly by a sizzling beam, burned down to the bones with a few pieces of black raggedy flesh clinging to the skull and ribs.
“Okay,” Buronto said. “I’ll do it.”
It was certainly not patriotic fervor that drove him to the decision. He seemed thrilled by the carnage outside. Every eruption of gore seemed to set his eye adance with new flames until they glowed almost like the eyes of a cat at night. Or was that his imagination? Sam wondered. The giant actually seemed to ooze violence.
“Good.” Sam smiled, holding his stomach in check. “Now is there any way out of here besides the front door? That looks particularly unhealthy at the moment.”
“Yes,” Buronto said. “Wait just a minute.” He leaped from the doorway into the turmoil of the street.
“Come back!” Sam shouted convulsively.
“You’ll be killed!” Coro bellowed even louder.
But the roar of the one-sided battle outside had smothered their protests.
A sled was landing a hundred feet from the Inferno, and the slugs were starting to debark, rifles hanging from pseudopods, to search the buildings for those who had had the presence of mind to stay inside and hide. Buronto reached the sled before the slugs could set tail to ground. He brought a boulder fist down on the dome-segment head of the nearest slug as it tried futilely to bring its rifle around. The fist crushed cartilage, smashed in on brain tissue. Orange blood spouted through Buronto’s fingers. As quickly as he could, he grabbed the falling slug, using him as a shield, and wrenched the rifle from its already limp pseudopod. A blast from another alien’s rifle caught the dead slug instead of Buronto, ripped a deep hole in it. And by that time the giant had the stolen gun under control.
He fanned the sled party. Blood fountained up in three separate places, drenching the street with a slick film of dull orange. Flesh caught fire and bloomed like gasoline, then subsided to a steady yellow blaze. The slugs either fell instantly or slithered about in circles until the fire had so consumed them that they were not even capable of postmortem muscle spasms.