"No." The ladder was beyond Birek. There was no way past him.
Loris said, in a swift harsh whisper, "Get down, MacVickers. For God's
sake get down, and then come on!"
MacVickers shook his head stubbornly. The giant smiled. There was
something horribly wrong about that smile. It was the smile of a man in
agony when he feels the anaesthetic taking hold. Peaceful, and happy.
He struck out, startlingly fast for such a big man. MacVickers shrank
aside. The fist grazed past his head, tearing his ear. He crouched and
went in, trying for a fast body-blow and a sidestep.
He'd forgotten the glimmering sheathe. His fist struck Birek on the
mark, and it was like striking glass that didn't shatter. The pain shot
up his arm, numbing, slowing, sickening. Blood spattered out from his
knuckles.
Birek's right swept in, across the side of his head.
MacVickers went down, on his right side. Birek put a foot in the small
of his back. "Down," he said. "Grovel."
MacVickers twisted under the foot, snarling. He brought up his own
feet, viciously, with all his strength. The pain of impact made him
whimper, but Birek staggered back, thrown off balance.
There was no sign of hurt in his face. He stood there, looking down at
MacVickers. Suddenly, shockingly, he was crying. He made no sound. He
didn't move. But the tears ran out of his eyes.
A deep, slow shudder shook MacVickers. He said softly, "There's no
pain, is there?"
Birek didn't speak. The tears glistened over the faint, hard film on
his cheeks. MacVickers got up slowly. The furrows were deep and harsh
in his face and his lips were white.
Loris pulled at him. Somewhere Pendleton's voice was yelling, "Hurry!
Hurry, _please_!"
* * * * *
The guards were doing something overhead. There was a faint crackling
sound, a flicker of sparks in a circle around the top of the wall.
Shivering, tingling pain swept through MacVickers from the silver
collar at his throat.
Men began to whisper and curse. Loris clawed at him, shoved him down
the ladder, kicked his face to make him hurry. The pain abated.
MacVickers looked up. The great corded legs of Birek were coming down,
the soles of the feet making a faint, hard sound on the rungs.
The hatch closed overhead. The voice of the dying Earthman came dry and
soft over his shoulder.
"Here's where you'll work until you die. How do you like it?"
MacVickers turned, scowling. It was hot. The room above was cool by
comparison. The air was thick and sluggish with the reek of heated oil
and metal. It was a big space, running clear to the curving wall, but
the effect was of stifling, cramped confinement.
Machinery crammed the place, roaring and hissing and clattering,
running in a circuit from huge intake pumps through meaningless bulking
shapes to a forced-air outlet, with oil-pumps between them.
The pumps brought mud into a broad sluice, and the blue-green stain of
it was everywhere.
There were two glassite control boxes high on the walls, each with a
black, tentacled Europan. About five feet overhead was a system of
metal catwalks giving complete coverage of the floor area. There were
Europans on the walks, too, eight of them, patrolling steadily.
Their sleek, featureless bodies were safe from contact with the mud.
They carried heavy plastic tubes in their tentacles, and there were
heavy-duty shockers mounted at every intersection.