To The Stars

Jan bent and picked up Alzbeta gently, bending his face to hers, afraid of what he would find. More afraid not to know. There was blood, dark on her pale skin. Her breath slow, but regular.

He carried her carefully to the nearest car and took her inside, putting her down gently on the filthy rug.

“Where are you?” a voice called out. “What has happened.”

It was Tsiturides, bent over the men on the ground. He straightened up from Ritterspach, his face shocked. “That other one is unconscious. This one’s dead.”

“All right then, there’s nothing you can do for him. Alzbeta is in here, struck by that pig. Take care of her.”

The doctor pushed by and Jan watched while he opened his bag at her side. There were more running footsteps. Jan closed the door and looked at it, then took the keys from his belt and locked it.

“The fun’s over,” he said, turning to the men as they came up. “They jumped me and I took care of them. Now let us roll these trains before there are any more difficulties.”

It was a stupid, impulsive thing to do. But it was done. He had tried to do it by law, by asking The Hradil, by suffering the indignities of her rejection. Now he would do it his own way. There would be no going back from this either.

Buffers clanked together, the cars moved slowly at first, then faster and faster. Jan turned and ran toward his tank, waiting impatiently until the train had rumbled by, then hurrying over almost under the wheels of the next engine.

“Let’s go,” he said, closing the hatch behind him. “Move out ahead of the trains.”

“And about time,” Otakar said, gunning the engine.

Jan did not relax until the Central Way changed into the rock surface of the Road, until the warehouses had grown small and vanished behind the last car of the train. Then the fence posts were gone as well and the last of the farms and he still kept watching the monitor screen. They could not be followed — so what was he watching for? The one engine left behind was immobilized as a power station. Who was he running from?

Fourteen

Jan decided that they would have to travel for at least four hours before they could make a stop. But he could not force himself to wait that long. Even three hours was too much; he had to know how Alzbeta was. It hadn’t seemed too hard a blow, but she had been unconscious when he left. She might still be unconscious — or dead. The thought was unbearable; he had to find out. At the end of the second hour of driving he admitted defeat.

“All units,” he ordered. ” A short rest stop. Change drivers if you want to. Begin your slowdown now.”

Even as he issued the command he pulled the tank out of line, spun it 180 degrees on its treads and went thundering back along the line of still moving trains. He found the car in which he had left Alzbeta and the doctor, reversed, and swung alongside it, slowing when it slowed, jumping down the instant they had stopped. The right key was ready in his hand and he unlocked the door and threw it open to face an angry Doctor Tsiturides.

“This is an insult, locking me in the way you did.”

“How is she?”

“This car is dusty, uncleaned, with no proper facilities.”

“I said — how is she?”

The cold anger in his voice penetrated the doctor’s complaints and he took a step backward. “She is doing well, as well as can be expected under the conditions. She is asleep now. Mild concussion, no more than that I am sure. It is safe to leave her alone and that is what I am doing.”

He picked up his bag and hurried away. Jan wanted to look in, but was afraid to waken her. It was then that Alzbeta spoke.

“Jan? Are you there?”

“Yes, here I come.”

She was propped up on a nest of blankets the doctor had put together, a white bandage around her head. Enough light came through the uncurtained window to show her face almost as pale as the cloth.

“Jan — what happened? I remember we talked, then nothing else.”

“The Hradil set a trap for me — with you as bait. Ritterspach and some of his men. Capture me or kill me, I don’t know. Whatever they had planned misfired when you got in the way. I’m afraid I… lost my temper.”

“Is that a bad thing to do?”

“Yes, for me it is. I didn’t mean it to end that way — but Ritterspach is dead.”

She gasped at this, a stranger to violence of any kind, an& he felt her hand withdraw from his.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry that anyone had to die.”

“You didn’t mean to do it.” She said it, but she did not sound convinced.

“No, I didn’t mean to. But I would do it all over again if I had to. Exactly the same way. I’m not trying to excuse myself, just explain. He hit you and you dropped, dead for all I knew. They had the clubs, three against one, and I defended myself. It ended like that.”

“I do understand, but death by violence, it is… strange to me.”

“May it stay that way. I can’t force you to understand, or feel the way I do. Do you want me to go?”