It was possible that someone had seen him wounded by the last shot. Or
did they mean his sore limb. It occurred to him then that the blood
that had run out and dried on the right side of his face must be
clearly visible. The Terran he had killed back along the corridor had
flung a small ceramic dish at him, and Gerson had been slow in raising
his injured limb to block it. The whole side of his face was sore, but
the skin of his cheek no longer bled so it was a matter of opinion
whether he was sick on that account.
The voice must mean the last wound, when it called him sick. That meant
that the Terran he had shot at was the voice or that there was another
Terran in the room with him. Gerson did not think that any of the
others could have seen. Some doubt at the back of his mind struggled to
suggest an oversight, but he knew of none.
He peered once more between the balusters, and this time he saw a
motion, a mere shadow, across the way. Instantly, he stood up and
launched a rocket at the spot. It streaked on its way and exploded
immediately against one of the uprights. Gerson regretted fleetingly
that it had not gone through and struck against the wall beyond,
which would have accounted for the skulking Terran with a good deal
of certainty. As the baluster disintegrated, leaving stubs at top and
bottom, Gerson started down the stairs.
Yells sounded from below. He threw one leg up to mount the stair
railing, leaned back along it, and let himself slide. The rocket
pistol, waving wildly at arm's length in his left hand, helped him to
balance. He reached the landing at the middle of the stairs in one
swoop.
The human at whom he had shot reappeared in the same doorway. Gerson
rolled to his left, felt both feet hit upon the landing, and let go
another missile. It was too late; the Terran had not even lingered to
fire back. It seemed almost like a feint to distract.
"_Gerson!_" blared the mechanical voice.
"Gerson! Gerson!" shouted other voices.
They came from many directions, and he was unable to comprehend them
all. He had reached a point near the bottom of the stairway, running
three steps at a time, when a louder yell directed his attention to
the doorway on his right. The figure of a Terran showed there.
Without breaking his stride, he whipped his left hand across his body
and fired a rocket. He had a glimpse of the figure dodging aside before
the smoke and dust of the explosion told him he had nicked the edge of
the doorway.
It seemed to him that he must have shot the Terran as well, and he let
his eye linger there an instant as he reached the floor of the hall.
Thus, he saw the figure reappear and was in position to fling two more
shots with animal quickness.
The figure was blown straight backward this time, but Gerson had time
to realize that there had been no head on it when it had been thrust
out.
His first shot must have done that. All told, he had wasted three
missiles on a dummy.
Then the loop of rope fell about him, and he knew why he had been lured
into facing this direction. He tried to bring the rocket pistol to
bear on the three Terrans running at him from behind the stairway. The
fourth, at the end of the rope, heaved Gerson off his feet.
He crashed down upon his sore limb, letting out a groan at the impact.
One of the runners dove headlong at him, batting at the pistol as he
slid past on the polished floor. Gerson felt the weapon knocked out of
his grasp. It rattled and scraped along the floor out of reach, but he
kicked the one who had done it in the head.
Two of the Terrans were trying to hold him down, now. He got the knife
from his mouth into his left hand, let a Terran see it, then bit him
viciously on the wrist. The Terran let go, and Gerson found it simple
to knee the remaining one in the groin. He rolled over to get a knee
under him, pushed himself up with the fist gripping the knife, and saw
Terrans running at him from all directions.
One of them had a broad, white bandage on his head. Gerson recognized
him as the medical worker. The man carried a hypodermic syringe.
Unreasoning terror swept through Gerson. He knew that he must, at all
costs, avoid that needle.
He whirled around to slash at the men coming up behind him. The nearest
fell back warily.
"Put it away, Gerson," he said. "We don't want to hurt you, man! Why,
you're half dead on your feet."
"What's the matter?" asked another, more softly. "We can see that
you're not normal. What did those bastards do to you?"
Gerson looked from side to side, seeing them closing in but unable to
spot an opening for a charge.
"Just listen to me a minute," said the medical worker. He made the
mistake of holding the hypodermic out of sight this time, too late.
"Gerson, talk to me! Say something! Whatever the trouble is, we'll help
you."
It was the only opening.
Gerson took a carefully hesitant step toward him, then another. He held
up his damaged limb.
"Yes, your wrist is broken," said the Terran. "I was going to put a
cast on it for you, remember. Now, just relax, and we'll take care of--"
He saw Gerson's eyes and leaped back.
The knife swept up in a vicious arc that would have disemboweled him.
Without wasting the motion, Gerson slashed down and left at another
as he plunged forward. The point grazed an up-flung arm, drawing a
startled curse from the victim.
"Tackle him!" shouted one of the Terrans.
"Careful! He's already hurt bad enough," cautioned another.
Gerson tried to feint and throw his weight in the opposite direction,
but his legs would not obey him. He recovered from the slip only to
have one of the men push him from behind.
Someone clamped a tight hold on his left forearm as he staggered. A
moment later they twisted the knife out of his grasp and bore him to
the floor. He kicked ineffectively and then caught one of them by
surprise with a butt.
The man recoiled, blood spurting already from his nose. He brought his
fist around despite warning yells, and clipped Gerson on the temple.
"Hold him, dammit!" shouted someone. "Get that rope over here. Do you
want to kill him? Just hold him still."
"You try it," invited one of those holding Gerson pinned.
"I think he's weakening," said another. "Watch out--he may be playing
possum."
The talk seemed to come from far away. Gerson felt them tie his ankles
together. They hesitated about his hands; one was injured. One voice
suggested tieing his left wrist to the stairway railing, but it was
decided that they could watch him well enough as long as he could not
run. The weight lessened as those pinning him arose to look to their
own bruises. Gerson was vaguely surprised to discover that all of them
were off him. He still felt as if great weight were holding him pressed
against the floor. He found it difficult to catch his breath.
They had taken the papers from his shirt, he noted. One of the Terrans
passed them to a man in a dark uniform, who began to leaf through them
worriedly.
A Terran came in through the front door.
"Have you got him?" the newcomer asked. "That helicopter is still
floating around up there. I've been watching it for half an hour with
the night glasses. They sure as hell are waiting for something."
"And there isn't anyone else in this neighborhood they could be
interested in," said a deeper voice. "Well, MacLean, what did you let
him get his hands on from your secret file?"
Gerson rolled over very quietly and started to drag himself along the
floor. He had actually moved a yard before they noticed him.
They were gentle about turning him on his back again. The discussion
about the papers was dropped while the medical worker cut his shirt
away from the bleeding wound in his side. Hushed comments were made,
but Gerson paid no attention. He was concerned with the fact that one
of the Terrans had planted a foot between his legs, above the rope
around his ankles, so that he was quite securely anchored to the spot.
"Looks like a broken rib besides," said the Terran examining him. "Do
you think we could get him upstairs?"
"I'm no doctor," said the deeper voice, "but even I can see you'd never
make it in time."
The voice came closer, though the vision in Gerson's eyes was blurring.
"Tell me, boy, what happened? How did they make you do it? What do they
want?"
"Gerson!" said the man in the dark uniform. "Did you know what you were
after when you took these papers?"
He was a dark blur to Gerson, who felt as if the weight on his chest
had been increased. His lips were dry. He thought it would be nice to
have a little water, but could not find words to ask.
The deep voice was flinging a question at the dark blur.
"Why, no, sir," said the Terran with the papers. "Nothing important at
all. Just a few old shipping lists, a record of the planetary motions
in this system that anybody could obtain, and an article on shortcuts
to learning the Yoleenite language. I think I had the batch lying
around the top of my desk."
"Why did he take them?" someone asked.
"Damned if I know. You fellows had me scared to death. From what you
said, I thought he must have pinched the deadly top secret code and my
personal address book to boot!"
"Simmons!" shouted the deeper voice. "Are you getting this? Are you
making a tape for Terra? Oh ... right out, eh? Scrambled, I hope--it's
not the kind of thing to publicize to the galaxy."
The mechanical voice boomed in the background. Gerson paid it no
attention.
He felt the doctor's hands touching the old injections and heard the
man swearing. Whoever was holding his left arm was actually squeezing
and stroking his hand. The taste of failure was in his mouth.
"That's what they must have started with," said the doctor. "In the
end, they put an awful mental twist into him, poor guy."
"I told you they were up to something," said the dark blur. "Those
little bastards had big ideas, but they won't catch us napping with any
more spies, conditioned or not! Now maybe they'll read my reports on
Terra."
Gerson opened his mouth to breath better. He rolled his head from side
to side on the hard floor. Somewhere deep inside him, a little, silent
voice was crying, frightened. He had failed and there would be no other
chance.
The little voice took leave of its fear to laugh. _They_ had not let
him remember how to read.
And so he died, a tall, battered Terran lying on a hard floor and
grinning faintly up at the men who had helped him die.