the locals were gathered there around the APC, some of them holding or
wearing swords or other weapons, primitive but deadly. Woods was leaning over
the .50 cupola chatting amiably with two young girls who were giggling shyly
and blushing.
The sergeant
barked his name and Woods’ gaze came to him. The driver assessed the situation
and reacted instantly. Traversing and depressing the machine gun, he brought it
to bear on the crowd to Gil’s left, calling to Olivier as he did. Olivier,
already behind his gun, covered the group to the track commander’s right.
Pomorski popped his head up through the cargo hatch, cursed and ducked back
down to open the rear hatch.
“Tell your
friends,” Gil grated to his captive, “to stay away from Lobo. We’re
going in.”
Van Duyn did
so, and the twenty or so Erubites moved away from the track and permitted Gil
to drag his unwilling guest to it. The rear of the boxlike APC was designed to
be lowered by winch cable to serve as a ramp. There was a smaller hatch set
into it, and it was this that Pomorski unlatched. Gil thrust Van Duyn through
headfirst and the grenadier caught the dazed man up effortlessly and slammed
him into one of the two interior benches set along the walls, covering him
casually with the submachine gun.
Gil confronted
the crowd outside, pistol in hand. “We’re not going to hurt him,” he said. “We
just want him to tell us a few things.”
The people
looked at one another doubtfully. At last a man stepped forward and said, “You
may rest assured that if you give hurt to our teacher, we will try as best we
can to kill you, and in any case you’ll have the wrath of the sorceress
Gabrielle deCourteney and her brother to contend with.”
Sorceress?
Rather than
bandy words, Gil backed to the rear hatch and slid through it. Pomorski was
sitting in the bench opposite Van Duyn, very relaxed. When it hit the fan, the
sergeant reflected, the spec-four never balked or asked dumb questions. Demands
of violence pushed aside all rivalry and debate.
“What’s the
problem?” Pomorski asked mildly.
Gil sat down,
trading off the .45 for Shorty. “This dude and the redheaded babe and one or
two others are the ones who got us here, I think—I don’t know how yet—with the
idea of making us do something or other for them. Your man here got nasty about
explaining details and got kind of, you know, high-strung, so I invited him
over for some Nine-Mob hospitality. I don’t think the adoring public outside
will give us any trouble for the time being, as long as this one’s not messed
up too much.” He thought for a moment. “Al?”
“Yeah, Mac?”
answered Woods from the cupola.
“Are the gates
locked? If so, d’you think we could bust out of this brick barn?”
“The gates are
barred, Mac. We might be able to crash through, but it seems to me we’d come
down hard on that old bridge; might go right through it into the ditch outside.
I don’t know that we could climb out again.”
The sergeant
bit his lip. Van Duyn was sitting up, watching them and listening to the
interplay. Gil glared at him for a second, ready to speak, but Van Duyn began
first.
“MacDonald, I
appear to have misjudged you seriously, at least as far as temper and
tractability go. Rather than lose all chance of your cooperation, I’m prepared
to try to explain to you all that I can. I warn you though; it won’t be easy to
accept or, for that matter, to express.”
Pomorski
snorted, and said, “A while ago a Dink with a rocket launcher was going to
smoke us, had us dead to rights. Then we roll through a gray fog bank and we’re
in Fantasyland. I’ll be real surprised if the explanation is anything but loony.”
Van Duyn
considered this. “Quite so,” he decided. “Very well, I’ll ask you not to
interrupt until I’ve finished, and kindly to suspend your doubts for the
duration of my story. If you find yourselves outraged from a commonsense
standpoint, I suggest that you examine
wearing swords or other weapons, primitive but deadly. Woods was leaning over
the .50 cupola chatting amiably with two young girls who were giggling shyly
and blushing.
The sergeant
barked his name and Woods’ gaze came to him. The driver assessed the situation
and reacted instantly. Traversing and depressing the machine gun, he brought it
to bear on the crowd to Gil’s left, calling to Olivier as he did. Olivier,
already behind his gun, covered the group to the track commander’s right.
Pomorski popped his head up through the cargo hatch, cursed and ducked back
down to open the rear hatch.
“Tell your
friends,” Gil grated to his captive, “to stay away from Lobo. We’re
going in.”
Van Duyn did
so, and the twenty or so Erubites moved away from the track and permitted Gil
to drag his unwilling guest to it. The rear of the boxlike APC was designed to
be lowered by winch cable to serve as a ramp. There was a smaller hatch set
into it, and it was this that Pomorski unlatched. Gil thrust Van Duyn through
headfirst and the grenadier caught the dazed man up effortlessly and slammed
him into one of the two interior benches set along the walls, covering him
casually with the submachine gun.
Gil confronted
the crowd outside, pistol in hand. “We’re not going to hurt him,” he said. “We
just want him to tell us a few things.”
The people
looked at one another doubtfully. At last a man stepped forward and said, “You
may rest assured that if you give hurt to our teacher, we will try as best we
can to kill you, and in any case you’ll have the wrath of the sorceress
Gabrielle deCourteney and her brother to contend with.”
Sorceress?
Rather than
bandy words, Gil backed to the rear hatch and slid through it. Pomorski was
sitting in the bench opposite Van Duyn, very relaxed. When it hit the fan, the
sergeant reflected, the spec-four never balked or asked dumb questions. Demands
of violence pushed aside all rivalry and debate.
“What’s the
problem?” Pomorski asked mildly.
Gil sat down,
trading off the .45 for Shorty. “This dude and the redheaded babe and one or
two others are the ones who got us here, I think—I don’t know how yet—with the
idea of making us do something or other for them. Your man here got nasty about
explaining details and got kind of, you know, high-strung, so I invited him
over for some Nine-Mob hospitality. I don’t think the adoring public outside
will give us any trouble for the time being, as long as this one’s not messed
up too much.” He thought for a moment. “Al?”
“Yeah, Mac?”
answered Woods from the cupola.
“Are the gates
locked? If so, d’you think we could bust out of this brick barn?”
“The gates are
barred, Mac. We might be able to crash through, but it seems to me we’d come
down hard on that old bridge; might go right through it into the ditch outside.
I don’t know that we could climb out again.”
The sergeant
bit his lip. Van Duyn was sitting up, watching them and listening to the
interplay. Gil glared at him for a second, ready to speak, but Van Duyn began
first.
“MacDonald, I
appear to have misjudged you seriously, at least as far as temper and
tractability go. Rather than lose all chance of your cooperation, I’m prepared
to try to explain to you all that I can. I warn you though; it won’t be easy to
accept or, for that matter, to express.”
Pomorski
snorted, and said, “A while ago a Dink with a rocket launcher was going to
smoke us, had us dead to rights. Then we roll through a gray fog bank and we’re
in Fantasyland. I’ll be real surprised if the explanation is anything but loony.”
Van Duyn
considered this. “Quite so,” he decided. “Very well, I’ll ask you not to
interrupt until I’ve finished, and kindly to suspend your doubts for the
duration of my story. If you find yourselves outraged from a commonsense
standpoint, I suggest that you examine
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