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The deputy director was frowning.
"But that leaves all the subs still in place. Wouldn't they just push their
buttons and start the methane release?"
He was looking at me. "Maybe not," I said cautiously. "If the scout ship was
destroyed, the crews wouldn't be controlled anymore-except for the Dopeys. But
we could get Pirraghiz on the horn to talk to them all, and they'd deal with
their Dopeys. The others all hate the Scarecrows too, you know."
"So that's it," Hilda said. "We bomb the scout ship."
I found myself instinctively arguing against that one, too. "I don't think so,
Hilda. We don't know how big the scout ship is, or how well bulkheaded. And
there's a limit to the amount of mass the transit machine can handle at one
time. A few hundred kilograms, maybe. And-"
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I stopped. Hilda wasn't listening to me. As far as I could tell, her eyes were
on the deputy director.
Who was looking at her with a considering expression I hadn't seen before.
"You aren't thinking of chemical explosives, are you, Brigadier Morrisey?" he
said.
That startled me. "Come on, Hilda," I said, "what're you talking about? Nukes?
But they've been outlawed all over the world, ever since some of the
terrorists got their hands on a couple."
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
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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
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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-
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