He didn't move or acknowledge.
Soth flipped him aside with a twist of his ankle and brushed past me
into the living room, where he took up an immobile stance again before
the video. He stared unblinkingly at the 40-inch screen.
"It's too bad," I said.
He didn't answer, but he moved his head slightly so that his parabolic
ear could catch the sound of my movements.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
For minutes we stood transfixed by the magnitude of the mob action
around the entrance to the Willow Run plant. The portable video
transmitter was atop a truck parked on the outskirts of the mob.
Thousands of people were milling around, and over the excited voice of
the announcer came hysterical screams.
Even as we watched, more people thronged into the scene, and it was
evident that the flimsy cordon of soldiers and troopers could not hold
the line for long.
Army trucks with million-candlepower searchlights held the insane
figures somewhat at bay by tilting their hot, blinding beams down into
the human masses and threatening them with tear gas and hack guns.
The workers were out for blood. Not content with restricting Soths to
non-union labor, now they were screaming their jealous hearts out for
these new symbols of class distinction to be destroyed. Of course, their
beef was more against the professional-managerial human classes who
could afford a surface car, an airboat _and a Soth_. The two so-called
crimes and the trial publicity had triggered a sociological time bomb
that might have endured for years without detonating--but it was here,
now, upon us. And my own sweat trickling into my eyes stung me to a
realization of my personal problem.
I wiped my eyes clear with my knuckles--and at that instant the video
screen flashed with a series of concentric halos.
The operator, apparently, was so startled he forgot to turn down the
gain on the transmitter. When he finally did, we saw that brilliant
flares were emitting from the roof of the plant.
Then great audio amplifiers from the plant set up an ear-splitting
_sisssssle_ that again over-loaded the transmitting circuits for a
moment. When the compensators cut down the volume, both Ollie and Soth
leaned forward intently and listened to the frying sound that buzzed
from the speaker.
Those inside the plant were communicating a message to the outside, well
knowing that it would reach the whole world. After a moment, the hissing
stopped.
And from a myriad of openings in the plant streamed an army of Soths
with flaming weapons in their hands.
The flames were directed first at the armed forces who were guarding the
plant from attack. The thin line of soldiers fell instantly. The crowd
surged blindly forward, and then, as those in the front ranks saw what
had happened, began to dissolve and stampede. The screams became
terrified. The flames grew brighter.
And the picture winked out and the sound went dead. A standby pattern
lighted the screen, and I stared at it numbly.
* * * * *
It was too late to run for my hunting rifle now, and I cursed my
stupidity even as Soth turned upon me. I grabbed the sniveling little
Ollie and held him between us with my hands around his neck. He hung
there limply, hissing wildly through a larynx that vibrated under my
fingers, his hands stretched imploringly to Soth.
[Illustration]
Soth stared at me and issued his first order.
"Release him," he said. His voice was several notes higher than his
usual monotone--the voice of command.