_I lay in the dark, the memory of towers and trumpets and fountains of
fire in my mind. I put up my hand, felt a coarse garment. Had I but
dreamed...? I stirred. Light blazed in a widening band above my face.
Through narrowed eyes I saw a room, a mean chamber, dusty, littered
with ill-assorted rubbish. In a wall there was a window. I went to it,
stared out upon a green sward, a path that curved downward to a white
strand. It was a strange scene, and yet----_
_A wave of vertigo swept over me, faded. I blinked, tried to remember._
_I reached up, felt something clamped over my head. I pulled it off and
it fell to the floor with a faint clatter: a broad-spectrum briefing
device, of the type used to indoctrinate unidentified citizens who had
undergone a Change unprepared...._
Suddenly, like water pouring down a drain, the picture in my mind
faded, left me standing in my old familiar junk room, with a humming in
my head and a throb in my temples. I had been about to try the briefing
gimmick, and had wondered if it would work. It had--with a vengeance.
For a minute there I had stumbled around the room like a stranger,
yearning for dear old Vallon. I could remember the feeling--but it was
gone now. I was just me, in trouble as usual.
There were a lot of tantalizing ideas floating around in my mind,
right at the edge of consciousness. Later I'd have to sit down and go
over them carefully. Right now, I had my hands full. Two armies had
me cornered, and all the guns belonged to the opposition. That part
was okay; I didn't want to fight anybody. All I wanted out of this
situation was me.
A rattle of gunfire outside brought me to the window in a jump. It
was the same view as a few moments before, but it made more sense
now. There was the still smoking wreckage of the PT boat, sunk in
ten feet of water a few yards from the end of the jetty. Somebody
must have tried to make a run for it. The Russian sub was nowhere in
sight; probably it had landed the men and backed out of danger from
any unexpected quarter. Two or three corpses lay in view, down by the
water's edge. From where I stood I couldn't say whether they were good
guys or villains.
There were more shots, coming from somewhere off to the left. It looked
like the boys were fighting it out old style: hand to hand, with small
arms. It figured; after all, what they wanted was me and all my clever
ideas intact, not a smoking ruin.
I don't know whether it was my romantic streak or my cynical one that
had made me drive the architect nuts putting secret passages in the
walls of my chateau and tunnels under the lawn, but I was glad now I
had them. There was a narrow door in the west wall of the strong-room
that gave onto a tight spiral stair. From there I could take my choice:
the boathouse, the edge of the woods behind the house, or the beach a
hundred yards north of the jetty. All I had to do was----
The house trembled a split second ahead of a terrific blast that
slammed me to the floor. I felt blood start from my nose. Head ringing,
I scrambled to my feet, groped through the dust to my escape hatch.
Somebody outside was getting impatient. It wouldn't do to have my fancy
getaway route fall in before I had used it. I felt another shell hit
the house: mortars, I guessed, or rockets. I must have slept through
the preliminaries and wakened just in time for the main bout.
My fingers were on the sensitive pressure areas that worked the
concealed door. I took a last glance around the room, where the
dust was just settling from the last blast. My eyes fell on a plain
pewter-colored cylinder lying where I had tossed it an hour before--but
now I knew what it was. In one jump I was across the room and had
grabbed it up. I remembered finding it aboard the lifeboat when I
tidied up; it had lain concealed among the bones of the man with
the bear-tooth necklace. He must have come across it, admired its
pretty colors, and tucked it away in his fur pants. And now I, with
my Vallonian memories banked in my mind, could appreciate just how
precious an object it was. It was Foster's memory. It would be only a
copy, undoubtedly; still, I couldn't leave it behind.
A blast heavier than the last one rocked the house; a big chunk of
plaster fell. It was way past time to go. Snorting and coughing from
the dust, I got back to the emergency door, went through it, and
started down.
At the bottom I paused to think it over, and the earth jumped again.
I fell back, saw the roof of the beach tunnel collapse. That left
the woods and the boathouse. I didn't have much time to decide; the
tunnels might go any second. Apparently my architect had economized
on the tunnel shorings. But then, he hadn't figured on any major wars
happening in the front yard.
The fight was going on, as near as I could judge, to the south of the
house and behind it. Probably the woods were full of skirmishers,
taking advantage of the cover. The best bet was the boathouse, direct.
I'd have preferred to wait until dark, but the idea didn't seem
practical under the circumstances. I took a deep breath and started
into the tunnel. With a little luck I'd find my boat intact. I would
have to pull out under the noses of the combatants, but maybe the
element of surprise would give me a few hundred yards' start. I had
enough horses to beat anything afloat to the mainland--if I could make
a clean break.
The tunnel was dark but that didn't bother me. It ran dead straight
to the boathouse. I came to the wooden slat door and stood for a
moment, listening; everything was quiet. I eased it open and stepped
on to the ramp inside the building. In the gloom polished mahogany and
chrome-work threw back muted highlights. I circled, slipped the mooring
rope, and was about to step into the cockpit when I heard the bolt of
a rifle smack home. I whirled, threw myself flat. The deafening _bam!_
of a .30 calibre fired at close quarters laid a pattern of fine ripples
on the black water. I rolled, hit with a splash that drowned a second
shot, and dove deep. Three strokes took me under the door, out into the
green gloom of open water. I hugged the yellowish sand of the bottom,
angled off to the right, and kept going.
I had to get out of my jacket, and somehow I managed it, almost without
losing a stroke. And there went all the goodies I'd stashed away in
the pockets, down to the bottom of the drink. I still had Foster's
memory-trace; it was in my slacks and there wasn't time to get out of
them nor to kick off my tennis shoes. Ten strokes, fifteen, twenty. I
knew my limit: twenty-five good strokes on a full load of air; but I
had dived in a hurry....
Twenty-five ... and another ... and one more. And up above a man was
waiting, rifle aimed, for my head to break the surface.
Thirty strokes, and here I come, ready or not. I rolled on my back, got
my face above the surface. I got half a gulp of fresh air before the
shot slapped spray into my face and echoed off across the water. I sank
like a stone, kicked off, and made another twenty-five yards before I
had to come up. The rifleman was faster this time. The bullet crossed
my shoulder like a hot iron, and I was under water again. My kick-work
was weak now; the strength was draining from my arms fast. I had to
have air--but I could almost feel the solid smack of a steel-jacketed
bullet against my skull. I had to keep going. My chest was on fire and
there was a whirling blackness all around me. I felt consciousness
fading, but maybe just one more stroke....
* * * * *
_As from a distance I observed the clumsy efforts of the swimmer,
watched the flounderings of the poor, untrained creature...._
_It was apparent that an override of the autonomic system was required.
With dispatch I activated cortical area omicron, re-routed the blood
supply, drew an emergency oxygen source from stored fats, diverting the
necessary energy to break the molecular bonds._
_Now, with the body drawing on internal sources, ample for six hundred
seconds at maximum demand, I stimulated areas upsilon and mu. I
channeled full survival-level energy to the muscle complexes involved,
increased power output to full skeletal tolerance, eliminated waste
motion._
_The body drove through the water with the fluid grace of a
sea-denizen...._
* * * * *
I floated on my back, breathing in great surges of cool air and
blinking at the crimson sky. I had been under water, a few yards from
shore, drowning. Then there was an awareness, like a voice, telling me
what to do. From out of the mass of Vallionan knowledge I had acquired,
I had drawn what I needed. And now I was here, half a mile from the
beach, winded but intact. But there was no time now to wonder at
miracles....
I raised my head and glanced toward the house. A column of smoke rose
from a gaping cavity where the bedroom windows used to be. A man jumped
up, darted across the lawn, fell. I heard a shot a few seconds later,
floating lazily across the still sunset water. There was no visible
activity at the water's edge; the rifleman was gone. He probably
thought he'd finished me, especially if he had noticed blood in the
water.
I thought about sharks. I hadn't heard of any in this neighborhood, but
a little blood was just the thing to bait them in. I twisted, got a
look at the throbbing burn across my left shoulder where the rifleman's
bullet had grazed; it was nothing much, just a skin gouge. It didn't
seem to be bleeding. If it had been, there wasn't much I could do about
it. It was no time for worrying. I had to keep my mind on the problem
of getting to the mainland. It was a fifteen-mile swim, but if the boys
on shore could keep each other occupied, I ought to be able to make
it. I thought again about pulling off my pants and shoes but decided
against it; I'd be in awkward shape without them--if I made it.
I felt beat: as though I hadn't eaten all day--which wasn't too
strange, because I hadn't. Well, at least I wouldn't get stomach cramps
while circling the island. From there I'd strike out for shore. And the
first thing I would do when I got out of this would be to order the
biggest, rarest steak in South America.
I took a last look toward the house. I could see fire inside it now. I
guessed each side was rationalizing the destruction as denial to the
enemy. It had been a nice place and I'd miss it. Some day somebody was
going to pay for it.