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set against it will destroy it before it reaches the end of the field."
But the Dewdrop can lift straight up. Would that make enough of a difference?
There was no way to know ... but given the national paranoia, Pyre tended to
doubt it. "I'd still like to talk to you about release of our companions," he
told the mayor, just for something to say.
Kimmeron arched his eyebrows. "You speak foolishness," he bit out. "We have
you and the body of
Winward, from which your so-named 'magic1 powers can surely be learned."
"Our magic cannot be learned from a corpse," Pyre lied. /
"You are still alive," the other said pointedly. "From Cerenkov and Rynstadt
we will obtain information about your culture and technology which will
prepare us for any attack your world launches against us in the future. And
from your ship intact or in pieces we will learn even more, perhaps enough to
finally regain star travel. All that is within our hands; what could you offer
of greater value for allowing your departure?"
There was no answer Pyre could give to that ... and it occurred to him that a
method which allowed its users to learn Anglic in a week might indeed let them
reconstruct the Dewdrop and its systems from whatever wreckage remained after
its destruction.
Which meant that his gallant rescue attempt was
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219
now, and always had been, doomed to failure. Cerenkov and Rynstadt were beyond
help, and Pyre's own last minutes would be spent right here in the mayor's
underground nerve center. If he could somehow find the communications
panel and then find a way to shut off or broadcast through the jamming and
then figure out how to signal the Dewdrop to get the hell away and all before
sheer weight of numbers overwhelmed him
And as the impossibilities of each step lined up before him like mountains the
universe presented him a gift. A small gift, hardly more than a sign ... but
He saw it, and Kimmeron did not, and he had the satisfaction of giving the
mayor a genuine smile. "What do I have to offer, Mr. Mayor?" he said calmly.
"A great deal, actually ... because all that was in your hands a moment ago is
even now slipping through your fingers."
Kimmeron frowned ... and as he started to speak Pyre heard a sharp intake of
breath from the guard spokesman beside him. Kimmeron twisted to look behind
him ... and when he turned back his face was pale. "How ?"
"How?" Pyre shifted his eyes over Kimmeron's shoulder, to the displays that
showed the airfield tower and environs.
Or that had done so a few minutes earlier. Now, the entire bank showed a
uniform gray.
How? "Very simple, Mr. Mayor," Pyre said ... and suppressed the shiver of that
boyhood memory.
Like MacDonald before him on that awful day of vengeance against Challinor....
"Winward, it appears, has returned from the dead."
Chapter 21
It was so unexpected so totally unexpected that Winward never even had a
chance to react. One minute he was walking around the tower with his Qasaman
escort, surreptitiously searching the building and immediate area for weapons
and additional guards and trying to work out exactly what he would say when
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they reached whoever he was being taken to. Just walking peacefully ... and
then the leader muttered something and turned around ... and before Winward
could do more than focus on the other the night lit up with a thunderous flash
and a sledgehammer slammed into the center of his chest, blowing him backwards
into nothingness as the crack of the lethal shot echoed in his ears....
The blackness in his brain faded slowly, and for what seemed like hours he
drifted slowly toward the reality he could faintly sense above him. The pain
came first dull, throbbing pain in his chest; sharp, stinging pain in his eyes
and face and with that breakthrough the rest of his senses began to function
again. Sounds filtered in: footsteps, doors opening and closing, occasional
incomprehensible voices. He discovered he was on his back, bouncing
rhythmically as if being
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