“You’re taking him out?” Forta asked. “Better review the ley system.”
“The what?”
“I have researched it this past hour. Those ley lines are a joke, named after the old supposed lines of ancient monuments in England, Earth. Here they are merely cords used to hold walkers down to the planet, so they don’t go flying with every step. The natives do a lot of walking, as many of them don’t have cars—cars tend to fly, too, unless they have somewhat adhesive tires the way the limo did—and it’s easy enough to get about when you know how. They use the rollers.” She went to the wall, and there hung several devices that looked like antique paint rollers. She took one down. “You hook this under the line from the right, and hold it firm, and it rolls along the line and keeps you down.”
I considered that. It seemed feasible. “Why not hook in from the left?”
“This is Titania; traffic travels on the left side of the road. So you are always on the left of the line, and when you return you come in on the other side, which is still your right.”
I hefted the roller. Its operation seemed simple enough. “But how is Smilo going to use this?”
“I think he has a problem.”
“Well, he needs his exercise, so we’ll tackle that problem,” I decided. I put the suit on the tiger, noting with approval that the extremities were reinforced to be impenetrable by claws. It would be a tragedy if Smilo extended his claws to get a good grip on something, and punctured his suit and died. As it was, I suspected he would have an uncertain time.
Finally I put the helmet over his head. It was completely clear, so he could see well, and sound would be conducted by the ground, as well as a mini suit radio locked on our mutual channel. “We have to wear these to go out,” I explained, hoping he would understand enough to accept it. He did know that the outside was a region completely unlike the inside.
I donned my own suit, and the two of us used the personnel exit lock, emerging from the opposite side as the garage. There was no point in having to recompress such a large amount of air as was required for a car, when we were only two.
“Now, Smilo,” I cautioned him as we emerged. “Take it easy on the leaping; I fear you could achieve escape velocity if you really tried, and that would be awkward indeed.” I had no leash on him now; I would not be able to hold him down if he leaped anyway, and I wanted him to have the maximum freedom.
Smilo took a step-and drifted off the ground. Startled, he scrambled with all four feet, accomplishing nothing.
“Easy, I said, reaching out to catch him by a suited paw. I held on to the ley line that terminated here, anchoring myself, and drew him gently down. “Maybe if you hung on to the line—” I realized that I should have attached a safety line to him, similar to those used in space, though I wasn’t sure how he would react to this.
He took another step, but this time did not sail. He was learning. Cats have a natural sense about motion, I think, and he was a cat. I urged him to the line, showing him how firm it was; he could hook on to it with a front paw or maybe his suited tail and stay down.
I stepped out, using the roller as prescribed. It worked well. Each step tried to send me up, because I hadn’t learned to eliminate the automatic lifting component to my stride, but firm pressure on the roller and the line kept me down. There was a trick to using it; it would be easy to spin about the line if I got the leverage wrong. But I was mastering the trick.
I set off along the line, my roller rolling faster as I picked up speed. Smilo experimented, then achieved a kind of horizontal leap that had almost no lift. Soon enough he was outdistancing me, seeming to flow across the rock-ice. He was enjoying himself, and that was why I had risked this.
Before I knew it, we were far from the cottage. It was fun, zooming along the ley line with my roller buzzing; my vertical thrust was translated to horizontal thrust, provided I kept the angle right, because of the vectors. It might be likened to squeezing seeds between the thumb and forefinger: heavy pressure and small motion translates to fast motion in another direction. Leg and roller squeezed me forward at a velocity I could hardly have achieved, let alone maintained, in ordinary gee. Smilo seemed to have found similar leverage.
But a little went a long way. I did not want this to get out of hand. So after about twenty minutes I ducked under the paired lines and back toward the cottage. As I did so, I happened to glimpse the road we had arrived on—and I saw the limo parked on it, behind a bluff, out of the line of sight of the cottage. Curious; had it stalled? I might have checked, but it was off the ley line, and I didn’t quite trust myself to untethered navigation. The limo had a radio; it could call for help if it needed to. Probably the driver was simply taking a snooze between calls, out where no one would bother him.
Smilo seemed to have had enough too. He accompanied me back without protest. Soon enough we arrived back at the cottage, and entered the air lock. When the pressure equalized, I lifted back my helmet, then saw to Smilo’s. “How was it, friend?” I inquired. “Not quite like hunting in Pleistocene Earth!”
We took the lift to the disk and rejoined the girls. “Great stuff ” I exclaimed. “Ask Smilo!”
But Smilo was already settling down under the bed, suit and all. “Hey, I have to undress you!” I called, but he ignored me. Well, if he was that comfortable in the suit, it could remain for a while. I got out of mine and joined Spirit and Forta at the table, where food awaited me.
I was warm from the exertion. The plastic chair was cool, but in a few minutes it was warm. Then it was more than warm. “What’s with this furniture?” I asked. “It’s as though it’s heating by itself!”
Spirit was perplexed. “Mine, too, now that you mention it.”
Forta’s face turned grave. “And mine. Just now. I wonder—” She got off and turned to examine her chair. She put her face down and sniffed. “Uh-oh.”
“Bad plastic?” I asked.
“I could be wrong,” Forta said. “But I think we’d better get out of here in a hurry. Get into your suits.”
“A bomb?” Spirit asked, jumping up and fetching her suit. I followed suit, in two ways.
“On Mercury they developed some ugly products for antipersonnel purposes,” Forta said, scrambling into her own suit. “Not just the plastic explosive, but plastic inflammatories and plastic poison gas. Some of it is set off by a critical temperature, and is self-sustaining thereafter; some of it by a critical mass. But always bad stuff.”
Indeed, the three chairs were beginning to melt and bubble, and noxious vapors were rising from them. We clapped our helmets into place, and I dived for Smilo and hauled his own helmet on. “Move, cat!” I barked.
We crammed into the lift and dropped down to the exit. My last view of the interior of the cottage was of yellowish haze suffusing the living space. Poison, surely—that would eliminate all occupants without damaging the hardware. A very neat, quiet way to take out a roomful. Right when everyone was gathered together. Set for three chairs being used, not one or two. There might not even be any alarm. If Forta hadn’t caught on, and if Smilo hadn’t already been suited, some or all of us could been killed.
“Those chairs could have been there for months,” Spirit said on the suit radio. “If parties of one or two used this facility, they never would have been activated. But somehow I suspect—”
“They were for us,” I agreed.
We emerged on the surface. “We can walk to the next dome,” I said. “It’s easy enough, with the ley line. Follow me.” I set my roller in place and started out.
Smilo set out as before, with excellent control, seeming glad enough for another experience. Spirit and Forta were clumsy with their rollers, understandably.
I looked back at the cottage. It spun placidly, evincing no sign of any problem. “We should have sounded an alarm,” I muttered. In my haste to get Smilo ready, I hadn’t thought of that.
“I did,” Forta replied. “The bobbies should be here within fifteen minutes.”
r /> “But we should still move along,” Spirit said, her helmet turning as she looked about the landscape.
“You think they’ll have a backup?” I asked.
“If they are serious.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t be talking now,” I said. For our suit radios could be picked up at some distance.
But it was already too late. A car was coming down the road, moving swiftly. It was the limo.
Spirit looked at me without speaking. I understood her question: Was that limo coming to help in response to the alarm, or was it the assassin’s backup?
Spirit touched the side of her suit. She had a laser, of course. Strict weapon control laws kept such things out of the hands of the civilians, and the murder rate was low on Titania, but Spirit was never without hers. The bureaucrats had had to give her a special dispensation. We couldn’t fire at the limo driver without being sure—yet if we did not, and he was the enemy, we could be lost. What should we do?
It was my decision. Spirit always deferred to my authority, not because I was any better at making spot decisions than she was, but for the sake of appearances. I decided not to risk it. I made a hand signal: forward and to left and right.
They understood. We picked up speed, the two of them following me along the ley line, as the limo approached on the road. Was it able to travel off the road? Perhaps we would find out.
The limo came to the place where the road intersected the lines, near the cottage. It pulled off the road. Ice dust powdered up in a cloud as its wheels ground in. “Snow tires,” I heard Spirit murmur. Those were the kind that adhered to ice as well as to the special surface of the road.
The limo could indeed travel cross-country. That seemed to answer the question of motive. A legitimate vehicle should not have been so equipped. Or should it? Not all the cottages were on developed roads; perhaps the limo was used as an emergency vehicle. So it still could be coming to help us.
We still couldn’t risk it. We ran on along the line. I was leading, with Spirit second and then Forta. There was a line crossing ahead, and that was what we had to reach before the vehicle caught up to us. If the limo was friendly, it was a harmless misunderstanding that the bobbies could sort out; if not, we had a way to confuse it.
I reached the intersection, and continued straight on. Spirit reached it, slowed, and took off to the right. Forta went left. Now we were scattering, so that the limo could not attack more than one at a time. If it attacked one, the other two would know. The chances of it taking all three of us out before the bobbies arrived were slight. It would have to pick its primary target. If it wanted to help, it could pick up anyone; if not, it would come after me.
The limo zoomed up to the intersection, and our doubt was abolished. Not only did it come straight on after me, it took no trouble to avoid the other ley line. It ripped right through it, tearing it off its supports and snapping it. Spirit and Forta were sent sailing as the cord contracted and gave their rollers no support. Only my own line remained.
Then, realizing that it could neutralize me similarly, the limo swerved to intersect my line. In a moment this snapped, and I had lost my anchorage. I could proceed only slowly without it, while the limo retained full mobility.
I looked around desperately for some kind of cover. To the side was mountainous territory, the crags projecting vertically. Apparently there had been expansion and fracturing here, causing crystals to break off. The properties of ice at 50K are not the same as when it is near its melting point; it is as hard as any rock, and can cleave like a jewel. Even in the dim natural sunlight, those crystalline faces shone. There were surely shards like daggers, deadly to my suit. But useful as weapons, too.
I headed for the crags. But I had to move horrendously slowly, to avoid sailing into the sky. I did not want to sail, for then I would have no leverage; the limo would simply drive to my projected landing point and nab me there.
The limo didn’t bother. It headed straight for me, accelerating. It intended to mow me down!
I saw that there were crevices in the ice rock. I anchored the toe of my right foot in one. As the vehicle bore down on me, I waited until the latest feasible moment, then launched myself horizontally across the ground, diving for another crevice. The limo was unable to compensate at this range, and narrowly missed me. I grabbed for my new anchor-crevice, missed, bounced off the ice, and ricocheted up like a stone skipping across water.
For the moment I was helpless. But my trajectory was low, and the ground uneven. I was able to catch at another crevice as I glided down, and stopped myself. I turned to watch the limo, that had far overshot me.
It was braking, intending to turn and come at me again.
There was no sign of the bobbies; probably the limo could make a dozen passes before the authorities arrived, and three or four should be sufficient to flatten me or to rip a hole in my suit.
Now I saw Smilo loping in, handling the terrain much better than I did. Cat’s weren’t hunters for nothing! But he would be no match for the limo, whose pressurized cab made it an armored vehicle. “Stay clear!” I cried, knowing that Smilo would recognize my voice on his suit set.
The limo turned, reoriented, and headed for me again. Smilo was coming in too, angling to intercept the vehicle.
“No, Smilo!” I cried. “That’s not a buffalo! Your fangs will only puncture your own suit!”
Then Smilo leaped and sailed. He collided with the limo, indeed as though it were a buffalo, coming down on its bonnet. His body was so solid, and his impact so great, that the limo was shoved off course. It careered past, me, the huge cat somehow clinging to it, blinding its driver.
Luck gave me a significant break. The limo smashed into a low outcropping that ripped out a wheel and holed it. Air puffed out as it came to a halt, wrecked.
But Smilo had been riding it. The cat was hurled forward as the limo crashed, and rolled across the rock. It took some time for him to come to a stop, and when he did, there was no sign of animation. Smilo was unconscious or dead. My luck had cut both ways.
There was a stir at the limo. A lock opened, and the driver climbed out. He was suited. That was further evidence that he had come seeking trouble, for normal operations did not require suits. The limo was supposed to drive from air lock to air lock.
Now I realized that the manner it had parked nearby, but out of sight of the cottage, should have alerted me. What business did it have there? No business, it seemed, but to lurk in ambush, watching, in case the trap within the cottage was not effective.
Well, at least we were on equal footing now. The driver could not move any more efficiently afoot than I could. I could keep my distance from him until the bobbies arrived.
I was mistaken. The man walked across the land without sailing. Evidently his boots were coated with the same adhesive that kept his tires anchored. How I wished I had thought to get some of that! Yet why didn’t the natives use it?
As I watched the man walk, I realized why. He was sure but slow. The ley lines made for much faster traveling, and so the natives opted for simplicity and speed, having no need to go cross-country anyway.
But I was slow too. I tried to keep my distance for I saw the gleam of steel in his glove: a wicked needle. Here in vacuum, a long, hard needle was as deadly as a sword, for one suit puncture was all that was required for the kill.
I cast about for one of those ice slivers I had conjectured to be here, but saw none. Either the rock did not fracture in that manner, or all such slivers had been removed, perhaps by foraging youths. There was only the bare rock and the projecting crags.
The crags. Their faces looked almost sharp enough to saw through a suit. If I grabbed my opponent and shoved him against such an edge ...
But I realized that this was an unlikely scheme. Assuming it was the same driver who had brought us out here, the man was half my age and husky to boot; I could not reasonably hope to manhandle him. Of course I was trained in martial arts—but he would not have been given th
is assignment if he were not competent in combat. My best bet was to stay out of his reach, for the few remaining minutes until help came.
I made for the crags, and he made for me, but he was gaining. That spike in his hand loomed larger. If only I had a similar weapon, or even something to throw! But there was nothing.
He closed on me, and I knew I could not avoid this confrontation. So I played it as aptly as I was able. I made as if to leap out of his reach just before his extended needle reached my suit. He lunged, hoping to catch me just before I lifted. But I did not leap; I whirled and caught his extended arm instead. I twisted it into an aikido configuration, quickly relieving him of the needle; but before I could secure it for myself, he jerked around, and it flew away, beyond our recovery.
I tried to convert to a throw, hauling him across my back. In this gee, he wouldn’t go down, he would fly into the sky. But he hung on to me, and he was indeed younger and stronger than I, and reasonably versed. He executed a counterthrow, and it was effective. I sailed.
But in the struggle, he had not watched the lay of the land. I flew toward the outcropping I had been headed for, and low enough so that I did not clear it. I contorted myself around, got my feet in front, and landed against the glassy vertical face of the crag. I used this to push off toward the spot where the needle was falling.
Too late he realized what I was up to. He tromped toward the weapon, but I beat him to it and picked it up. Now I was armed and he wasn’t. “Approach, idiot,” I invited him.
I knew he heard me, for all suits are tuned to the common frequency. But he did not reply in words. He looked around and saw the police vehicle coming down the road. My rescue was at hand.
I could tell by his attitude, even masked by the suit, that he had come to a decision. His hand went to a suit pocket.
Oops! If he had an illicit laser pistol—
He did. Apparently he had decided to be hung for the whole course, knowing that he couldn’t get away anyway. He was going to take me out first, then perhaps turn the weapon on his own suit. He had nothing to lose now.