“I do,” Martinho said. “I suspect everyone.”
A feeling of gloom overtook him at the sound of his own words. It was true—he suspected everyone, even Benito here, and Chen-Lhu… and the lovely Rhin Kelly. He said, “I think often of the ancient insecticides, how the insects grew ever stronger in spite of—or because of—the insect poisons.”
A sound behind them caught Martinho’s attention. He put a hand on Alvarez’s arm, stopped the shield, turned.
It was Vierho followed by a slave-cart piled with gear. Martinho identified a long pry bar there, a large body hood that must have been intended for Alvarez, packages of plastic explosive.
“Jefe… I thought you would need these things,” Vierho said.
A feeling of affection for the Padre swept through Martinho and he spoke bruskly: “Stay close behind and out of the way, you hear?”
“Of course, Jefe. Don’t I always?” He held the body hood towards Alvarez. “This I brought for you, Jefe Alvarez, that you might not suffer another hurt.”
“I thank you, Padre,” Alvarez said, “but I prefer freedom of movement. Besides, this old body has so many scars, one more will make little difference.”
Martinho glanced around him, noted that other shields were advancing across the lawn. “Quickly,” he said, “we must be the first there.”
Alvarez rotated the control handle. Again their shield ground its way toward the fountain.
Vierho came up close beside his chief, spoke in a low voice: “Jefe, there are stories back there at the truck. It is said that some creature ate the pilings from under a warehouse at the waterfront. The warehouse collapsed. People were killed. There is much upset.”
“Chen-Lhu hinted at this,” Martinho said.
“Is this not the place?” Alvarez asked.
“Stop the shield,” Martinho said. He stared at the grass ahead of them, searching out the place—the relationship to the fountain, the grass marked by the previous passage of their shield.
“This is the place,” he said. He passed his carbine to Vierho, said, “Give me that prybar… and a stun charge.”
Vierho handed him a small packet of plastic explosive with detonator, the kind of charge they used in the Red areas to break up an insect nest in the ground. Martinho pulled his head shield down tight, took the prybar. “Vierho, cover me from here. Benito—can you use a handlight?”
“Of course, Johnny.”
“Jefe… you are not going to use the shield?”
“There isn’t time.” He stepped around the shield before Vierho could answer. The beam of a handlight stabbed down at the ground ahead of him. He crouched, slid the tip of the prybar along the grass, digging, pushing. The bar caught, then slipped down into emptiness. Something touched it down there, and an electric tingle shot all through Martinho.
“Padre, down here,” he whispered.
Vierho leaned over him with the carbine. “Jefe?”
“Just ahead of the bar—into the ground.”
Vierho aimed, squeezed off two shots.
A violent scrabbling noise erupted under the lawn ahead of them. Something splashed there.
Again, Vierho fired. The blast pellets made a curious thumping sound as they exploded under the ground.
There came the liquid sound of furious activity down there—as though there was a school of fish feeding at the surface.
Silence.
More handlights glared onto the lawn ahead of him. Martinho looked up to see a ring of shields around them—IEO and bandeirante uniforms.
Again he focused on the patch of lawn.
“Padre, I’m going to pry it up. Be ready.”
“Of course, Jefe.”
Martinho put a foot under the bar as fulcrum, leaned on his end. The trapdoor lifted slowly. It appeared to be sealed with a gummy mixture that came up in trailing sheets. A whiff of sulphur and corrosive sublimate told Martinho what the sealant must be—the butyl carrier he’d fired from the sprayrifle. With a sudden giving, the door swung up, flopped back onto the lawn.
Handlights were beside Martinho now, probing downward to reveal oily black water. It had the smell of the river.
“They came in from the river,” Alvarez said.
Chen-Lhu came up beside Martinho, said, “The masqueraders appear to have escaped. How convenient.” And he thought: I was correct to give Rhin her orders when I did. We must get a line into their organization. This is the enemy: this bandeirante leader who was educated among the Yankee imperialists. He is one of those who’re trying to destroy us; there can be no other answer.
Martinho ignored Chen-Lhu’s jibe; he was too weary even to be angry with the fool. He stood up, looked around the Plaza. The air held a stillness as though the entire sky awaited some calamity. A few watchers remained beyond the expanded ring of guards—privileged officials, probably—but the mob had been cleared back into adjoining streets.
A small red groundcar could be seen coming down an avenue from the left, its windows glittering under the slavelights as it scuttled toward the Plaza. Its three headlights darted in and out as it skirted people and vehicles. Guards opened a way for it. Martinho recognized the IEO insignia on its tonneau as it neared. The car jerked to a fast stop at the edge of the lawn and Rhin Kelly jumped out.
She had changed to coveralls of IEO working green. They looked almost like sun-bleached grass under the yellow lights of the Plaza.
She strode across the lawn, her attention fixed on Martinho, thinking: He must be used and discarded. He’s the enemy. That’s obvious now.
Martinho watched her approach, admiring the grace and femininity which the simple uniform only accented.
She stopped in front of him, spoke in a husky, urgent voice: “Senhor Martinho, I’ve come to save your life.”
He shook his head, not quite believing he’d heard her correctly. “What…”
“All hell is about to break loose,” she said.
Martinho grew aware of distant shouting.
“A mob,” she said. “Armed.”
“What the devil’s going on?” he demanded.
“There’ve been some deaths tonight,” she said. “Women and children among them. A section of the hill collapsed behind Monte Ochoa. There’re burrows all through that hill.”
Vierho said, “The orphanage…”
“Yes,” she said. “The orphanage and convent on Monte Ochoa were buried. Bandeirantes are blamed. You know what is being said about…”
“I’ll talk to these people,” Martinho said. He felt outrage at the thought of being threatened by those he served. “This is nonsense! We’ve done nothing to…”
“Jefe,” Vierho said, “you do not reason with a mob.”
“Two men of the Lifcado band already have been lynched,” Rhin said. “You have a chance if you run now. Your trucks are here, enough for all of you.”
Vierho took his arm. “Jefe, we must do as she says.”
Martinho stood silently, hearing the information being passed among the bandeirantes around them—“A mob… the blame on us… orphanage…”
“Where could we go?” he asked.
“This violence appears to be local,” Chen-Lhu said. He paused, listening: the mob sounds had grown louder. “Go to your father’s place in Cuiaba. Take your band with you. The others can go to your bases in the Red.”
“Why must I…”
“I will send Rhin to you when we’ve devised a plan of action.”
“I must know where to find you,” Rhin said, picking up her cue. And she thought: The father’s place, yes. That must be the center of it… there or the Goyaz as Travis suspects.
“But we’ve done nothing,” Martinho said.
“Please,” she said.
Vierho tugged his arm.
Martinho took a deep breath. “Padre, go with the men. It’ll be safer out there in the Red. I’ll take the small truck and go to Cuiaba. I must discuss this with my father, the Prefect. Someone must get to the seat of government and make the people there listen.”