So he sat docilely while Cyril Basingstoke searched the shore for a refuge. He listened uncaring while the two old men argued over what to choose. He obediently tried to help scoop water out of the bottom of the boat with his skinny, bare Heechee hands-so ill adapted to such a task—as they settled on a beach house with its own floating dock, and Basingstoke ran the craft to a mooring next to it.
Out of the boat, up the beach to the dwelling, gathering before the screened porch of the beach house-there were a dozen times when Sneezy might have broken free and run. The old men were tiring now, because the night was well advanced and they had been taxing themselves a great deal. But Sneezy didn’t take the chance. Neither did Harold, though perhaps the human boy’s chances were worse; General Heimat never once let go of his arm. And of course Omko had never had a chance to escape on her own, and so Sneezy docilely helped Oniko and waited patiently as the old men argued.
“There will be a watch system, man,” Basingstoke warned.
Heimat smiled. All he said was, “Take this boy’s arm,” and turned to his work. The skills that a dozen times had been pitted against the prison’s multiply redundant guard programs were not to be defeated by some householder’s burglar alarm.
In two minutes they were inside the house. The door was locked behind them. The chances of escape were gone; and, tardily, Sneezy realized what opportunities he had let slip away.
“On your bellies, my dears,” Heimat ordered cheerfully, “and put your hands behind your necks. If you move you are dead-except you, of course, sweet Oniko.”
Obediently the children lowered themselves to the floor, and Sneezy heard the sounds of the old men ransacking the house, muttering to each other. The lassitude was wearing off, now that it was too late, but he was beginning to be aware of something else. He hardly heard what the kidnapers were saying or doing. He wanted something . . . He had a need to do something . . .
Without intending it in the least, he got up and moved toward the bungalow’s PV communications set.
It happened to be Basingstoke who saw him first, which perhaps saved Sneezy’s life. The old man was beside him in a second, swatting him away. Sneezy landed halfway across the room, blinking at him.
“Boy, boy,” rumbled the old man chidingly. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
“I have to make a call,” Sneezy explained, standing up again. Nothing was broken. He started toward the set once more.
Basingstoke grabbed him. The old man was stronger than Sneezy had thought; the boy struggled for a moment, then let himself go limp. “What you have to do,” Basingstoke scolded, “is exactly what we tell you to do, boy, and nothing more. You will sit quietly, or—Heimat! Watch the girl!”
For Oniko, too, had struggled to her feet and was advancing doggedly toward the set, the expression on her face determined.
Heimat had an arm around her in the first step. “What’s the matter with you two?” he snarled. “Didn’t you think we were serious? Perhaps we should kill the Heechee brat to convince you?”
“We will just tie them up, Beaupre,” Basingstoke corrected. Then, observing the look on Heimat’s face and the way he was holding the girl, he sighed, “Oh, give it a rest, man! There is plenty of time for what you want later!”
The beach house was a treasure trove for the old terrorists. There was food, there was power, they even found weapons of a sort-a spring-wound shark gun for scuba-diving, and a flat, mean-looking stun gun apparently designed for the times when a sportflsher had brought aboard a large game fish that still had enough life left to thrash dangerously around in the boat. Sneezy’s lassitude wore off, and he looked at the guns with astonishment and more than a little horror. They were weapons! They could kill someone! What typically human devices they were!
When they had located food, the two men ate first, muttering to each other over the table, but when they were finished they untied Oniko and allowed her to feed the others. She had to spoon soup into the boys’ mouths as though they were babies. Once she rose awkwardly and started once more toward the PV commset, but Heimat was ahead of her. She didn’t try it again. Sneezy’s own uncontrollable urge to do the same thing departed, leaving him puzzling over just what it was he was so anxious to do. Call someone, of course. But whom? The police? Yes, certainly, that would have been logical; but he did not think that was what had been in his mind.
When everyone was fed and the children had even been allowed, one by one, to make escorted visits to the toilet, Heimat came over and draped his arm fondly over Oniko’s shoulders. The girl shuddered without looking at him.
“Heimat, man,” said Cyril Basingstoke warningly.
The general looked surprised. “What have I done?” he asked, carelessly toying with the girl’s bobbed black hair. “We’ve eaten. We’re in a nice, safe place. We’ve earned the right, surely, to rest for a moment and enjoy ourselves.”
Basingstoke said patiently, “We are still on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, man. We are not safe until we are off it. Sooner or later the people who own this house will come back, or some neighbor will see the lights and come to call, and what will we do then?”
Heimat sighed tolerantly and stood up, wandering about the room. “But we’ve got a long night ahead of us, and there won’t be any flights until morning,” he pointed out.
“Morning is not very far,” Basingstoke countered. “And there is also the flywheel boat. If we leave it where it is, it will lead people to us. I think you and I, Beau, should go down and send it off to sea before it gets light.”
“Oh?” said Heimat. “But why two of us, Cyril?” He sat down at a desk in the corner, watching the other man, and though no one’s expression changed, Sneezy was suddenly aware of a new tension in the room.
Heimat went on thoughtfully, “Let me see if I can read your mind, old comrade. You are thinking that it will be harder for two to book passage than one. You are also thinking that if I, and these nice young people, were dead, our bodies could be left here in this house for maybe quite a long time.”
“Oh, Beaupre, what an imagination you have,” Basingstoke said tolerantly.
“Yes,” Heimat agreed. “I imagine you are making a calculation, Cyril, of whether my help or my dead body would be of more use to you. I even think you are considering some plan in which all four of our bodies could be found in some way that would be helpful to you. Perhaps in the boat set adrift, so that people would think you had most likely drowned while crossing the strait. Am I very close to what you were thinking?”
Basingstoke gave his partner a tolerant smile. “Oh, perhaps in general terms,” he conceded. “One has such idle thoughts now and then. But it was only a thought, man.”
“Then think of this.” Heimat smiled, raising his hand from the desk to reveal the flat, mean fish-killing gun.
Oniko shrieked and collapsed against Sneezy. He wished he could pat her shoulder reassuringly, but the ropes did not allow that; he compromised by rubbing his leathery cheek against the top of her head. Basingstoke gazed at the children for a moment, then turned earnestly back to Heimat.
“Beaupre,” he said, “what I think is only what you yourself have surely been thinking, too; it is only sensible for each of us to consider alternatives. But I do not want your body found off the island. As far as anyone knows, we are still on Moorea. I hope no one will think otherwise until it is too late. So do not be a great fool, man. Let us get rid of the boat. Then let us arrange transportation away from here.”