The Wanderer

“Yes, and we don’t know where the body was buried beforehand, either,” Doc added zestfully. “Though some of us have notions about a cemetery in hyperspace.”

Hunter kicked him surreptitiously. ” ‘Wanderer’ is simply a name we gave it because it means ‘planet’,” he interposed soothingly to the major.

“Wanderer will do well enough, though the true name be Ispan.” The Ramrod’s voice boomed out hollowly from where his angular face, eye sockets and cheeks deep-shadowed, rose over Beardy’s shoulder. He added: “Belike the imperial sages have but now touched down in Washington.”

Major Humphreys’ shoulders contracted as if he’d been stung between them. He said curtly: “I see.” Then, to Paul: “Come on through. And Miss Gelhorn — without that cat.”

“You mean you’re turning these people away?” Paul demanded. “After I vouch for them? And one of them deathly ill?”

“Professor Opperly will have something to say about your behavior, Major, I’m sure,” Margo put in sharply.

“Where is this heart case?” Major Humphreys demanded, his knee starting to jump as the guard’s had.

Paul looked around for the cot, but just then Wanda pushed her considerable bulk forward between Hunter and Rama Joan. “I’m she,” she announced importantly.

Doc groaned again. Wojtowicz looked at the fat woman reproachfully, rubbing the shoulder that had taken the strain on the cot corner.

Major Humphreys snorted. “Come on — the two of you, alone,” he said to Paul, and turned back toward the jeep.

Hunter muttered to Margo: “Better take him up on it before he changes his mind. It’s the best thing for you and Paul.”

“Without Miaow?” Margo said.

“We’ll take care of her for you,” Ann volunteered.

That last did something to Paul’s churning uncertainties. It might be the sheerest sentimentality to let the last straws of a cat and a child’s unthinking generosity weigh down the balance. But: “I’m not coming!” he heard himself shout.

In a voice that tried not to be waspish, Major Humphreys called back: “Don’t be melodramatic, Paul. You haven’t the choice. You can’t desert the Project.”

Margo’s free arm went around Paul and tightened encouragingly. Doc muttered in his ear: “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Paul shouted: “The hell I can’t!”

Major Humphreys shrugged and got into the jeep. The guard shut the tower door behind him and moved out toward the twelve standing in front of the gate. “Get moving, you people,” he said edgily, wagging the muzzle of his gun. A heavy wire looped behind him from his left hand — the controls of his jump rockets.

Except for the Little Man, everyone stepped back from the gun — even Ragnarok, for the Little Man had dropped the leash as he stared through the fence in scandalized amazement.

“Major!” the Little Man called. “Your conduct is outrageous and inhumane, and I’ll see to it that my opinion goes on record! I’ll have you know that I’m a taxpayer, sir. My money supports installations like Vandenberg Two and pays the salaries of public servants like yourself whether they’re in uniform or not, and no matter how much brass there is on that uniform! You will please reconsider—”

The guard moved toward him. It was clear he wanted this whole problem out of sight before he was alone again. He grated: “Shut up, you, and get moving!” And he lightly prodded the Little Man in the side with the muzzle of his gun.

With a growl like clockwork going out of control, Ragnarok shot from behind the group, leash flirting behind him, and launched himself at the guard’s throat.

The guard’s jump rockets blossomed — as if he had grown a second pair of legs, bright orange — and he lifted into the air, up and back. As he did so, he gave a remarkable demonstration of accurate shooting on the rise, sending four slugs crashing into his attacker. The big German police dog flattened and never moved again.

The group started to run, then stopped.

The guard sailed over the fence and dropped inside, his rockets blossoming briefly to cushion his landing.

The Little Man dropped to his knees beside the body of his dog. “Ragnarok?” He paused, uncertain. Then, “Why, he’s dead,” and his voice was full of bewilderment.

Wojtowicz picked up the aluminum cot and ran forward with it.

“It’s too late for anything,” the Little Man murmured.

“You can’t leave him here,” said Wojtowicz.

They heaved the dead dog onto the cot. The Wanderer was more than bright enough to show the color of blood.

Margo gave Miaow to Paul and took off her jacket and laid it over Ragnarok. The Little Man nodded to her dumbly.

Then the little cortege moved off the way it had come, through the twilight that was flecked with purple and gold.

Young Harry McHeath pointed up over the sea. “Look,” he said. “There’s a white sliver. The moon’s coming out from behind the Wanderer.”

Donald Merriam shivered as he saw the faint black threads joining the nose of the moon to the top of the Wanderer turn bone white — making them suddenly easy to see and more suggestive than ever of a spiderweb.