It seemed to monitor 6Y9 that an eternity had passed since she had
picked herself up from the floor of the sterile-crib nursery and found
herself alone. She could remember how she had felt at that moment--the
red blaze of fury that had danced before her eyes, the sickness at
the pit of her stomach, the waves of nausea which had made her reel
and almost fall to the floor again. She could remember all that very
clearly. But the search that she had ordered conducted through every
room in the center, that futile and fruitless search was a hazy blur in
her mind. Her emotions had been so overpowering that they had almost
blotted the details of that terrible failure from her waking mind at
least, and if she remembered them at all it would be only in dreams,
dreams from which she would awaken screaming and bathed in cold sweat.
She remembered more clearly the three faces on the lighted tele-screen,
mocking her. The hated pair had eluded her vigilance and concealed
themselves somewhere in the center until the terrible moment when they
had appeared on the screen and stirred ten thousand men and women with
their dark lies and accusations, blackening her character until she
wanted to scream and could no longer endure what they were saying about
her.
The revolt. The terrible, criminal revolt that had started in the
mating centers and was now sweeping the city, and would spread to other
cities if it were not put down immediately.
How clever they had been, how wise in their criminal depravity! They
had dared to put _that woman_ on the screen and she had spoken of
motherhood and love, as if a harlot could have any understanding of
such things.
But it was not too late. There was still time. Now, now, all would be
avenged.
The hideous flood of memories dwindled and fell away and she looked
down through the thrumming, transparent floor of the flying machine's
cockpit and let less appalling memories take complete possession of her
mind.
How quick she had been to act, to assume command, to bypass Security
Alert and the Chief Monitor and to order an aerial counter-attack!
This was surely her greatest moment, for no one could stop her now from
bombing every one of the mating centers, bombing them into smoking
heaps of rubble.
And the men and women in the streets, criminals all, she would see that
not one of them escaped.
Oh, she would make very sure. Armed rebels on foot could not hope
to escape alive when the bombs started falling. And they would find
themselves trapped in a raging inferno and the rebellion would be
crushed forever and no one would ever dare rebel again.
A firm hand on her arm caused her to turn. An aerial fleet commander
stood at her elbow, a look of deep concern in his eyes. He was a tall,
handsome-looking man, darkly bearded. He held himself very straight
and she could not help admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the
attractive curliness of his hair.
"The last machine in the line of flight has dropped four bombs," he
said. "And we have just--"
The gaunt woman straightened, cutting him short with an abrupt, angry
gesture.
"Four bombs! What are you talking about? I heard no detonations."
"The last machine is flying very low and it has fallen behind," the
commander replied, the look of concern still in his eyes. "That's why
you didn't hear the bombs explode. But that is not what I am worried
about."
The gaunt woman's stare sharpened. "Just what are you worried about?"
she demanded.
"He has dropped the bombs far wide of the targets," the commander said.
"That in itself would not be a grave cause for concern, for it would
indicate merely poor marksmanship. But he appears to have--perhaps it
was not deliberate, but--"
The commander paused, realizing that he was putting all this very
badly. But the woman before him was no ordinary Monitor and her
formidable aspect made him feel unusually nervous and ill at ease. The
news he had to convey was disturbing, and he was a little afraid of
alarming the Monitor unduly.
He coughed to clear his throat and tried again.
"He has not only dropped the bombs wide of the targets," he said. "He
has dropped them on the _wrong_ targets."
The gaunt woman stared at him for a moment in stunned disbelief. "What
are you trying to say? Have you taken leave of your senses? How could
he?"
"It is hard to explain. It's as if he had deliberately managed to miss
a target and direct the bombs to another target close by, so that you
could only accuse him of missing one target and accidentally hitting
another. But it almost seems as if more than just poor marksmanship
is involved, because every bomb destroyed an important communications
center, or administration building. Not a single bomb hit a mating
center or any of the public squares which you gave us instructions to
bomb."
The gaunt woman gripped both arms of the revolving metal chair in which
she had been sitting and descended to the metal platform which ran
the full length of the cockpit. She stood very still, transfixing the
commander with a terrible, accusing stare.
"You fool!" she cried. "You slow-witted imbecile! Of course it was
deliberate. _That man is a traitor._"
The commander had turned deathly pale. "But it doesn't make sense,"
he said, defensively. "If he is a traitor, why doesn't he leave the
squadron and bomb strategic targets without so cleverly masking his
intentions that it is difficult to charge him with treason?"
"You are a worse fool than I thought. It is to his advantage to stay
with the squadron. If he were alone in the sky he would be a perfect
target for our long-range aerial projectiles. We could bring him
down in a matter of minutes. But if he appears to be merely a bad
marksman another man who is a stupid commander will play right into his
hands. There is a dangerous traitor in the squadron and you have done
absolutely nothing about it. Do you know just what targets he bombed?"
"As I told you--all vital centers."
"How vital? Major centers?"
"No, it isn't quite that bad. But we are flying very close to the
Council building now, and that's why I thought--"
"Never mind what you thought. Are you sure he only dropped four bombs?"
The commander hesitated, gnawing at his underlip.
"Well?"
"We can't be completely sure. The atomic diffusion bombs do not
detonate and their trajectory is invisible from the air. He could have
dropped one and we would not know."
"The deadliest kind of bomb!" The gaunt woman shuddered. "The heat
destroys everything in its path. A white incandescence, hotter than the
Sun's photosphere. It burns through flesh and bone, reducing the human
body to charred ash in a matter of seconds. I would not wish such a
fate on my worst enemy."
The flying machine shuddered suddenly, as if it had flown through a
raging windstorm and was being buffeted from both sides. The cockpit
trembled throughout its entire length and the metal chair spun about on
its support so violently that if the gaunt woman had still been sitting
in it she would have been hurled with violence to the floor.
The blast which followed close on the first convulsive lurch of the
machine could be heard even from the air. The sound penetrated the
glass-enclosed cockpit and made the gaunt woman's ears ring and the red
flare which accompanied the blast was so bright that it dazzled her
eyes.
Looking down, she could see the terrible core of the explosion
beginning to expand, thinning a little as it spread outward and
enveloping the surrounding streets and buildings in a fiery glow.
"The Council Building!" the commander groaned, his voice almost a sob.
"He must have unloaded a rack of at least eight bombs."
The gaunt woman's face was a colorless mask, her lips distorted in a
grimace that drew the flesh so tightly together on both sides of her
mouth that it gave her features an almost mummy-like look. She remained
for a moment rigid, unable to move or speak, and so abnormal was her
aspect that the commander wished that he had kept silent and let
realization come to her slowly.
He was even more appalled when she reached out and fastened her hands
on his wrists. She tugged at him, drawing him toward her. She twisted
his wrists savagely and then released him with a violent shove.
"Blast him down! Order the entire squadron to attack him with
projectiles at once! They are to abandon all strategic bombing. Do you
understand? If his machine does not go spiraling down in flames within
the next five minutes you will pay for your stupidity with your life."
The commander nodded and withdrew, his throat so dry that he could no
longer swallow and his gait so unsteady that he arrived in the gunnery
compartment reeling like a drunken man.
Gradually the gaunt woman regained control of her shrieking nerves and
some of the color crept back into her face. She reseated herself in the
revolving chair and strained forward, waiting for the sky to light up
with the bright flare of projectiles and the still brighter flare of a
flame-enveloped and tailspinning flying machine.
She knew that she would not be able to see the actual destruction of
the machine, for it was the last in line and, as the commander had
informed her with his stupidity heavy upon him, flying very low. But
she would know quickly enough, for the commander would not be slow in
breaking the news when one or more of the projectiles found its mark.
She waited and as the shock and rage which she had experienced on
seeing the Council building blasted to rubble began to wear off, she
became more reconciled to what had happened. It was just possible that
the Council--all of the Council--had been within the building, summoned
into emergency session by the Chief Monitor. That was perhaps too much
to hope for, but she saw no reason to let the unlikelihood of that
darken her mood. At least half of the Council would be gone, for half
of the Council resided in the building. It greatly reduced the number
of her enemies and immeasurably enhanced her prestige.
There was the sudden, blinding flare of a projectile and she stiffened
in anticipation, her eyes darting to the empty sky immediately above
her and then sideways, hoping that the target-tagged machine with its
traitor-pilot would increase its speed in a last-minute escape maneuver
and come into view for a moment. If only she could witness the direct
hit, could see it explode in the air!
Her hopes soared until she could scarcely breathe. But the traitor did
not come into view. There was another bright projectile flare and the
second machine in the squadron came abreast of the cockpit window,
flying parallel at a distance of eighty or ninety feet.
There was something wrong with the way the second machine was flying.
It had put on a sudden burst of speed, but now it was slowing down and
wobbling from side to side.
It was unmistakably in trouble. Its cockpit seemed to sag, as if one of
the interior struts had given way or the entire structure had been half
shot away, on the side that was hidden from her.
Heavy black smoke began suddenly to spiral from the machine's middle
section, coalescing into a thick black cloud in the air above it. It
wobbled more violently from side to side and then, quite suddenly, it
was plunging downward, twisting and turning in a zigzagging tailspin as
it went spiraling toward the earth.
The gaunt woman was given no time to recover from the shock of that
totally unexpected defeat. Another machine came into view in the sky
above her and burst almost instantly into flame. Two more projectile
flares lit up the sky, turning the bright silvery sheen of a third
machine's wings to crimson as it turned completely about in the air and
plummeted downward like a wounded falcon, its tail feathers in wild
disarray.
The fourth defeat she did not see. News of it came to her through a
speaking tube, in a voice that she recognized, a voice that brought a
hot flush of anger to her cheeks.
"The squadron leader is dead. He's shot down five machines so far.
There's nothing we can do. He keeps outmaneuvering us at every turn.
There are eight or ten different ways a really brilliant pilot can hold
his own and be more than a match for a whole squadron. He knows all of
them."
The gaunt woman slammed the speaking tube down with such violence that
it abraded the flesh of her knuckles, causing her to wince in pain.
She steeled herself to endure without complaint what she feared would
be coming--the destruction of a sixth machine and a seventh. And after
that? There were only nine machines in the squadron.
It was even worse than she had imagined it might be. Two of the four
remaining machines were shot down almost simultaneously. She did not
see them fall but the two bright flares that lit up the earth far below
left no doubt as to what had happened.
Feeling a dull, hollow ache in her chest, she found herself wondering
whether the machine in which she sat, would be next, or would tragedy
overtake the only other remaining machine first?
She was not left long in doubt. A dull concussion shook the cockpit,
and she was thrown violently forward. For an instant a kaleidoscope of
changing colors seemed to spin and whirl about her. With the spinning
came a dizziness and black nausea clawed at her throat.
She dragged herself to her feet, and clung to the long metal rail on
the right side of the cockpit, staring out through a splintered surface
of glass at nothing at all.
For a moment nothing and then she saw him. She saw the machine
that had outfought and outmaneuvered an entire squadron and in the
cockpit a pilot who wore upon his chest the bright insignia of the
love-privileged.
_She saw the pilot's face._
Clearly, clearly she saw it, and he must have seen her face, for he was
staring straight at her.
It was the face, the one face above all others that she hated with
every breath she drew and would hate until she ceased to draw breath.
For one awful moment she looked into Teleman's eyes and saw Teleman's
lips move in pity.
Then she was falling. Down and down into a swirling abyss of emptiness,
falling with the broken and burning machine ... falling, falling.