“How’ll you get it out of the water?”
“Vines… a Spanish windlass, limbs for rollers.”
Rhin spoke from the cabin: “How long?”
“By tonight, if we’re lucky,” Joao said.
“They won’t give us that long,” Chen-Lhu said.
“We gained thirty or forty kilometers on them,” Joao said.
“But they, too, can fly,” Chen-Lhu said. He raised the sprayrifle, aiming upstream. “And here they come.”
Joao whirled as Chen-Lhu fired, was in time to see a broad front of spray-bursts knock down a fluttering line of white, red and gold insects, each as long as a man’s thumb. But more came behind… and more… and more…
“And again it flew,” the Brain accused.
The messengers on the ceiling danced and hummed their report, made way for a new group flitting in like bits of golden mica through the sunlight at the cave mouth.
“The vehicle is down and badly damaged,” the newcomers reported. “It no longer floats on the water, but lies partly beneath the water. The humans do not appear to be damaged. We already are leading the action groups to the place, but the humans are shooting their poisons at everything that moves. What are your instructions?”
The Brain worked to quiet itself for computation and decision. Emotions… emotions, it thought. Emotions are the curse of logic.
Data-data-data—it was loaded with data. But always there was that shading-off factor. New events modified old facts. The Brain knew many facts about humans—observational facts, some achieved deductively and inductively, some garnered from microfilm libraries the humans had stored in the Red against the time of their return.
So many gaps in the data.
The Brain longed then for the ability to move about by itself, to observe with its own sensors what it could only gather from messengers now. The wish brought a rash of fuzzy signals from the dormant and almost atrophied muscle-control centers. Nurse insects scurried over the Brain’s surface, feeding where these unusual demands arose, countering with hormonal additives the frustration blockages that for a moment threatened the entire structure.
Atheism, the Brain thought, as chemical serenity returned. They spoke of atheism and heaven (religion-subtended). These matters puzzled the Brain. The conversation, reportedly, had come out of an argument and pertained somehow to the human mating pattern… at least among the humans in the vehicle.
The insects on the ceiling jittered through a repetition of their message. “What are your instructions?”
What are my instructions?
My instructions.
I… me… my.
Again, the nurse insects scurried.
Calmness returned to the Brain, and it wondered at the fact that thoughts—mere thoughts—could bring such upset. The same thing appeared to occur with humans.
“The humans in the vehicle must be captured alive,” the Brain commanded. (And it realized the command was a selfish one. It had so many questions for this trio.) “Take in all available action groups. Locate a suitable place downriver, better than the last one, and post half the action groups there. The other half must attack as soon as possible.”
The Brain subsided without releasing its messengers, then, almost as an afterthought: “If all else fails, kill everything except their heads. Save and maintain their heads.”
Now, the messengers were released. They had their instructions, and they fluttered out of the cave into the bright sunlight above the roar of water.
In the west, a cloud passed over the sun.
And the Brain marked this fact, noting that the sound of the river was louder today.
Rains in the highlands, it thought. This thought elicited images within its memory: wet leaves, rivulets on the forest floor, damp cold air, feet splashing on gray clay.
The feet of the image appeared to be its own, and the Brain found this an odd fact. But the nurse insects had the chemical serenity of their charge well in hand now, and the Brain went on to consider every datum it possessed about Cardinal Newman. Nowhere could it discover reference to a stuffed Cardinal Newman.
The patch consisted of leaves bound with tent lines and vines on the outside and spray coagulants from a doctored foamal bomb which Joao had exploded inside the float. The pod floated upright on the river beside the beach now while he stood waist deep beside it, checking their work.
The charged hiss and cork-popping of sprayrifles and foamal bombs went on intermittently above him. The air was thick with the bitter smell of the poisons. Black and orange scum floated past him down the river and lay in puff mounds on the beach around the remains of their vine-powered windlass. Each bit of scum carried its imbedded collection of dead and dying insects.
Rhin leaned over during a lull in the attack, said, “For the love of God, how much longer?”
“It seems to be holding,” Joao rasped.
He rubbed at his neck and arms. Not all the insects were being caught by the sprayrifles and bombs. His skin felt like fire from the accumulation of stings and bites. When he looked up at Rhin, he saw that her forehead was welted.
“If it’s holding, shove us off,” Chen-Lhu said. He appeared above Joao, standing behind Rhin, glanced down and returned his attention to the sky.
Joao staggered with a sudden dizziness, almost fell. His body ached with weariness. It required a distinct effort to lift his head and scan the sky around them. Distant sky. They had perhaps an hour of daylight left.
“For God’s sake, shove off!” Rhin shouted.
Joao grew aware that the firing had resumed. He pulled himself along the float toward the beach, and the action sent the pod outward. It swung over him and he stared stupidly upward at the patched belly tank wondering who had done that work.
Oh, yes—Vierho.
The pod continued to drift outward, caught now by the current. It was at least two meters from Joao when he realized he was supposed to be aboard it. He lunged for the right float, caught its rear edge and hauled himself sprawling onto it with almost the last of his strength.
A hand reached down from the open hatch, grabbed his collar. With the help of the hand, he clambered to his knees, crawled up into the cabin. Only when he was inside did he see that it was Rhin’s hand.
They had the canopy down and sealed, he noted. Chen-Lhu was darting around the interior smashing insects with a roll of charts.
Joao felt something sting his right leg, looked down to see Rhin kneeling there and applying a fresh energy pack.
Why is she doing that? he wondered. Then he remembered: Oh, yes—the stings, the poisons.
“Won’t we have some immunity from the last bout?” he asked and was surprised when his voice came out a whisper.
“Maybe,” she said. “Unless they hit us with something new.”
“I think I have most of them,” Chen-Lhu said. “Rhin, did you seal the hatch?”
“Yes.”
“I sprayed with the hand unit under the seats and dash.” Chen-Lhu reached down, put a hand under Joao’s arm. “Here we go, Johnny. Into your seat, eh?”
“Yes.” Joao staggered forward, sank into the seat. His head felt as though it rested on slack rubber. “Are we in the current?” he gasped.
“We seem to be,” Chen-Lhu said.
Joao sat there panting. He could feel the energy pack like a distant army working inward against his weariness. Perspiration flooded his skin, but his mouth felt dry and hot. The windshield ahead of him was dappled with the orange and black spray and foam residue.
“They’re still with us,” Chen-Lhu said. “Along the shore over there and some kind of a group overhead.”