Steenameert, who had been paying close attention to the dialogue, raised a hand. “If the machine is immune to interference … if it cannot be switched off… are we not already in an inviolable position? Is it not too late for the enemy to try to thwart us?”
Given sufficient time we could have rendered the impeller virtually immune to interference. Greturk’s eyes flickered closed for a moment. As it is, it could be neutralized merely by turning it on its side…
“What?” Steenameert shot Toller a perplexed glance. “Is that all it would take to stop it working?”
Greturk shook his head in a surprisingly human manner. The impeller would not be affected internally in any way, but unless it is in a horizontal attitude—with its line of action passing through or close to the center of the planet—its motive energies will be squandered.
“I—” Toller broke off as the faintest breath of coolness entered his mind, a feather-flick of unease so tiny and fleeting that it could have been a product of his imagination. He raised his head, separating himself from the discussion, and took stock of his surroundings. Nothing seemed to have changed. The grassy plain reached out to a horizon which was made irregular by low hills to the north; a short distance away the white casing of the impeller glowed placidly through the pewter-colored light of early dawn; the incongruous group of Dussarrans and humans looked exactly as before—and yet Toller was vaguely alarmed.
On impulse he glanced up at the sky and there, centered on Land and almost touching the terminator on the planet’s dark side, was a pulsing yellow star. He knew at once that he was looking at the Xa, thousands of miles above.
No sooner had he made the identification than a faint telepathic voice reached him—strained, enfeebled, tortured—wisping downwards from the zenith. Why are you doing this to me, Beloved Creator? Please, please do not kill me.
Feeling oddly like an intruder, Toller spoke quietly to Greturk. “The Xa is… unhappy.”
It was fortunate for all of us that the Xa’s increasing complexity allowed it to… Greturk suddenly flinched, as if experiencing a spasm of pain, and spun to face the east. The other Dussarrans did likewise. Toller followed their concerted gazes and his heart lurched as he saw that the previously bare plain was now the setting for a party of about fifty figures clad in white. They were perhaps two furlongs distant, and above them was a fast-fading ellipse of greenish illumination.
The Vadavaks are upon us! Greturk took one futile step backwards. And so close!
Toller glared down at Greturk. “Are they armed?”
Armed?
“Yes! Armed! Do they carry weapons?”
Greturk had begun to shiver, but his telepathic response was clear and well controlled. The Vadavaks are equipped with enervators—instruments of social correction specially designed by Director Zunnunun. The enervators are black rods with glowing red tips. The slightest contact with one of the tips will cause intense pain and paralysis for several minutes.
“I have heard of more fearsome weapons,” Toller sneered, squeezing Vantara’s hand before releasing it and putting an encouraging arm around Steenameert’s shoulder. “What do you say, Baten? Shall we teach these bumptious pygmies a lesson or two?”
Contact with one enervator rod causes pain and paralysis, Greturk added. The Vadavaks carry an enervator in each hand—and simultaneous contact with two rods causes pain and death.
’That is a more serious matter,” Toller said soberly, staring at the blurred smear of white on a drab grey-green background which was the enemy’s sole manifestation thus far. “How long does it take for death to occur?”
Five seconds. Perhaps ten. Much depends on the size and strength of the individual.
“Much could be achieved in ten seconds,” Toller replied, a dryness developing in his mouth as he saw that the Vadavaks had already begun to advance at speed. “If only…”
Your sword is in the possession of Director Zunnunun and can never be retrieved—but one of our number holoviewed it well enough for copying. Greturk nodded to one of the other Dussarrans who moved forward dragging a sack made of a seamless grey material. We had hoped that the Vadavaks would not make contact with us—in which case we would have destroyed these weapons without ever showing them to you—but now we have no alternative.
The Dussarran opened the sack and Toller felt a surge of fierce gladness as he saw that it contained seven swords of the distinctive late Kolcorronian pattern. He dropped to his knees and eagerly reached for the familiar weapons.
Be careful! Greturk warned. In particular, do not touch the blades with your bare hands—they now have monomolecular edges which can never be blunted, and they will penetrate your flesh as easily as they would sink into fresh snow.
“Swords!” Jerene’s rounded features bore an angry expression as she stepped forward. “What do we want with a collection of antiques? Could you not have copied our pistols?”
Greturk shook his head again. There was no time… their interior mechanisms were not readily visible to us … all we could do in the limited time available was to produce five scaled-down versions of the sword for use by the smaller and weaker females of your race.
“That was most considerate of you,” Jerene exclaimed sarcastically, “but you may be interested to learn that any woman here could…”
“The enemy has taken to the field!” Toller put all the power of his lungs into the shout. “Are we to squabble among ourselves or go out and do battle?”
He pointed to where the gleaming white motes which represented the Vadavaks were spreading across the field of view, becoming larger collectively and individually, each advancing speck developing arms and legs, a face, the capability of inflicting death. On the horizon behind the Vadavaks the sun was appearing as a needle-spray of blinding fire, casting a fateful and melodramatic glow over the natural arena in which the fates of three worlds were to be decided.
Toller took the sword of his fancy from the sack and tried it in his hand to make sure that the balance had not been disturbed by alien machinations. The feel of the familiar weapon was comforting—the spirit of his grandfather was with him again—but it was less reassuring than he had hoped and expected. Seven humans, only one of whom was trained with the sword, were going against at least fifty well-armed aliens. By all accounts, his fabled namesake would have gloried in such a situation—but, no matter how many versions of the forthcoming battle the present-day Toller conjured up in his mind, he could not find one in which there were no deaths among his companions. Some of them, if not all, were bound to die—and Toller could see no glory in that fact. It was degrading, brutal, depressing, obscene, terrifying…
But, even as the adjectives paraded through his mind, he was forced to acknowledge another diamond-hard fact. Unless the Dussarran machine was successfully defended for another three to four minutes, until it performed its vital task, every man, woman and child on Overland would be annihilated in an unimaginable pulse of energy. That—above all else—had to be the single truth which governed his actions in the trial which lay ahead.