Giyt gave another imitation of a man trying to work a hard question out. “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “One thing that kind of puzzles me—”
“Yeah?”
“When you got me to try to get some weapons imported. Was that just so no one would think you already had some here?”
Hagbarth grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Smart,” he said admiringly. “So how about it, Evesham? You won’t say anything to anybody about what you saw, will you?”
“I guess not.”
Hagbarth patted his shoulder again approvingly. “That’s good, Giyt. Glad to have you aboard. Just to make sure, you won’t mind if we search you, will you?”
Giyt let out a long breath. He was not a violent man, and there were three of them. There was no way he could stop them if they wanted to search.
“Oh,” he said, reaching inside his tunic. “You mean you’d be looking for something like this?” And he took out the Kalkaboo detonator and displayed it, wondering if they were too far from the bombs for it to work.
“Hey!” Tschopp yelled. “Careful with that thing!”
Giyt was careful. He pressed the button firmly and with care; and as it turned out, they weren’t too far away at all.
XXVII
The segregation of industrial facilities at the polar installations is not only dictated by political considerations—each species has its own private workplaces—but is a safety measure. The passages connecting the domes are secured with blast-proof doors. In addition, the Delt-designed roofs, though massive enough to withstand any snow load likely to occur in this region, are deliberately designed with fault lines so that, in the event of an explosion, most of the force of the blast will be exerted upward. This is deemed necessary in case of accident, but no such accident has ever occurred.
Giyt could see that Hagbarth’s mouth was moving. That was how he knew that the man was saying something, or from his expression, most likely furiously bellowing something, but just what Hagbarth was bellowing was drowned out in the thunderous crash and rumble from the doll factory. Giyt saw that the door to the factory was bulging toward them. For a moment he thought it would fly open, but it didn’t; it swelled and shuddered, but it held. As the echoes of the explosion died down, Hagbarth gave Giyt a petulant look. “What the hell have you done now?” he asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. With Kettner he raced to the door and tried to pull it open. It resisted. Kettner set down the minicarbine to get a better grip on the door, while Tschopp was staring after the other two, open-mouthed incredulous and scarlet-faced angry.
Even a nonviolent man can find a little violence in him now and then. Giyt didn’t even pause to think. From behind Tschopp he kicked at the back of the man’s knees. As Tschopp went sprawling Giyt was already running, as far as he could get from the men with the guns—down the corridor, around a turn, through an open door, down another short hall.
The hall ended in a doorway with a glowing orange sign over it. The sign was in the curlicues of the Delt language, but Giyt knew what it was: That door went to the outside world.
He paused for the fraction of a second to consider. Did he want to go out into the freezing polar night again. Did he have a choice?
Put that way, it was a simple decision. When he grasped the handle it was cold to the touch. When he pushed the heavy door open the blast that came in was colder still. He hesitated, thinking about just what it was going to be like to be out, dressed as he was dressed, in that fierce Arctic gale; but he knew the others were not far behind him. Outside, at least, the dark might hide him.
He stepped through, hugging himself against the freezing blast, and let the door close behind him.
That was the first disappointment.
Outside in the open, it wasn’t really that dark. Overhead the colors of the aurora washed across the sky, rust-red and pale blue; they weren’t bright, but they were widespread, in places obscuring the icy bright stars. The aurora gave light enough to see by, surely. If Hagbarth and the others followed him out, the one that held the carbine could pick him out in a moment, and then—
Then it would be very bad for Evesham Giyt.
He floundered to where the winds had scoured away most of the snow and began to run, his lightweight shoes crunching against the gritty crust left from some earlier snowfall, his feet already feeling as though they were beginning to freeze. He expected at any moment to hear shouts from behind him, and then, no doubt, the pippity-pop of the minicarbine. Or did you ever hear the shot that got you? Weren’t the bullets moving faster than sound? So perhaps he would hear nothing at all, but he would feel something, all right. What he would feel would be the punch-punch-punch of a dozen rounds from the minicarbine stitching themselves across his back . . . and that would be the last thing he ever felt, in the moment when life would come to an end for Evesham Giyt.
The second disappointment was that there was nowhere to hide.
Giyt thought wildly of clawing out a foxhole in the snow, maybe covering himself with the stuff. He didn’t think about that for long. Even assuming it was possible, assuming he could do that kind of work with the bare hands that were already stiffening up, he knew what would happen then. Either Hagbarth and the others would find him anyway, or he would simply freeze to death.
Then he stopped short as reality hit him.
What he was doing was making it easy for Hagbarth and the others.
They weren’t likely to shoot him. Why would they bother, when shooting him meant they would have to explain away the bullet holes? While if they simply left him alone he would die of the cold. He could hear what Hagbarth’s semi-pious explanations would be: “I guess the poor son of a bitch must have done something stupid that caused the accident, you know? And then he ran away, probably trying to hide, maybe in shock or something, and then he must’ve got outside somehow. It’s really too bad, and I’m going to hate having to tell his wife, but, Jesus, look at the damage the bastard caused!”
So hiding out here was no good. To have any chance at all of surviving, Giyt needed to get back to the warmth inside.
He looked around wildly, each breath a separate hurtful thrust of pain in his nostrils. Instinctively he had been running back toward the rocket port, so the building that was just ahead of him had to be where Mrs. Threewhiteboots and her mate were overseeing the instruments at the plenum.
There had been an outside door there too, he remembered.
There was, and just by the door, parked, was a Centaurian hovercar. He tried the door of the car, but it was locked, and his fingers were getting numb.
Perhaps the Centaurians could help? If he could get the door to the plenum open from outside . . .
As it turned out, he couldn’t. There was no external handle on the door, and not even anything for him to grip and try to pull it open.
But when he had hammered on it long enough, freezing, despairing, it opened a crack and a long Centaurian snout poked inquiringly out to peer at him.
It was hard enough for Giyt to try to explain what had happened, his limbs numb, his teeth chattering. It must have been even harder for the Centaurians to comprehend him through the vagaries of the translation program. But Mrs. Threewhiteboots was quick to figure out what he was trying to say. “Damn right,” she said. “Something require being done. Never liked that stinky Large Male Hagbarth—no offense other Earth humans, all right? So okay, we hide you someplace. Warm you up. Come.”
As it turned out, not all the tiny doors along the corridors were for Petty-Primes; Mrs. Threewhiteboots held one open while her husband scuttled ahead, clucking and mewing to the chorus of tinier clucks and mews that came from inside. A door that was built large enough to allow passage for a Centaurian was not meant for humans, but Giyt somehow managed to bend his stiffening body low enough to squirm through.