Saucer: The Conquest (31 page)

The air lock to the control room was tempting, but he ignored it. He stepped over to the beam generator and inspected it carefully.

That was when he heard Charley and Egg speaking.

At least Egg wasn’t dead or injured. That simplified the problem, he told himself. He wouldn’t have to cram Egg into a space suit and carry him to the saucer.

• • •

Egg Cantrell thought the saucer looked ominous hovering stationary and motionless above the lava bed. The sun behind them gleamed off the dark surface and made it difficult to see through the canopy. Impossible, really.

Julie was on his right with her pistol in her hand, Fry Two on his left. These other people he didn’t know. Pierre hadn’t come out.

He felt terrible, hung over from the drugs they had given him to keep him sedated, and guilty because he had gotten Rip and Charley into this fix. Here they were, face-to-face with these murderous megalomaniacs.

Someone, Egg well knew, was going to die soon. He closed his eyes and prayed that it wouldn’t be Charley or his nephew Rip.

• • •

“What’s going on?” O’Reilly asked impatiently. He found the radio silence difficult to endure. He directed the question to the translator, a young woman from an Ivy League university who didn’t look the least impressed with her august company. She was chewing gum and occasionally running her fingers through her hair. She didn’t answer O’Reilly’s question, merely stared blankly at him. He resumed his nervous pacing.

The president sat behind his desk with his fingers laced across his tummy and his eyes closed. He couldn’t fool O’Reilly—the chief of staff had seen him like this numerous times when he was digging deep for tact or patience. One of the drawbacks to public life, in O’Reilly’s opinion, was the fact that politicians spent much of their time seeking votes from the ill-informed and the uninformed. Those unable to deal gracefully with fools never got into office or were soon voted out. In fact, the president had once confided to O’Reilly that he owed his political success to his ability to spend hours surrounded by idiots without biting one. O’Reilly was made of different stuff, a fact of which he was well aware. Still…

“It would be nice to know what was going on,” the chief of staff remarked to a painting on the wall.

The painting didn’t answer.

• • •

Rip Cantrell examined the beam generator closely. The panels on the base of the unit fastened with wing nuts; he quickly opened them and took a look. The major components he recognized. There was no doubt that this unit had been designed based on saucer technology.

The power cables that led into the unit were as thick as Rip’s wrist and were clearly marked: positive and negative. They were attached with clamps, which were held on with nuts. He tried to turn one of the nuts with his fingers. Nope.

There must be a toolbox around here somewhere!

He scanned the cavern—and saw it, placed against the wall.

He had it open in seconds. Found a wrench that looked about the right size.

His earphones were silent. Ominously silent. As Rip worked on the nuts he nervously eyed the door to the control room, another air lock door.

The job took two minutes. It was simple, really. He undid both clamps and reversed the wires, then tightened the nuts and replaced the panel.

He replaced the wrench in the toolbox, closed it and went into the air lock.

• • •

“Mademoiselle Pine, we are tired of waiting,” Julie Artois said firmly.

Charley estimated that she had been in position for about ten minutes. She had the antimatter reticle squarely on Julie’s chest. She was tempted. If the clown on the other side of Egg hadn’t had a gun, she would have zapped Julie then and there, splattered her all over, and told Egg to run for it.

She sighed. It wasn’t going to be that easy. Yet it wouldn’t hurt to make them sweat. She turned the saucer ever so slightly and let the reticle rest for fifteen seconds or so on the chest of each of the people with Egg. The maneuvering of the saucer was minute, but she thought they would see it.

Finally she stopped and lowered the saucer to the ground. Dust swirled up, almost obscuring her view of the people, but not quite. She waited until it settled, then opened the hatch and dropped through. She quickly scrambled out from under the saucer, then told it to lift off. It rose twenty feet in the air and stopped there.

She turned to face the reception committee.

• • •

The air lock admitted Rip to the control room. He wasted no time examining the control console but went straight to the air lock that led into the heart of the lunar base and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, checked the pressure gauge on the bulkhead and carefully removed his gloves and helmet. He sniffed. The air smelled fine. With the gloves dangling from his wrists by straps and the helmet under his left arm, he checked the position of the safety, then pointed the rifle in front of him and pushed the button to open the inner door of the lock.

The opening door revealed an empty corridor with gray rock walls, one brilliantly lit by ceiling lights every few yards. He could hear the faint strains of an orchestra, classical music, coming over the loudspeaker system.

• • •

Charley Pine left her rifle in the saucer. It would have detracted from the aura of confidence she was trying to project. She took a deep breath, then marched forward to the little group. She glanced back at the hovering saucer. As she thought it would, the sun glinting off the canopy prevented anyone from seeing inside.

She stopped a few feet in front of them, keyed the mike button on the side of her helmet and said in English, “I assume that none of you people are interesting in living out the remainder of your lives on this round rock pile. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Julie had no intention of letting Charley take charge of the conversation. “Permit me to clarify the situation, mademoiselle. Monsieur Cantrell is our hostage. We will kill him where he stands if you give us any trouble.”

“Then you’ll never leave the moon. Your choice.”

“After we kill him, we will kill you.”

“And Rip will splatter you all over this lava bed with the antimatter beam, then fly on home.”

The other people in the group stirred uneasily, glancing at each other. The ones on the edge took a step away from the group, Charley noted with satisfaction.

“Alright, Julie,” Charley continued. “Enough threats and bullshit. I have come to the moon with authorization from the president of the United States to make a deal.”

• • •

When he heard that statement, P.J. O’Reilly grunted, then turned to the president. “You didn’t—”

“Sssh!” the president hissed, holding up his hand.

O’Reilly glanced at the interpreter, who was checking her nail polish and looking bored, and held his tongue.

• • •

The lights in the corridor were very bright. It took several seconds for Rip’s eyes to adjust. He walked carefully down the corridor, pausing in front of each door to look into the rooms. He saw no one.

Well, where are they? It’s a cinch they all aren’t standing outside.

He eased along with the weapon at the ready. The com center—there was someone in there. Seated with his back to the door.

Rip walked in, making as little noise as possible, yet making some. The man didn’t turn around. He jabbed the rifle barrel in the man’s back. Still he didn’t turn around.

Rip moved off to the side. It was Pierre Artois—he recognized him from his pictures. The man had even been on the cover of Time a month or so ago.

Pierre ignored Rip. He seemed… detached… disconnected somehow.

He was unarmed, apparently. No weapons that Rip could see. He left him seated there in front of the radios and television cameras.

The entrance to the mess hall was only a few steps farther along the corridor. Rip looked in the door. The place was full of bodies!

No!

The corpses lay contorted, frozen in death, under that brilliant white light. Blood was spattered everywhere; pools of it stained the floor. Amid the gore were glittering, empty brass cartridges. Rip went from body to body, looking. Not a one of them had a weapon.

At least two dozen people had been murdered here. Men and women.

Rip felt the vomit coming up his throat and managed to choke it back. He walked on, making sure that they were indeed all dead. Not that there was much he could do if he found anyone alive.

And he did. Find one alive.

Above the classical music background he heard a man groaning. He was lying behind the food service counter and wearing a white apron stained with blood. Rip bent and turned him over. The man was hugging his stomach, and blood was oozing around his fingers.

His eyes opened, focused on Rip.

“Easy there, fella. Who shot you?”

The man took a few seconds to process it. “Who you?” he asked in heavily accented English.

“Name’s Rip.”

“Reep?”

“Yeah. Now tell me, who shot you?”

“Salmon. Henri Salmon. He got all in here, then bang bang bang… He shot me in the stomach, and laughed.”

Rip grasped the rifle and looked around the room again, checking the two open doors. “Where is he now?”

“I saw him go by… in suit. Space suit.”

“He went outside?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t come back in?”

“Not that I see. But I passed out. My stomach… the pain.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you.”

The chef thought about that as he hugged his middle. He looked down at the blood.

“Bad way to die,” the Frenchman said.

“Yes.”

“You… have a pistol?”

“No. And I’m not going to shoot you either.”

“Not for me. For him. If he comes back.”

Rip looked the dying man in the eyes and made a decision. He reached into the belly pocket of his suit and pulled out a grenade. He held it so the chef could see it. “You know what this is?”

“Oui.”

“You pull the pin. It is perfectly safe as long as you hold the lever on. After you release the lever, you have eight seconds.”

The man held out a bloody hand. Rip placed the grenade in it. He tried to think of something to say, couldn’t, rose too fast from his kneeling position and almost fell, then hopped carefully from the room, avoiding the bodies.

• • •

“So here’s the deal, Julie. A French crew will be admitted to the United States, and they will fly the spaceplane to France. It can take a fuel tank into orbit, refuel on earth, then launch for the moon. They can take you guys back to earth.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. We take Egg and leave, you get a ride home. They want you bad back there. Over two hundred people are dead in the States alone from your antigravity attacks. There are warrants in the U.S., Britain, Germany—”

“That was Pierre. He tried to minimize the loss of life.”

“Good ol’ Pierre, always thinking of others. I’ve heard that France and Germany are full of progressive thinkers who have abolished the death penalty. We’re a little more backward in the States. Still, maybe the jury will give you folks life in the can instead of frying you. Get the best lawyers money can buy, cry for the cameras, and hope for the best.”

“You certainly sugarcoat it, Pine.”

“Or you can stay up here enjoying the scenic view until the air or food runs out, the machinery breaks down, whatever. Stay forever or wait for your ride, your choice. But Egg is going with us.”

“What if we say no?”

“Then you die where you stand.”

• • •

The president grinned at P.J. O’Reilly, the same grin the secretary of state found so offensive. “That woman has style! We gotta appoint her ambassador to something.”

“If she lives,” O’Reilly said thoughtfully.

• • •

Rip Cantrell hurried through the rooms of the base looking for people while Charley laid out the options for Julie Artois. Didn’t find anyone. The two grenades that remained in his pocket were on his mind. Perhaps he could booby-trap a couple pieces of equipment. Naw.

Satisfied that the dying chef and Pierre Artois were the only living folks in the base—he looked in again at Pierre to make sure he was behaving—he went to the main air lock and stepped inside.

• • •

“You don’t seem to understand the situation,” Julie told Charley Pine. “My friends and I are leaving in the saucer. You, your friend and Monsieur Cantrell can accompany us. But we are all leaving together.”

“You don’t even have a pair of deuces, lady.”

Julie didn’t understand the poker analogy, but she correctly surmised that Charley was commenting on the weakness of her negotiating position. “I have Monsieur Cantrell,” she said confidently, “and I have you. One bullet for him, one for you. Your friend in the saucer may make it back to earth, but I promise you that you won’t. Are you ready to die, Charley Pine?”

Charley glanced upward, at a spot on the rock above the air lock door. Aim and fire, she ordered.

The place that she was staring at began to sparkle and pop. Pieces of stone flew off. Some of the chips struck the man beside Egg, and he looked around.

Smoke and dust and rock fragments poured from the stone.

Cease fire!

It took several seconds for the dust to slowly settle, revealing a hole the size of a bushel basket in the cliff.

Keeping her pistol jammed in Egg’s ribs, Julie glanced over her shoulder as the last of the rock fragments fell like snowflakes around the little party.

When she turned back to Charley, the American pilot asked, “Are you ready, Julie?”

The man on the other side of Egg tossed his pistol away. It flew for ten feet, a long, lazy arc, before it hit the lunar surface and skittered along.

“Waiting for the spaceplane sounds like a good deal to me,” he said on his helmet radio.

Julie stiffened. She looked around once, then looked at the saucer, the nose of which was tilted down and seemed to be pointing directly at her. “You win,” she said, and dropped her pistol. It fell at her feet.

“Come on, Uncle Egg.”

He walked forward toward Charley. She hooked her arm in his and walked toward the saucer. It descended slowly until the landing gear touched the ground. The hatch under it was still hanging open. Charley glanced back to ensure the Frenchmen hadn’t moved, then bent to go under the saucer to the hatch. That’s when she saw a space-suited figure with an assault rifle leveled at her approaching from behind the saucer. Where has he been hiding?