It was too late. The gun from the shoulder holster, small but wicked, was trained on Madelaine.
“It’s a stand-off,” Trott said with grinning satisfaction, “If you shoot me, she goes, too. I won’t hesitate. Drop your gun.”
Slowly and reluctantly, Sven obeyed. The chance that Trott meant what he said was too great to risk Madelaine’s life on it.
“Now,” said Trott, “get back in the ’copter. No, wait. I’m not going to have you repeat what you did to me before, whatever it was. I’d better tie you up and knock you out.”
Trott backed toward the ’copter, still keeping the gun on Madelaine. She was standing quite still, her hands, with Trott’s wallet in them, clasped in front of her, but her lips were moving. “Help me, Amtor! Djuna, help me!” she said under her breath. It must have been about this time that Djuna and I, swimming with our frien ds in the now cool South Pacific, had the sensation of being desperately drawn upon.
Still keeping the gun on Madelaine, Trott groped behind him on the floor of the ’copter and came out with a length of rope. He seemed uncertain what to do. Then his face cleared. He tossed the rope along the grass to Madelaine.
“Tie him up,” he ordered. “Make good knots—I’ll be watching. Don’t try anything. I’ve no real objection to killing both of you. I consider you traitors to the human race.”
Slowly Madelaine bent to pick up the rope. Her mind was clamoring to us. “Hurry up,” Trott said impatiently. “Can’t you move faster than that? You, Erickson, turn your back and put your hands behind you. Yes. Now, Paxton, tie his hands together.”
Reluctantly, Madelaine did as she was told. As the knots were made, Trott seemed to relax. “You know, this is going to change a lot of people’s minds,” he said conversationally. “After that fink Lawrence killed himself, everybody thought I was a nut and that we’d killed a lot of dolphins for nothing. The most they’d admit was that some human beings had been riding around with dolphins, and they thought the sub had killed the people, and the dolphins with them, before it sank.
“Even the floods didn’t convince them. They said it was just coincidence that Lawrence had predicted trouble before he died. Yes, they thought I was a sort of nut to blame a bunch of fish for the floods. A nut! I was the one sane man.”
Sven’s hands were tied. Trott had Madelaine bring the ends of the rope around his ankles and tie them, too. “And now,” he said, “I guess the best thing would be to shoot you and Erickson in the shoulder. That ought to keep you from any more tricks.”
He raised the gun to sight accurately. The gun moved to eye level, and then on up. “What—” he said, and then was silent. An amazed and exasperated look came over his face. The struggle for control of his nervous system had begun.
Madelaine turned to face him, dropping the ends of the rope. The gun moved toward Trott’s head inch by inch, in a series of jerks. His mouth was open, and he was breathing hard.
The muzzle of the gun came to rest against his right temple. Trott’s eyes were wild. Twice his finger jerked on the trigger, and he managed to pull it away. Madelaine had her doubts about what the four of us were trying to make him do, and this helped him to resist for a while. But the third time his finger drew the trigger all the way back. The bullet went into his head.
He stood upright for a moment, swaying on his feet, and th en fell forward. He was dead, I think, before he hit the ground.
The girl put her hands over her face. Sven hopped around so he faced her. “Don’t fold up,” he said. “There isn’t time. Help me get untied.”
Together they loosed the knots. It was raining again, with thunder not too far off. “We’ve got to do something with the body,” Sven said.
“Have we?” Madelaine answered. Her tone was calm, but she was panting for breath. “The gun’s in his hand, and there must be powder stains on his hand and his head. For all anybody could tell, he committed suicide.”
Sven considered. “Why would he suddenly bring the ’copter down and kill himself?”
“Why do people kill themselves? There’s not going to be an inquest at a time like this.”
There was a silence. The rain had stopped momentarily, and lightning leaped in the sky. At last Sven said, “We don’t dare risk it. It might just make somebody suspicious. Help me put his body back in the ’copter, Maddy—I’m going to set it on fire.”
“You mean, they’ll think the ’copter had engine trouble and caught fire?”
“Or was struck by lightning, like the bigger plane. We’ll be destroying the evidence.”
Sven put the guns Trott had carried back in their holsters, and they dragged the body over to the ’copter and put it in the pilot’s seat. Sven found the gas tank, uncapped it, and got out the matches Fletcher had given him. He split a stick, stuck a match in the cleft, and lit it. Then at arm’s length, standing as far back as he could get, he poked the stick at the gas tank.
It caught. There was a low roar. Sven had run back the instant he knew the gas had caught. He grabbed Madelaine by the wrist and pulled her back with him.
From a safe distance, they watched the tank explode. The ’copter was burning furiously. Through the haze of smoke, they saw its metal frame buckle and warp.
“That’s that,” Sven said at last. “Even if they tried to do an autopsy on him, there wouldn’t be anything left to inspect We’re safe.”
“Are we? Sven! There’s blood on my skirt, from where we carried him.”
“The rain will wash it away. But Maddy, you don’t seem to realize, the sea people are safe, too. The only man who suspected that they might have any connection with the floods is gone. They’re really safe now. Aren’t you glad?”
She drew a long breath. “Yes, I’m glad. And now, let’s get started on our way to the refuge camp.”
They were accepted at O’Brien without question. They gave false names, but it probably wasn’t necessary. Madelaine, who was a good typist, was put to work in the office immediately, and Sven became a mechanic in the camp garage.
Life at the camp was chiefly remarkable for the poor quality of the food, and the very high death rate. Everyone who came in was given shots by the harried doctors; but diseases were epidemic for which no shots had ever been devised. Disposing of the bodies of the dead was a more serious problem than getting food for those who remained alive.
And yet, O’Brien was one of the more successful camps. On the East Coast there were camps in which, week after week, two-thirds of the current refugee population died. This was partly because the eastern camps were more crowded, but also because several strains of viruses from the biological-warfare people got loose. Microorganisms do not distinguish between friend and foe.
(I may say here that Split demographers think that, of the one and a half or two billion Splits who died as a result of the floods, at least sixty percent died of hunger, exposure or disease. Simple drowning played a lesser part in the toll. Some demographers have called the floods a blessing in. disguise, since they brought the world population down to a point where it was more compatible with world resources. Myself, I find it difficult to think of anything that kills so many as a blessing, though it certainly has been one for us people of the sea.) Sven and Madelaine had been at O’Brien only a few hours when news came that new floods were sweeping up from the south. This meant that new areas were inundated, more people were drowned, and new epidemics and earthquakes occurred. For the people in the camp, it was more of the same thing. The increase in the scale of the catastrophe had not changed its quality.
Sven and Madelaine were kept too busy to see much of each other. They were not precisely unhappy, despite the distress around them, and they managed to keep in good health while so many others, older and younger, died. When they could, they sat beside each other in the dining hall. They both say they dreamed of us sea people almost every night.