The Far Shore of Time

Kofeeshtetch gave her an angry look. “It is very foolish to make trivial changes in a battle plan just before the engagement,” he complained.

“But it would be better that way,” Beert said, his tone placating. “Perhaps my robot could go with the second wave of fighting machines, then us, then-“

“No, Djabeertapritch,” Pirraghiz said firmly. “I will go before you. We do not know what the conditions will be when we arrive.”

Kofeeshtetch looked at Beert, who nodded agreement then gave up. “All right,” he said. “Now, if you’re ready? First wave! Go!”

It was the quietest beginning of a battle I can imagine. The first two fighters entered the machine, the door closed; it opened again; the second wave entered with Beert’s Christmas tree. It closed.

As Pirraghiz was going into the machine I checked my twenty-shots, one in each hand. Then I remembered something. “Oh, Kofeeshtetch! You were going to tell me what this installation was for.”

He blinked his little snake eyes at me, his mind clearly changing gears. He threw a look at the transit machine, already yawning open for Beert and me. “You are upsetting the timetable,” he said pettishly. “Why, the installation is for the Eschaton, of course. Now go!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

It was peaceful when we got into the transit machine. It wasn’t when we got out. Whatever we had arrived in-a chamber the size of an eighteen-wheeler truck, metal walls filled with displays and gadgets-it stank. Partly it smelled of scorched protein, like an ancient fish-and-chips store after a long, busy winter night, when nobody had cared to open a window. Partly it smelled of seared metal and destruction. It looked that way, too. The fighting seemed to be over, though most of our first-wave fighting machines had already become sizzling junk. In the first quick glance I saw an unfamiliar Doc, with a copper blanket over his head-I recognized my goodies bag-a distraught Dopey perched at one end of the chamber and a couple of dead Beloved Leader warrior-Bashfuls. The place was suffocatingly hot. And it was noisier than I would have believed.

Most of the noise didn’t come from the crackling metal or the whimpering Dopey perched at one end of the compartment as he gazed with horror at the Horch, Beert. The deafening part came from my friend Pirraghiz. Bafflingly, she was shrieking at the top of her lungs, a long, meowing garble in her own impenetrable language. She sounded either terrified or in pain. I swore to myself in alarm and staggered toward her in the sudden Earth gravity, looking for the wound that was causing her such agony. There didn’t seem to be any. Still screaming, she shook me off, at the same time gesturing to the strange Doc with the copper blanket over his head. I had no idea what she wanted from him, but after a moment he did. Wounded as he was-one of his lesser arms was terribly burned-he limped over to the control boards and quickly played his clawed hands over the colored dots.

When the Doc said something to Pirraghiz she stopped screaming at once and gave him a quick hug of greeting. Then she bent to examine his burned arm and tsk-tsked over it-in her case it was actually a sort of bup-bup sound-before she turned to me. “Wrahrrgherfoozh”-I think that’s what she said the Doc’s name was-“needs attention! I fear he may lose that arm! I must try to help him!”

“Well, sure,” I said, “but what was all the screaming about?”

Pirraghiz was already delicately probing the skin around the Doc’s-well, shoulder; at least, around the little bony bump where his burned lesser arm joined his torso. Her full attention was on his injuries, and she didn’t look up. “I didn’t want the Others to know what was happening,” she said, still gently working away on him. “So as soon as the machines and I got him neutralized with the mesh, I turned off the scrambler and began to scream-yelling that there were explosions, water was coming in, all that sort of thing. My intention was to make the Others believe we had some kind of a terrible accident,” she explained. “Then, as you saw, we turned off the communicator and the transit machine. Is that all right?”

It was a hell of a lot better than all right. I wished I had thought of it myself. What I said was an inadequate, “Thank you.”

She spared me a quick glance. “Yes. But, Dannerman, what do we do now?”

That was what I needed to figure out.

It was great to be back on Earth again, but I was still a long way from Arlington.