Gallast said in a voice of grating calmness: “And suppose you achieved the journey, professor—what explanation would you give? How would you explain that you had not even waited for the nuclear explosion?”
“I’d—I’d tell them the truth. That I feel ill…”
“And I would tell them that you were an arrant coward and that you betrayed the State because of that cowardice. I would deny that you were ill while out here.”
“You wouldn’t do that! It’s not true! I am ill!”
“None the less, that is what I would say, professor. And, valuable though you are to the State, I think they would be quite drastic with you. You would certainly be shot.”
Of a sudden, Daak’s normally heavy breathing became softer, less audible.
But his entire body quivered, as if actuated by a spring. There was a quintessence of hate in his oval face.
Then he hurled himself at Gallast.
No other word would accurately describe the action. Literally, he projected himself from the ground before crashing against Gallast’s chest, his soft fingers clawing for the throat.
In his maddened condition, Daak had achieved a physical feat which would have been quite impossible under normal circumstances. It was not the sort of reaction that any of them could reasonably have expected.
For that reason, Gallast was taken completely by surprise.
He staggered back. He put up his left hand in an effort to thrust Daak off while at the same time trying to keep his gun levelled at D’Aran. It was a natural impossibility.
D’Aran swerved out of range of the pistol. He lashed out with his boot. It contacted Gallast’s hip bone. He gave out a grunt of pain as he sank to his knees. The grunt became a loud cry as D’Aran stamped on his gun hand. He rolled on his back after letting the gun go free. He was lying in that position when D’Aran kicked again —this time at his close-cropped head. The head twitched. Then he was still.
Keith moved simultaneously but independently of D’Aran.
During his rush through the air Daak passed between Keith and the man with the Lebel. There was perhaps an entire second in which Keith did nothing. A second used to absorb the situation.
Then he saw that the Lebel was no longer aimed directly at him. It was quivering uncertainly in the direction of Daak.
Keith grabbed the barrel at a point just in front of the back sight. At the same time he twisted and wrenched. The rifle bucked violently as the pressure on the guard’s finger discharged a bullet, which flattened itself between the join of the wall and the floor. But the violent movement caused by that bullet served a purpose. It was the final thrust needed to get the rifle away from the man’s hands.
Keith was then holding the Lebel so that the heavy butt was directly under the guard’s chin.
He brought the butt up in a whistling arc. It proceeded on its course after the jawbone had been broken and two of the cervical vertebrae dislocated.
The man who had been standing beside the grenades rushed at Keith, pulling a Luger from his belt as he did so.
It was a bad mistake. If he had held his ground while drawing the gun, Keith’s activities would have come to an abrupt conclusion. But as it was, Keith closed with him while the weapon was still only half out of the deep military holster. And, since the guard was pulling at it, he had only one hand available for immediate defence.
It was not enough.
He was a perfect target.
Keith used the edge of his open hand. It sliced against the front of his neck, directly on the larynx. It was a cruel, killing form of unarmed attack. But this was no occasion for niceties. The man’s face became a pale shade of blue before he dropped across his pile of grenades.
Keith felt a sudden sense of exhilaration. Of returning confidence. Of release from the bondage of fear.
A thought flashed through his mind.
“I’m not yellow,” he thought, as he turned to go to the aid of D’Aran. “I can’t be yellow because I’m not afraid now…”
He saw that D’Aran was not in need of help. D’Aran was already leaving the inert Gallast and moving into the passage.
Keith knew what the lieutenant was about to do. He did it for him. He ran panting towards the bunk room.
The legionnaires were pressed near the door. Their faces were baffled and anxious. But they were obeying D’Aran’s order to remain there.
“Get to hell out of it,” Keith bawled in rich English vernacular.
Few of them understood his words. But the meaning was made clear by wild gestures. The garrison stormed out of the bunk room, still unsure of exactly what had happened, or of what was expected of them.
D’Aran halted them as the foremost reached the corridor leading to the outer door.
He pointed to the three guns—two on the ground, one half out of a holster. And to the fallen Lebel. The sign was enough. Four legionnaires armed themselves.
“Stay where you are,” D’Aran ordered.
He returned to the door and looked towards the ramparts. Keith, who had affected not to hear the command, was at his side.
The Arabs were no longer still, although they remained on the ledge. They were gesticulating, chattering, showing every aspect of scared indecision. Some; more courageous than the others, were making menacing movements with their muskets towards the four guards.
And the guards on each side had dropped to their knees, so as to sight more precisely at the mob.
D’Aran muttered: “Dieu… there’ll be a massacre!”
It certainly seemed so. If the four guards opened fire at the tribesmen from that range, the result would be utter carnage. And—because they were obviously very frightened themselves—they intended to do just that. Their attention must be distracted immediately.
D’Aran and Keith fired together at the four men.
But the range was too long for accurate pistol fire. The slugs travelled wide and low. Yet the brief volley served its purpose.
The guards looked away from the Arabs and towards the two men at the compound door.
Then the Arabs charged.
They divided off into two sections like a disintegration of quicksilver. They were upon the four guards before they had time to turn back their heads.
The guards disappeared into twin seas of swirling, tattered robes. They remained invisible for nearly a minute, while the Arabs did their work in silence.
And when the Arabs drew back, Keith felt sick. He looked away. So did D’Aran.
D’Aran forgot his revulsion as he gazed again at the Arabs.
He said: “Sucre! Stop them!”
Then he shouted uselessly.
The tribesmen were clambering over the wall and dropping outside the fort. Presently, the only token of their visit were the four still bodies and the old Bormone who had died earlier.
D’Aran ran towards the gate, shouting to them. He used desperate persuasions in an effort to bring them back.
But his voice was drowned by the thudding of their horses’ hooves. When D’Aran could be heard again, the hoofbeats had faded into the empty distance.
He returned slowly to the building. He ignored the unconscious body of Gallast. He gave scant attention to Professor Daak, who was crouching in a semi-swoon.
As he entered the doorway, he said to the legionnaires: “Mes amis, I hoped that those Arabs, at least, might have been saved. I wanted to warn them that they must leave this area immediately. But since they would not listen, I fear they will die. As for us—we must start our march to the foothills.”
He examined his watch. He was astonished to see the hands indicating two o’clock. The hour was confirmed by the position of the sun.
D’Aran continued: “We have only twenty-five hours to get there and prepare protective positions, but I think it can be done. And let us thank God for one great mercy—we have enough water for the march…”