talus! A wall with encystation—repetition from the headland unnecessary—the access at an azimuth of—multicrystalline metamorphism…” The voice filled Pirx’s earphones, delivering the words clearly, in a monotone, with no inflection whatever.
“It’s him!” he yelled. “The Setaur! Hello, radio! Get a fix on that, quickly! We need a fix! For God’s sake! While it’s still sending!” He roared till he was deafened by his own shouts amplified in the closed space of the helmet; not waiting for the telegraph operator to snap out of it, he leaped, head bowed, to the top of the turret, seized the double handgrip of the heavy laser, and began turning it along with the turret, his eyes already at the sighter. Meanwhile, inside his helmet, that low, almost sorrowful, steady voice droned on:
“Heavily bihedrous achromatism viscosity—undecorticated segments without repeated anticlinal interpolations”—and the senseless gabble seemed to weaken.
“Where’s that fix, damn it?!!”
Pirx, keeping his eyes glued to the sighter, heard a faint clatter—McCork had run up front and shoved aside the operator; there was a sound of scuffling…
Suddenly in his earphones he heard the calm voice of the cyberneticist:
“Azimuth 39.9 … 40.0 … 40.1 … 40.2…”
“It’s moving!” Pirx realized. The turret had to be turned by crank; he nearly dislocated his arm, he cranked so hard. The numbers moved at a creep. The red line passed the 40 mark.
Suddenly the voice of the Setaur rose to a drawn-out screech and broke off. At that same moment Pirx pressed the trigger, and half a kilometer down, right at the line between light and shadow, a rock spouted fire brighter than the sun.
Through the thick gloves it was next to impossible to hold the handgrip steady. The blinding flame bored into the darkness at the bottom of the basin; a few dozen meters from the dimly glowing wreck, it stopped and, in a spray of jagged embers, cut a line sideways, twice raising columns of sparks. Something yammered in the earphones. Pirx paid no attention, just plowed on with that line of flame, so thin and so terrible, until it split into a thousand centrifugal ricochets off some stone pillar. Red swirling circles danced before him, but through their swirl he saw a bright blue eye, smaller than the head of a pin, which had opened at the very bottom of the darkness, off to the side somewhere, not where he had been shooting—and before he was able to move the handgrip of the laser, to pivot it around on its swivel, a rock right next to the machine itself exploded like a liquid sun.
“Back!” he bellowed, ducking by reflex, with the result that he no longer saw anything; but he wouldn’t have seen anything anyway, only those red, slowly fading circles, which turned now black, now golden.
The engine thundered. They were thrown with such violence that Pirx fell all the way to the bottom, then flew to the front, between the knees of the cadet and the radio operator; the cylinders, though they had tied them down securely on the armored wall, made an awful racket. They were rushing backward, in reverse, there was a horrible crunch beneath the tractor tread, they swerved, careened in the other direction, for a minute it looked like the transporter was going to flip over on its back… The driver, desperately working the gas, the brakes, the clutch, somehow brought that wild skid under control; the machine gave a long quiver and stood still.
“Do we have a seal?” shouted Pirx, picking himself up off the floor. “A good thing it’s rubber,” he managed to think.
“Intact!”
“Well, that was nice and close,” he said in an altogether different voice now, standing up and straightening his back. And added softly, not without chagrin: “Two hundredths more to the left and I would have had him.”
McCork returned to his place.
“Doctor, that was good, thank you!” called Pirx, already back at the periscope. “Hello, driver, let’s
“It’s him!” he yelled. “The Setaur! Hello, radio! Get a fix on that, quickly! We need a fix! For God’s sake! While it’s still sending!” He roared till he was deafened by his own shouts amplified in the closed space of the helmet; not waiting for the telegraph operator to snap out of it, he leaped, head bowed, to the top of the turret, seized the double handgrip of the heavy laser, and began turning it along with the turret, his eyes already at the sighter. Meanwhile, inside his helmet, that low, almost sorrowful, steady voice droned on:
“Heavily bihedrous achromatism viscosity—undecorticated segments without repeated anticlinal interpolations”—and the senseless gabble seemed to weaken.
“Where’s that fix, damn it?!!”
Pirx, keeping his eyes glued to the sighter, heard a faint clatter—McCork had run up front and shoved aside the operator; there was a sound of scuffling…
Suddenly in his earphones he heard the calm voice of the cyberneticist:
“Azimuth 39.9 … 40.0 … 40.1 … 40.2…”
“It’s moving!” Pirx realized. The turret had to be turned by crank; he nearly dislocated his arm, he cranked so hard. The numbers moved at a creep. The red line passed the 40 mark.
Suddenly the voice of the Setaur rose to a drawn-out screech and broke off. At that same moment Pirx pressed the trigger, and half a kilometer down, right at the line between light and shadow, a rock spouted fire brighter than the sun.
Through the thick gloves it was next to impossible to hold the handgrip steady. The blinding flame bored into the darkness at the bottom of the basin; a few dozen meters from the dimly glowing wreck, it stopped and, in a spray of jagged embers, cut a line sideways, twice raising columns of sparks. Something yammered in the earphones. Pirx paid no attention, just plowed on with that line of flame, so thin and so terrible, until it split into a thousand centrifugal ricochets off some stone pillar. Red swirling circles danced before him, but through their swirl he saw a bright blue eye, smaller than the head of a pin, which had opened at the very bottom of the darkness, off to the side somewhere, not where he had been shooting—and before he was able to move the handgrip of the laser, to pivot it around on its swivel, a rock right next to the machine itself exploded like a liquid sun.
“Back!” he bellowed, ducking by reflex, with the result that he no longer saw anything; but he wouldn’t have seen anything anyway, only those red, slowly fading circles, which turned now black, now golden.
The engine thundered. They were thrown with such violence that Pirx fell all the way to the bottom, then flew to the front, between the knees of the cadet and the radio operator; the cylinders, though they had tied them down securely on the armored wall, made an awful racket. They were rushing backward, in reverse, there was a horrible crunch beneath the tractor tread, they swerved, careened in the other direction, for a minute it looked like the transporter was going to flip over on its back… The driver, desperately working the gas, the brakes, the clutch, somehow brought that wild skid under control; the machine gave a long quiver and stood still.
“Do we have a seal?” shouted Pirx, picking himself up off the floor. “A good thing it’s rubber,” he managed to think.
“Intact!”
“Well, that was nice and close,” he said in an altogether different voice now, standing up and straightening his back. And added softly, not without chagrin: “Two hundredths more to the left and I would have had him.”
McCork returned to his place.
“Doctor, that was good, thank you!” called Pirx, already back at the periscope. “Hello, driver, let’s
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