Part 77 (1/2)

The buckets, with their aromatic contents, were part of his disguise.

Many Mutes in Ne-Issan were permanently employed on what captive Trackers termed 'the s.h.i.+t detail'. With a full load, he was unlikely to arouse the suspicions of any guards, but even if he was stopped he would only be subjected to the most cursory examination. That was what he was counting on. During one of the earlier nights.h.i.+fts, before they had been outnumbered by the present crowd of d.i.n.ks, Steve had fas.h.i.+oned two planked circles that fitted inside the buckets, creating a false bottom. Hidden underneath, wrapped in transparent plasfilm, was a hefty charge of plastic explosive plus two gas grenades. Both packages were primed with one of AMEXICO's special detonators, and they were guaranteed to spoil the day of anyone unlucky enough to be c.r.a.pping into either bucket when it exploded.

Steve had reckoned that most of the resident Iron Masters would be on the field in front of the hangars at the far end of the workshops, or seated in the grandstand, leaving only a skeleton staff inside the compound. Apart from a handful of Mutes working on various ch.o.r.es, the place looked deserted. But Steve knew the guard-house would still be fully manned. In order to stand a chance of seizing the three aircraft needed to make their getaway, they had to eliminate as much of the opposition as possible. That meant taking out those who were closest to the action first, and using that blast to draw in others to where they could be caught in the second strike.

Approaching the rotting dungheap, he emptied both buckets and rinsed them out in the stone trough. The false bottoms had now been in place for a week and were indistinguishable from the real thing. Provided n.o.body compared their weight with the genuine article, no one would guess they'd been rigged.

Okay. Here goes . . .

Steve skirted the gravel punishment area and carried the buckets up the path fronting the Tracker bunkhouses, then turned left along the edge of the parade ground. As expected, some of the guards were loitering by the gate, and he saw some others on the veranda of the cantina.

They were all dressed up for the big day but, like all soldiers throughout the age, they knew precisely when they could relax and just how far they could go.

It wasn't hard to imagine what they were laughing and joking about. On a day like this, when the top bra.s.s were busy enjoying themselves, those who had been relegated to guard duty could afford to take it easy. Unlike those poor fools from the palace who had had to march all the way from Ba-satana in parade order and now had to stand in line, under the gaze of their officers, watching a bunch of even bigger fools shoot across the sky in all directions like dragonflies with their tails on fire.

At the rear of the guard-house, under an overhang of the roof, was a screened four-hole privy. The Iron Masters had a relaxed approach to bodily functions. On his journeys as a roadrunner, Steve had often pa.s.sed people of both s.e.xes cheerfully urinating in public sometimes without interrupting their conversation.

Faeces, on the other hand, be they horse droppings, cattle t.u.r.ds or the human variety, were a collector's item, and this, again according to Cadillac, had led to the communal bench and bucket system.

Higher-ranking Iron Masters made use of private indoor closets in which the wooden bucket was replaced by a similar container made of glazed porcelain. Besides its more elegant shape, it had the added advantage of not smelling after it had been washed. Fortunately, this luxury had not percolated down to the lower ranks - otherwise Steve would have been well and truly shafted.

Having made sure that the privy was empty, Steve entered and replaced the buckets at each end with those he was carrying. He then emptied and rinsed the middle ?air, picked up his load and left. As he started to walk away, someone behind him shouted out the j.a.panese command to halt - a sound all slaves soon learned to react to. Instantly.

Steve froze, then turned back, a bucket gripped in each hand. Two soldiers, with a plump, giggling farm-girl between them, had just turned the corner of the guard-house and were walking towards him. As far 'as Steve could tell they were unarmed. He was packing enough ordnance to kill them ten times over, but he could not risk cutting them down. The girl hung back as the two soldiers approached. Their cheeks were flushed and they were bright-eyed - a sign they'd knocked back a cup or two of sake. Steve put down the buckets and knelt between them, head bowed. He couldn't understand what the d.i.n.ks were saying to each other or the girl, but they were clearly having a joke at his expense. And so it proved. After swaggering round him, both soldiers stuck a fumbling hand into their trousers, pulled out their hairless dongs and proceeded to pee into the buckets.

The real joke came halfway through when they changed aim and widdled over him.

Terrific. There was nothing Steve could do but play the part of the abject slave. Enjoy it while you can, fellas, 'cause, believe me, in a short while you ain't gonna find much to laugh about...

When Steve had been well watered, the two soldiers waved him away and strutted back to the giggling farm-girl. Steve got to his feet and stood with his head bowed until the trio had disappeared through the back door of the guardhouse.

Time for Phase Two. Steve hurried back down the path past the Tracker bunk-houses towards the arch in the rear wall. He kept his head down, hiding his face under the brim of the straw hat. If any of the Trackers inside happened to look out of one of the windows and recognise him, the more sharp-witted amongst them would know he was up to something. Given the way they felt about him, they might try to summon the attention of the guard. And that would really throw a spanner in the works.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

To a burst of applause from the dignitaries in the stand and the cheers of the lesser spectators, five flying-horses rose clear of their launching trolleys and thundered skywards, one after the other, trailing blue ribbons of smoke. Levelling off at 1,000 feet, the five craft drew together into an arrowhead formation as they circled the fiel'd, then dived to build up speed before pulling up into a loop.

Rolling upright as they came down off the top - a manoeuvre once known, after its creator, as an Immelman turn - they hauled their noses up and round for a second loop.

Their formation flying was not immaculate, but it was still impressive.

It had been made possible by the fitting of a crude retro-thrust device which could be cranked down over the business end of the rocket tubes.

A row of curved metal plates like miniature double ploughshares deflected the exhaust gases sideways and downwards, reducing the forward thrust. It was primitive, but it gave each pilot a measure of control over his forward speed -all-important when they were trying to keep their place in the formation.

There was a gasp from the watching crowd when the lines of blue smoke were suddenly severed from the aircraft as they hung upside down. The first rocket had reached the end of its brief life. Time for the second burn. Amid growing apprehension, the five flying-horses continued their downward plunge, then, with a rea.s.suring explosion of sound, a stabbing, white-hot finger of flame appeared beneath the fuselage pod of the lead aircraft. Two, three, four- five!

The watching Iron Masters responded with a deep-throated roar of approval.