The Far Shore of Time

She said reasonably, “Shut up, Danno.” She waited for a moment to see if the deputy director was going to say anything else. When he didn’t, she went on. “I’ve been hearing these rumors for years, Marcus. Latrine gossip. About how some nations have been cheating on the nuclear disarmament treaties, maybe stashed away a few little backpack-sized ones, just in case. Have you heard those stories, too?”

He stared at her tight-faced. Then he sighed. “Shit,” he said.

“You don’t have any idea how much trouble this is going to make.”

“More trouble than being exterminated, Marcus?” she asked politely.

He passed a hand over his face. “All right,” he said. “Let me go talk to the President.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Things went fast then. I don’t know who the President gave orders to, or what the orders were, but by the time I was back in the sub, telling Pirraghiz what she would have to do about talking to the other sub crews, the word came. A special jet from some installation in Amarillo, Texas, would be arriving in two hours with “the materiel that was requisitioned.” Nothing more specific than that, but I knew what that materiel was going to be.

While the Docs were left to rerig the sub’s comm systems so Pirraghiz would be able to talk to the crews when the time came, Hilda and I went into Beert’s room. He was making himself as comfortable as possible on the cot that had never been designed for Horch anatomy. He lifted his head languidly toward me. “Hello, Dan,” he said, his voice mournful. “I was sleeping. When I came back here I found myself thinking about our friend, the Wet One whom we sent to try to liberate his people-or, more likely, to his death. Do you suppose they have killed him yet?”

It was a good question. It reminded me, a little guiltily, that I hadn’t given the amphibian a thought since we got back to Earth, had never even learned his name. But when I was translating what Beert had said for Hilda, she broke in. “Screw your noble hippopotamus friend, Danno. Tell the Horch what we’re going to do.”

So I did. “We need your help,” I finished. “Also your robot, to operate the transit machine and find the right channels.”

He waved his neck around thoughtfully for a moment. “Do I have a choice about helping you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Do you want one?”

He considered that. Then he said, “Oh, perhaps not. Of all the things I have done for you that the Greatmother might not approve, I think blowing up a ship of the Others would be about the least. Very well. Let us get the robot, and I will instruct him in what you want done.”

The little Scarecrow submarine was more crowded than it had ever been intended to be, and it still stank. I had forgotten about the persistent scorched-fish smell of the sub. For the two surprisingly elderly men from Amarillo, sweating in their white laboratory coats, it was something they had never experienced before. They didn’t like it. They muttered to each other as they took the hatch plates off the “requisitioned materiel” and began to set their fuses. There were four of the chrome-plated beachballs, and I only hoped that the stink wasn’t making the men careless in their settings.

Marcus Pell insisted on being present, though he stayed by my side, as far away from the nukes as we could get. It wasn’t very far, and of course that kind of distance wouldn’t have helped a bit if they had accidentally triggered one of the damn things. At the transit machine Beert’s Christmas tree was methodically sorting out channels to the scout ship, with Foozh talking to it and Pirraghiz translating. “What are they saying?” Pell demanded. His collar was loose, and he looked nervous.

“The robot says there are evidently five transit machines on the scout ship.”

“Hell!” Pell groaned. “We only have four bombs.”

I didn’t respond to that. If four nukes couldn’t do the job, we were out of luck anyway. Beert drifted over, his neck pointed toward the bomb technicians. “Why are those persons so old?” he asked.

I told him, “I’ve been wondering the same thing. I guess there haven’t been any additions to the nuclear weapons staff in a while.” Which made the deputy director demand a translation of that, too.

Then the older of the techs stood up. “We’re ready. Give us the word when you want to start the operation.”

“You’re sure these things will still work?” Pell barked.

The man shrugged. “Sure as we can be,” he said. “Everything checks optimal. How about you, Deputy Director? Are you sure this machine will get them out of here right away? Because we’ve got sixty-second timers on them. It’ll take about half that to activate the fuse, pop the hatch back and set the first bomb in the machine. If they’re still here thirty seconds later, we aren’t going to know it.”

Pell swallowed and turned inquiringly to me. “Ask that thing,” he ordered, pointing to Beert.