Part 23 (2/2)

”That was before the fire,” Oscar said. ”We didn't have a couple of million sols' worth of wax burned. And Tom Kivelson wasn't in the hospital with half the skin burned off his back, and a coin toss whether he lives or not.”

”Yes. I thought you were Tom's friend,” Joe Kivelson reproached me.

I wondered how much skin hanging Steve Ravick would grow on Tom's back. I didn't see much percentage in asking him, though. I did turn to Oscar Fujisawa with a quotation I remembered from _Moby d.i.c.k_, the book he'd named his s.h.i.+p from.

”_How many barrels will thy vengeance yield thee, even if thou gettest it, Captain Ahab?_” I asked. ”_It will not fetch thee much in our Nantucket market._”

He looked at me angrily and started to say something. Then he shrugged.

”I know, Walt,” he said. ”But you can't measure everything in barrels of whale oil. Or skins of tallow-wax.”

Which was one of those perfectly true statements which are also perfectly meaningless. I gave up. My job's to get the news, not to make it. I wondered if that meant anything, either.

They finally got the mob sorted out, after a lot of time wasted in pillaging Ravick's living quarters on the fourth floor. _However, the troops stopped to loot the enemy's camp._ I'd come across that line fifty to a hundred times in history books. Usually, it had been expensive looting; if the enemy didn't counterattack, they managed, at least, to escape. More to the point, they gathered up all the cannon and machine guns around the place and got them onto contragravity in the street. There must have been close to five thousand men, by now, and those who couldn't crowd onto vehicles marched on foot, and the whole ma.s.s, looking a little more like an army than a mob, started up Broadway.

Since it is not proper for reporters to loot on the job, I had gotten outside in my jeep early and was going ahead, swinging my camera back to get the parade behind me. Might furnish a still-shot ill.u.s.tration for somebody's History of Fenris in a century or so.

Broadway was empty until we came to the gateway to the s.p.a.ceport area.

There was a single medium combat car there, on contragravity halfway to the ceiling, with a pair of 50-mm guns and a rocket launcher pointed at us, and under it, on the roadway, a solitary man in an olive-green uniform stood.

I knew him; Lieutenant Ranjit Singh, Captain Courtland's second-in-command. He was a Sikh. Instead of a steel helmet, he wore a striped turban, and he had a black beard that made Joe Kivelson's blond one look like Tom Kivelson's chin-fuzz. On his belt, along with his pistol, he wore the little kirpan, the dagger all Sikhs carry. He also carried a belt radio, and as we approached he lifted the phone to his mouth and a loudspeaker on the combat car threw his voice at us:

”All right, that's far enough, now. The first vehicle that comes within a hundred yards of this gate will be shot down.”

One man, and one combat car, against five thousand, with twenty-odd guns and close to a hundred machine guns. He'd last about as long as a pint of trade gin at a Sheshan funeral. The only thing was, before he and the crew of the combat car were killed, they'd wipe out about ten or fifteen of our vehicles and a couple of hundred men, and they would be the men and vehicles in the lead.

Mobs are a little different from soldiers, and our Rebel Army was still a mob. Mobs don't like to advance into certain death, and they don't like to advance over the bodies and wreckage of their own forward elements. Neither do soldiers, but soldiers will do it.

Soldiers realize, when they put on the uniform, that some day they may face death in battle, and if this is it, this is it.

I got the combat car and the lone soldier in the turban--that would look good in anybody's history book--and moved forward, taking care that he saw the _Times_ lettering on the jeep and taking care to stay well short of the deadline. I let down to the street and got out, taking off my gun belt and hanging it on the control handle of the jeep. Then I walked forward.

”Lieutenant Ranjit,” I said, ”I'm representing the _Times_. I have business inside the s.p.a.ceport. I want to get the facts about this. It may be that when I get this story, these people will be satisfied.”

”We will, like Nifflheim!” I heard Joe Kivelson bawling, above and behind me. ”We want the men who started the fire my son got burned in.”

”Is that the Kivelson boy's father?” the Sikh asked me, and when I nodded, he lifted the phone to his lips again. ”Captain Kivelson,” the loudspeaker said, ”your son is alive and under skin-grafting treatment here at the s.p.a.ceport hospital. His life is not, repeat not, in danger. The men you are after are here, under guard. If any of them are guilty of any crimes, and if you can show any better authority than an armed mob to deal with them, they may, may, I said, be turned over for trial. But they will not be taken from this s.p.a.ceport by force, as long as I or one of my men remains alive.”

”That's easy. We'll get them afterward,” Joe Kivelson shouted.

”Somebody may. You won't,” Ranjit Singh told him. ”Van Steen, hit that s.h.i.+p's boat first, and hit it at the first hostile move anybody in this mob makes.”

”Yes, sir. With pleasure,” another voice replied.

n.o.body in the Rebel Army, if that was what it still was, had any comment to make on that. Lieutenant Ranjit turned to me.

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