The next one was on its side. It would roll easily, but he would have to use his knees as well as his hands.
It was no less hot than its predecessor. As he had anticipated, his trousers gave no greater protection than the tunic had, and this time the pain in his hands equaled anything he felt elsewhere. They were already damaged, and the gloves were only meant to guard against the hazards of rough manual labor, not to meet the challenge of fire and extreme heat. He could not have expected them to shield him forever.
The burning increased with every moment he remained in contact with the metal. The apprentice wondered how he would be able to endure that level of punishment long enough to dispose of this barrel, and his heart and courage sank at the thought of the eighteen more remaining after it. All of them had to be removed, or his efforts would be valueless.
It would not be that bad, he told himself savagely, not all of it. The third barrel, aye, he would suffer with that one, but the others were farther back, out of direct contact with the flames and at least a little distant from their heat. They should not be so brutally hot.
He staggered toward his next target only to be driven back from it. Jellico had seen him and had been trying to give him as much cover as possible, but another of the fires had pushed too close to the ship, and the Captain had been compelled to switch his attention to that, leaving this front free to continue its assault.
Thorson pushed right into its shimmering shadow. What difference whether he seared himself like a steak against the container or was turned into a human torch, he thought bitterly. He would die equally painfully either way.
For one instant, he thought he would take fire, but though his exposed skin blistered, he managed to push the barrel over and out of the flames' direct reach. It was not
quite as hot as the others, he judged as he rolled it toward the edge. It had not been on the front line as long as the other two. Hope stirred in his heart. If that held true for the rest, and the effect was magnified by distance, then he might win this impossible race. Even with the hungry fire advancing unchecked and himself already fairly severely burned, he should be able to shift reasonably cool barrels quickly enough to put them once and for all out of danger.
They were not all that heavy in themselves, and he was nothing if not experienced in moving cargo by this time.
What would happen to him after that was another matter, but it was not his immediate concern, and he refused to allow himself to dwell on it. The task before him demanded his full attention.
miceal started at the sight of a movement, a man, opposite him on the dock. At first, he thought it was an illusion, delirium even, the product of smoke and flame and his own imagination, augmented by the increasingly pungent fumes he was compelled to breathe, sickening and weakening him beyond any weariness. He recognized Thorson then, but before he could try to shout instructions to him, the young man realized their peril and moved of his own accord to dispose of the barrels.
The Captain cringed at the thought of how hot that metal had to be, but there was no help for it. They had to be dumped.
Was that still possible? The apprentice had proven his courage and determination often enough, but he had never been challenged like this. The cost of every contact with those containers and the ever-present, ever-increasing horror of the fire itself would have been sufficient to break an older, more experienced man, whatever his knowledge of the stakes riding on him. Jellico could not say how much of it he himself could have taken.
There was almost nothing he could do to help. Those barrels were located right at the limit of the fire gun's range. Its stream reached barely far enough to discourage the fire from sweeping over Dane, and even that pitiful defense would have to be terminated long before the job was done.
The Sally Sue was under too heavy an assault herself . . .
Miceal whipped the fire gun down, training its muzzle on the dock just before him. An arm of fire had worked its way along the pier and was licking right at the ship's side almost at his feet.
It was a small advance, and he was not long in driving it back, but the three major fires had now become one.
Jellico's heart was heavy. Thorson's suffering and sacrifice were for nothing. He would not be able to keep up his own part. He would be able to hold out a few minutes more, five or perhaps ten, but the deadly little fires had become a conflagration that would soon sweep over him and the ship he was battling to save. He would go down still fighting, but that would be small comfort to those he had failed to save. It had just been too big a task for only one man . . .
A thud sounded beside him as someone sprang onto the deck. His head turned sharply. Jan Van Rycke! The Cargo-Master grinned but said nothing as he raced for the nearest fire gun, seized and activated it. It functioned, praise the Spirit ruling Space, and a powerful stream of foam belted a gap in that part of the fire wall nearest them.
Three minutes later, another stream joined it from a point near the freighter's middle. Rael!
Miceal's spirit sang. This equipment was designed to handle major trouble—witness the stand he had been able ' to make alone guarding so broad a front. With the three of them manning the guns, they had a chance—not a cer- tainty—but for the first time a true chance of defeating the primal force before them.
They had won. They had seen the fire fall back, great patches of it dying under cold water and smothering foam, well before the air above them had suddenly filled with Fire Department fliers, all spilling what had seemed like half an ocean of foam.
Jellico smiled at the memory as he wearily leaned back against his pillow. The four spacers had just about drowned along with the flames, but he did not recall hearing any protests. He himself certainly had not been inclined to object.
A knock brought him back to his present surroundings.
It had been soft and rather timid and was not immediately repeated. Rael Cofort.
He sat up quickly and began refastening the collar snaps on his tunic. "Come in," he called as he pressed the last into place.
The woman obeyed instantly. She had Queex with her, draped over her arm, but almost without thinking, she set him on Jellico's desk. Her eyes fixed on the Captain's face, studying him intently. His voice had sounded hoarse, but that was nothing, merely the result of the abuse his throat and lungs had taken. It would clear up of its own accord soon enough.
"Mr. Wilcox said you'd knocked out," she said.
"Mr. Wilcox should keep his mouth shut," he grumbled.
"Not with me pestering him. — You're all right, Mi- ceal?"
"Aye. I just started running out of fuel. Since there's no need to play ultraman at the moment, I decided to call it an evening."
"Smart move. It's no fun having one's lungs scrubbed."
She moved closer to him and touched her fingertips to his forehead, "There doesn't seem to be any fever."
"I told you I was all right," he responded irritably.
"I know, but I am a Medic. Habit's hard to break."
She turned to the desk. "I guess we should leave and let you get some rest."
"No. Stay a bit."
Jellico's cabin was full size, unlike hers, and was outfitted with a permanent desk and a chair.
She released the seat from its fastenings and drew it next to the wide bunk.
Miceal saw her grimace as she sat down, and now it was his turn to examine her closely. "Eight broken ribs. I knew you were hurt, but I didn't think it was that bad."
"It wasn't until the end, or at least it didn't hurt so much. I completed the job on myself when I was working on Keil.
It took a lot of maneuvering to get in to him."
"Well, I started it. I was the one who threw you onto that block."