Dr. Harrison Douglas was lying behind a rock trying to tie a piece of his shirt around his wounded arm. The antimatter particles penetrated the rock, and he died after explosions in his lungs, kidneys and heart.
Johnny Murkowsky avoided being wounded by the shower of antimatter particles. Dozens went through him without obliterating themselves. It was just the sheer dumb luck that sometimes protects fools and morons.
He gripped his submachine gun tightly and waited for the assault to stop. It did, finally, and he eased his head out from behind a stone where he was cowering in time to observe the saucer turning and climbing, heading for the top of the mesa where the Philly boys were hunkered down and shooting assault rifles at the saucer.
Oh, too bad, too bad! They were so close.
Damn that Charley Pine. Damn Rip Cantrell. And damn Adam Solo. Just a lock of hair was all we needed. Just a lock of hair.
As Uncle Egg slapped a rag on Rip’s neck and examined the bullet wound, Rip heard some kind of rocket exhaust amid the staccato hammering of assault rifles firing bursts.
Charley Pine saw something strike the saucer and explode. It had no visible effect on the ship. She also saw sparks all over it — no doubt bullets from the top-of-the-mesa crowd.
She ordered the ship to turn and use the antimatter beam on the people and machines on top of the mesa. Climbing and turning, the saucer soared back toward the mesa above the ledge where the cliff house stood. Now she saw the flashes along the leading edge where the antimatter was pouring from the weapon, then saw the beam of smoke and flashes reach toward the top of the mesa. The particles traveled at the speed of light, so the river of them resembled a searchlight. On, then off, then on again. Finally off.
Charley heard an explosion that sounded as if it came from atop the mesa. A helicopter blowing up, perhaps? Or one of its weapons detonating?
“Charley, did you get the sniper?” Rip asked.
For the first time Charley glanced down and saw that Rip was bleeding on the right side of his neck. Egg’s rag was becoming sodden with blood.
“What—?”
“Bullet grazed him,” Egg said. “Not hurt badly, I think. But boy, Ripper, when we get the bleeding stopped, your neck is going to be stiff and sore.”
Egg tore up the last T-shirt and used it as a bandage.
“Did you get the sniper?” Rip asked again.
“I don’t know.”
Finished with Rip, Egg checked on Adam Solo’s condition. He looked haggard, and his face had lines. The entry and exit bullet wounds were still leaking.
“Solo needs a doctor, and he needs one now,” Egg stated. “Let’s get aboard the saucer and go find one.”
“Okay,” Charley said, turning back to the window.
“How are we going to do this?”
“Same way we got here. We’re going to ride on top. Let’s get ready. I’m bringing it around.”
Rip hoisted himself erect and gripped his rifle fiercely. He paused and ensured he had a live shell in the chamber and shoved two more shells into the magazine. He only had a few cartridges left in his pocket.
Egg helped Solo, who could scarcely stand. Rip draped the other arm over his shoulder, and the two men moved Solo to the door.
Thank you. Egg, Rip and Charley heard the unspoken words in their head.
Charley brought the saucer close to the edge of the cliff, turned it around and backed it up until the rocket nozzles were resting right against the stone.
They charged out, Charley in the lead. She climbed onto the saucer’s back and helped Uncle Egg and Rip get Solo aboard. “Don’t look down, people,” she warned.
Once again, Egg was struck with how precarious their position was on top of the mounded-up saucer shape, with nothing to hang on to except the now-dry, smooth, warm, dark surface of the spaceship. In other words, nothing at all. As they lay down and spread themselves, the saucer began to move, gently, almost imperceptibly.
As they moved away from the cliff, Egg scrunched his eyes tightly shut.
He opened them again when he heard the thumps of bullets hitting the ship and the zings of bullets flying off. Then the reports. Someone was shooting an automatic weapon at the saucer.
“Assault rifle,” Rip shouted and raised his head to see where the fire was coming from. Whump, whump, whump, and howling whines as the bullets ricocheted away. “Climb, Charley! Show them the belly.”
“I can’t. We can’t climb any higher without the rockets. We’ll fall off.”
Rip scanned the top of the mesa. Saw no one. Then he looked toward the place the sniper had been on the rim. Saw a man standing there … muzzle flashes.
The guy was no marksman. He squirted another magazine full of bullets at the saucer, and maybe half of them struck.
When the guy emptied his weapon, Rip got to his knees and cut loose with the Winchester as fast as he could work the lever.
“Go at him, Charley,” he shouted. “Fast as you can.”
Adam Solo writhed uncontrollably.
A feeling of intense pain shot through Rip, Charley and Uncle Egg. Horrible pain. Egg almost lost his grip on the saucer as he groaned.
Adam Solo began to slip. Slowly he went down the side of the saucer toward the edge. The pain paralyzed Rip. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as Solo slid to the edge and went over without even trying to arrest his descent.
Someday I’ll see you on the other side.
Then the pain stopped.
Shaken, without thinking, Rip pulled two more shells from his pocket, stuffed them into the rifle, worked the lever and took careful aim as the saucer closed the distance to the rim of the canyon. A hundred yards now, then seventy, then fifty. The guy showed himself and Rip fired. Knocked him off his feet.
Charley had the saucer moving at perhaps twenty knots. The cold wind was in their faces.
The saucer crossed the rim and bore down on the shooter, who was struggling to scuttle away.
Rip recognized the man. Johnny Murkowsky.
Johnny Murk screamed as the saucer approached. He disappeared under the nose and the scream stopped abruptly.
Now Charley brought the saucer to a stop and lowered the landing pads.
It sank to the ground. “Come on, Uncle Egg,” she said. “Let’s get inside. Rip, watch for anyone who wants another shot at us.”
They scrambled down, and Charley went under the saucer to open the hatch.
Rip saw what was left of Johnny Murkowsky, squashed like a road-killed squirrel. As he scanned about, he saw Harrison Douglas’ corpse and the body of a man in a camo outfit lying in blood-spattered snow. A bolt-action rifle with a scope lay beside him. That was probably the sniper. They were obviously dead, no doubt victims of the antimatter weapon. He saw no one else.
Rip was the last to crawl through the hatch. He pulled it shut and latched it.
Charley adjusted the headband in the pilot’s seat.
“They killed Solo,” Rip said. “Why did he have to die like that?”
“He was dying anyway, and he knew it,” Egg said flatly. “I think he intentionally let go up there. Did you feel that pain?”
“Yes,” Rip said, trying to hold back his tears.
Charley sat for a long moment with her head in her hands.
After a bit she felt Rip’s hands on her shoulder. She looked up and saw that he had tears streaking his face.
“We can’t leave his body in that canyon,” Egg said.