The Black Hole (24 page)

"Dan, they're behind us."

Holland took a fast look, made a quick decision as he fired back at the new threat. "The catwalk. Hop to it. We can't stay here."

While he and the robots covered, she ran forward, twisting and dodging in an attempt to stay just clear of the sentries' fire. They could react rapidly, but they could not predict. She was careful to keep her movements random.

With the hovering Vincent and Bob forcing the sentries to fight a multilevel battle, Holland and McCrae fought their way up the main corridor along the catwalk.

Only their constant movement kept the sentries off-balance, Holland knew. They were functional but not terribly sophisticated machines. As long as Kate and he could keep from being pinned down where the mechanicals' superior firepower could be brought to bear, they had a chance.

Vincent and Bob dodged through the air, thoroughly confusing the sentries. Whenever one tried to concentrate on the unpredictable humans, one of the two flying robots would swoop down to destroy it. If they devoted the better part of their fire toward the robots, Holland and McCrae pressed forward to obliterate them.

The sentries' slowness to make up their minds was further demonstrated when two tried to sight on the wildly diving B.O.B. unit. He dodged between them, and they promptly shot each other before their circuitry could cancel the directive to fire.

But one managed to singe Bob.

McCrae was first to notice the damage. "Vincent! Bob's hit!" She couldn't devote time herself to make sure the robot was still functional. The sentries kept her too busy.

Then there were no more sentries.

Bob's flight had become noticeably erratic. Vincent drifted over, helped the injured machine slip smoothly toward the floor. There the load on his weakened repellers would be lessened.

Holland made a quick, thorough inspection of the damage. He wished he knew more cybernetics than the minimum that was necessary to command and perform a few basic repairs. Machines as sophisticated as Vincent and Bob were supposed to diagnose and direct their own repairs, if not able to perform them themselves.

"How badly are you hurt?" Vincent inquired.

"First fighting I've done in thirty years, since I was run through post-manufacture testing. I only wish it had been Reinhardt and Maximillian out there."

"That's the spirit." McCrae led the way up the catwalk. Holland right behind. The two robots flanked them. Bob continued to fight to retain his stability.

Within the command tower, a voiceless but clearly angry Maximillian reacted to the failure of the sentries. As if aware they were being monitored, Vincent raised an arm and executed a snappy victory signal.

Despite his wishes, Reinhardt found his attention drawn by the confrontation. He was furious both at the failure to recapture Kate McCrae and at the time he was being forced to devote to so petty a matter.

"Your crack unit outwitted and outfought by some mass-produced Earth model and that antique from storage."

Maximillian pulsed crimson, the strongest form of personal expression permitted him. Reinhardt had taken care not to gift his powerful servant with too much sentience.

He looked back to the image of the black hole, up to scan several readouts. "It's a pity about McCrae. But I will not leave them free to spread lies about me. I can't endanger the
Cygnus
by exploding their ship
too
soon. If they succeed in returning to their vessel with Dr. McCrae, we'll give them some distance before destroying them."

They were rushing ahead when Holland suddenly grabbed McCrae and pulled her down. "Hit the deck! Vincent, Bob—watch yourselves. More of 'em up ahead."

Bright arcs of destruction lanced over their heads, flashed around the evasive robots. There was a crude barricade before them. Sentry robots lined its crest, firing inaccurately but threateningly from behind the makeshift bulwark.

Their poor shooting was a comfort, but the one thing Holland had feared most had come to pass—they were prevented from reaching the reception area. It was just beyond the barrier, tantalizingly near.

The sentries' fire might not scorch them, he thought desperately as they rolled for cover, but if they couldn't break through, they would soon be trapped by others coming up from behind. Eventually Reinhardt would concentrate enough firepower to kill them, no matter how unsteady the aim of his mechanicals.

He knew they couldn't afford the time to take the long way around. There might not even be a long way around. They
had
to break through ahead.

Somehow.

No one was more aware of the frantic passage of time than the two men who waited nervously in the cockpit of the little research ship.

Booth again checked his chronometer, asked in frustration, "How much longer are we going to wait? If they can't make it, they can't make it. There's no reason for us to die, too."

"There's still time, Harry. I'm sure . . ."

Distorted by the nearby crackle of energy weapons, Holland's voice sounded over the console speaker. "Charlie, do you read me?"

Pizer hurried to reply. "Loud and clear, Dan," he lied. The captain had enough to worry about. Pizer could understand him well enough.

"Tune's up." Holland spoke calmly, resignedly. "Take her clear."

Pizer thought a moment. "Where are you?"

"Side corridor," came the labored reply. "Near reception. They've got the passage blocked, though. We can't get through. They've got us pinned down.

"Lift off, Mr. Pizer! You know your orders. I haven't got time to argue with you." A hissing shriek drowned out his final words as a laser beam passed frighteningly close to the communicator grid.

Pizer had known what he would do if such a situation arose. He had known before they had separated earlier, on the ship. Maybe Holland knew too, he thought. He told himself that was the case, rationalizing his incipient actions as fast as possible.

His shipmates were close by. Too close for him to obey orders. He wouldn't mind a court-martial. Not if Holland and Vincent were around to give evidence against him. If that was his destiny, why, then, he was doomed no matter what he chose to do. So why worry?

Such are the convoluted justifications of the truly brave.

Booth stepped as if to block his way. "You heard the captain. Orders are to lift clear."

"You're pretty big on talking heroics, Harry, and on reporting 'em. Let's see some." Leaving Booth to consider those words, Pizer pushed past the older man. With a muffled curse, the reporter raced after him.

Pizer was out into the reception area before any of the sentries, concentrating on the battle for the passageway, reacted to his unexpected appearance. He leaped to one side and fired as the single guard there brought up his weapons. The machine blew apart as Booth dived for the cover of a desk.

The first officer quickly regained his feet. He was trying to orient himself when the groans reached him.

"Damn . . ."

"Harry? You hit?" He hunted for the reporter, saw his boots sticking out from behind the desk.

"My leg . . ." Booth was holding it gingerly. He sat up slowly, grimacing from the pain.

"How bad?" asked Pizer, concerned.

"I think it's broken."

"From laser fire? I didn't think that sentry got off a shot." As he spoke he was anxiously scanning the large room. The single mechanical had been alone, however.

"No, from idiocy. I took a dive for cover that I shouldn't have." He touched his lower leg and winced. "When I was thirty I would've bounced. I'm afraid I'm not as flexible as I used to be, Charlie."

"Can you walk?" Pizer knew he couldn't help the reporter and the others at the same time.

With Pizer's help Booth got to his feet, put a little weight on the leg. "The real pain won't hit for a few minutes yet. I can limp, I think."

"All right. Get back to the ship and take up a good defensive position near the lock. We'll be counting on you to make sure none of 'em gets aboard, Harry."

"Right. Don't worry about that. I'll make sure nothing boards."

Pizer hurried off toward the nearby scene of action, directed by the noise of fighting. He rounded a bend, skidded to a halt. Ahead was the barricade and its platoon of shielded mechanicals.

"I'm behind them, Dan," he whispered into his communicator. "What's your advice?"

"My advice was to lift clear, Charlie," came the reply. "But since you've more guts than brains, use your own judgment. I'm the one who was fool enough to get himself pinned down here."

Pizer hesitated, thinking, planning. On the other hand, he abruptly decided, long-range planning had never been one of his strong points. From what he had observed of Reinhardt's sentries, it certainly wasn't one of theirs, either.

Confuse them. Don't give them time to react
, he told himself.

Jumping out into clear view, he charged the barricade. More concerned with creating a diversion than destruction, he fired as rapidly as he could. So closely packed were the sentries behind the wall, however, that his firing was more effective than he had hoped. It was up to Dan and Kate to realize what was happening and fire carefully in his direction.

At the sound of Pizer's berserker yelp, the robots turned to confront their unexpected new assailant. Holland, McCrae and the two hovering robots charged the barricade simultaneously. Caught in a mental as well as a strategic dilemma, the sentries were soon reduced to scrap.

Ignoring the occasional hot sparks that flew from isolated sections of mechanicals, Pizer stepped over the heaps of steaming metal. Now that the immediate danger was over, he was a little appalled at his audacity. A good thing that he
hadn't
taken the time to think his actions through.

Holland and the others were already hurrying past him. McCrae grabbed his arm. "Come on, Charlie."

Partway down the access passage they were halted by a call from behind. Old Bob fluttered near a wall. The whine from his repellers was higher now, intermittent.

"You go ahead," the damaged machine told them. "I'll stay here and cover you against any fresh pursuit I can't travel fast enough, and you can't spare the seconds."

Vincent looked at his human companions. "Captain . . . Mr. Pizer?"

Both men holstered their weapons, retraced their steps. Holland examined the robot, shook his head in frustration. "We can't carry him . . . he's too heavy for the three of us."

"That isn't necessary, sir," said Vincent. "If you and Mr. Pizer can give him some support, he can redirect power from his stabilizer repellers to those providing forward drive."

"Please . . . it's not necess—"

"Shut up," Holland ordered Bob. "If it weren't for you, we'd probably all be dead by now."

Pizer moved to the other side of the hovering machine. Each man slipped his arms beneath Bob's own, carefully avoiding the repeller grids beneath. They appeared to be carrying him as they started back down the corridor. McCrae and Vincent were on the alert for sentries.

Booth's injured leg had apparently undergone a healing nothing short of miraculous. Running without any hint of damage, he had rushed back up the umbilical and into the
Palomino
. A quick jab closed the lock door behind him.

The command cockpit was a maze of instrumentation. But most of it was automatic, and after eighteen months of spare time he had managed to study the basic controls thoroughly. They would now provide more than amusement.

As he studied the pilot's console, he fought to recall the answers to the many frivolously asked questions he had put to Holland. He hesitated only briefly before commencing to program the ship's systems. A thin smile of satisfaction creased his face when the engines came on. Several critical gauges on the overhead console lit up. He had power. Now all the ship needed was direction, velocity and its freedom.

Holland and the others staggered into reception. As they reached the open space, the two men let go of Bob and moved in opposite directions, to present smaller targets to the anticipated welcoming party of sentries. But reception was deserted. The only sentry present was the one Pizer had obliterated on his emergence from the umbilical.

"Stands to reason," McCrae was saying, breathing heavily. "Reinhardt can only have so many sentry machines. Some of them would have to be deployed elsewhere on the ship, to insure we couldn't make mischief with, say, the engines." Then something made her frown.

Her companions also heard it: the sound of distant engines, louder than those of the
Cygnus
. They rushed toward the connector passageway.

"What's that idiot trying to do?" Pizer's voice reflected his outrage and dismay.

Holland grabbed him, slowed him down. "It's too late." He pointed out the nearby port. The umbilical had already disconnected from the
Palomino
, was shrinking in on itself like a worm wriggling back into its hole. They were cut off from their ship.

A moment later the
Palomino
was drifting silently away from them, the sound of its familiar engines having ceased as soon as the umbilical had been dropped. They stood quietly by the port and watched, each lost in his or her private thoughts.