"Get back, Bayard," Bale snarled. "Rotten luck, that; I needed the
swine alive for hanging." I stood up slowly. He stared at me, gnawing
his lip. "It was you I wanted dead; and this fool traded lives with
you."
He seemed to be talking to himself. I recognized the voice now, a
little late. Bale was the Big Boss. It was the fact that he spoke in
French here that had fooled me.
"All right," he said in abrupt decision. "He can trade deaths with you
too. You'll do to hang in his place. I'll give the mob their circus.
You wanted to take his place, here's your chance."
He stepped farther into the room, motioned others in. Evil-looking
thugs came through the door, peering about, glancing at Bale for orders.
"Put him in a cell," Bale said. "And I'm warning you, Cassu, keep your
bloody hands off him. I want him strong for the surgeon."
Cassu grunted, twisted my arm until the joint creaked, and pushed me
past the dead body of the man I had come in one night to think of as a
brother.
They marched me off down the corridor, pushed me into an elevator, led
me out again through a mob of noisy toughs armed to the teeth, down
stone stairs, along a damp tunnel in the rock, and at the end of the
line, sent me spinning with a kick into the pitch black of a cell.
My stunned mind worked, trying to assimilate what had happened. Bale!
And not a double; he had known who I was. It was Bale of the Imperium,
a traitor. That answered a lot of questions. It explained the perfect
timing and placement of the attack at the palace, and why Bale had been
too busy to attend the gala affair that night. I realized now why he
had sought me out afterward; he was hoping that I'd been killed, of
course. That would have simplified matters for him. And the duel--I
had never quite been able to understand why the Intelligence chief had
been willing to risk killing me, when I was essential to the scheme
for controlling the dictator. And all the lies about the viciousness
of the Bayard of B-I Two were Bale's fabrications designed to prevent
establishment of friendly relations between the Imperium and this
unhappy world.
Why? I asked myself. Did Bale plan to rule this hell-world himself,
making it his private domain? It seemed so.
And I saw that Bale did not intend to content himself with this world
alone; this would be merely a base of operations, a source of fighting
men and weapons--including atomic bombs. Bale himself was the author
of the raids on the Imperium. He had stolen shuttles, or components
thereof, and had manned them here in B-I Two, and set out on a career
of piracy. The next step would be the assault on the Imperium itself, a
full-scale attack, strewing atomic death. The men of the Imperium would
wear gay uniforms and dress sabres into battle against atomic cannon.
I wondered why I hadn't realized it sooner. The fantastic unlikeliness
of the development of the MC drive independently by the war-ruined
world of B-I Two seemed obvious now.
While we had sat in solemn conference, planning moves against the
raiders, their prime mover had sat with us. No wonder an enemy scout
had lain in wait for me as I came in on my mission.
When he found me at the hideout, Bale must have immediately set to work
planning how best to make use of the unexpected stroke of luck. And
when I had escaped, he had had to move fast.
I could only assume that the State was now in his hands; that a show
execution of Bayard in the morning had been scheduled to impress the
populace with the reality of the change in regimes.
Now I would hang in the dictator's place. And I remembered what Bale
had said: he wanted me strong for the surgeon. The wash tub would be
useful after all. There were enough who knew the dictator's secret to
make a corpse with legs embarrassing.
They would shoot me full of dope, perform the operation, bind up the
stumps, dress my unconscious body in a uniform and hang me. A dead body
wouldn't fool the public. They would be able to see the color of life
in my face, even if I were still out, as the noose tightened.
I heard someone coming, and saw a bobbing light in the passage through
the barred opening in the door. I braced myself. Maybe this was the man
with the saws and the heavy snippers already.
Two men stopped at the cell door, opened it, came in. I squinted at the
glare of the flashlight. One of the two dropped something on the floor.
"Put it on," he said. "The boss said he wanted you should wear this
here for the hanging."
I saw my old costume, the one I had washed. At least it was clean, I
thought. It was strange, I considered, how inconsequentials still had
importance.
A foot nudged me. "Put it on, like I said."
"Yeah," I said. I took off the robe and pulled on the light wool jacket
and trousers, buckled the belt. There were no shoes; I guessed Bale
figured I wouldn't be needing them.
"OK," the man said. "Let's go, Hiem."
I sat and listened as the door clanked again; the light receded. It was
very dark.
I fingered the torn lapels of my jacket. The communicator hadn't helped
me much. I could feel the broken wires, tiny filaments projecting from
the cut edge of the cloth. Beau Joe had cursed as he slashed at them!
I looked down. Tiny blue sparks jumped against the utter black as the
wires touched.
I sat perfectly still. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I didn't dare
move; the pain of hope awakening against all hope was worse than the
blank acceptance of certain death.
My hands shook. I fumbled for the wires, tapped them together. A spark;
another.
I tried to think. The communicator was clipped to my belt still; the
speaker and mike were gone but the power source was there. Was there a
possibility that touching the wires together would transmit a signal? I
didn't know. I could only try.
I didn't know Morse Code, or any other code; but I knew S.O.S. Three
dots, three dashes, three dots. Over and over, while I suffered the
agony of hope.
A long time passed. I tapped the wires, and waited. I almost fell off
the bunk as I dozed for an instant. I couldn't stop; I had to try until
time ran out for me.
I heard them coming from far off, the first faint grate of leather on
dusty stone, a clink of metal. My mouth was dry, and my legs began to
tingle. I thought of the hollow tooth and ran my tongue over it. The
time for it had come. I wondered how it would taste, if it would be
painful. I wondered if Bale had forgotten it, or if he hadn't known.
There were more sounds in the passage now, sounds of men and loud
voices; a clank of something heavy, a ponderous grinding. They must be
planning on setting the table up here in the cell, I thought. I went to
the tiny opening in the door and looked through. I could see nothing
but almost total darkness. Suddenly light flared brilliantly, and I
jumped, blinded.
There was more noise, then someone yelled. They must be having a hell
of a time getting the stuff through the narrow hall, I thought. My
eyeballs ached, my legs were trembling, my stomach suddenly felt bad.
I gagged. I hoped I wouldn't go to pieces. Time for the tooth now. I
thought of how disappointed Bale would be when he found me dead in my
cell. It helped a little; but still I hesitated. I didn't want to die.
I had a lot of living I wanted to do first.
Then someone called out, nearby.
"Wolfhound!"
My head came up. My code name. I tried to shout, choked. "Yes," I
croaked. I jumped to the bars, yelled.
"Wolfhound, where in hell...."
"Here!" I yelled. "Here!"
"Get back, Colonel," someone said. "Get in the corner and cover up."
I moved back and crouched, arms over my head. There was a sharp
hissing sound, and a mighty blast that jarred the floor under me. Tiny
particles bit and stung, and grit was in my mouth. With a drawn-out
clang, the door fell into the room.
Arms grabbed me, pulled me through the boiling dust, out into the
glare. I stumbled, felt broken things underfoot.
Men milled around a mass blocking the passage. Canted against the
wall a great box sat with a door hanging wide, light streaming out.
Arms helped me through the door, and I saw wires, coils, junction
boxes, stapled to bare new wood, with angle-irons here and there.
White-uniformed men crowded into the tiny space; a limp figure was
hauled through the door.
"Full count," someone yelled. "Button up!" Wood splintered as a bullet
came through.
The door banged shut, and the box trembled while a rumble built up into
a whine, then passed on up out of audibility.
Someone grabbed my arm. "My God, Brion, you must have had a terrible
time of it."
It was Richthofen, in a grey uniform, a cut on his face, staring at me.
"No hard feelings," I said. "Your timing ... was good."
"We've had a monitor on your band day and night, hoping for something,"
he said. "We'd given you up, but couldn't bring ourselves to abandon
hope; then four hours ago the tapping started coming through. They went
after it with locators, and fixed it here in the wine cellars.
"The patrol scouts couldn't get in here; no room. We pitched this box
together and came in."
"Fast work," I said. I thought of the trip through the dreaded Blight,
in a jury-rig made of pine boards. I felt a certain pride in the men of
the Imperium.
"Make a place for Colonel Bayard, men," someone said. A space was
cleared on the floor, jackets laid out on it. Richthofen was holding
me up and I made a mighty effort, got to the pallet and collapsed.
Richthofen said something but I didn't hear it. I wondered what had
held the meat cutters up so long, and then let it go. I had to say
something, warn them. I couldn't remember....