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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:

Profession

Being a hero is about the shortest-lived profession on earth.  

—Will Rogers

They gathered around the bombs, more than slightly the worse for wear, although Walter Slovotsky and Ahira were only out of breath. Karl's and Tennetty's wounds were closed, but by no means fully healed; Karl's right shoulder was a constant deep ache, and his right leg refused to support him.

Bren Adahan and Aeia were winded, gasping on the sands like fish out of water. Ganness seemed stunned, still white-faced from his bout of vomiting.

Doria seemed physically fine, but she was almost silent, barely able to speak.

Karl gripped Jason's hand. Jason was the worst. While healing draughts and pressure bandages had stopped the bone-deep gash in Jason's arm from bleeding, the boy's ribs were badly broken, and the pieces had shifted during their half-run, half-stagger to the beach. Jason screamed every time anyone tried to move him.

"You'll have to carry the boy," Karl said to Ahira. "Careful, now."

Slovotsky nodded. "Bren—go cut Karl a staff; we're going to have to hobble ourselves out of here."

Bren Adahan drew his knife and moved away in the dark.

"Not a boy, Father," Jason shot back, clenching his teeth as he spaced out the words evenly. "I killed Ahrmin."

"You sure?" Walter Slovotsky said.

Doria turned a sweat-shiny face toward Slovotsky. "He shot his fucking head off."

Karl forced a smile. "Not a boy." He let go of Jason, and accepted the stick that Bren had cut for him to use as a cane.

Ahira helped Karl to his feet. He could barely move at a slow walk, and this was a situation that called for running. He didn't like it at all.

Best to get moving and worry later about how much he didn't like it.

"Let's get out of here, people," he said. "Ahira, you carry Jason; Walter, you and I will bring up the rear, slow down any pursuit."

Slovotsky nodded. "Right. And—"

A single shot rang out.

Karl had never seen Walter Slovotsky move faster. Diving, Slovotsky drew and threw a knife at something in the darkness, then completed his dive to snatch up one of Karl's pistols, brought it up and cocked it, and pulled the trigger.

It spat fire into the darkness.

Two men screamed.

"Everybody down," Karl said as he let himself fall to the sand.

He snatched up a bomb, struck its fuse to sputtering life with his thumbnail, and threw it in the direction that Slovotsky had fired. The slaver or slavers had missed once; even if they were injured, it wasn't safe to assume that they would miss again.

"Cover your eyes," he said, throwing an arm over his own face.

The bomb went off with a flat crump that drowned out the slavers' screams. Hot sand spattered him.

"Okay, people," Walter Slovotsky said. "We've drawn about enough attention to ourselves." Walter smiled down at Karl as he offered a hand. "Nice toss, Karl. Now, let's get out of—"

"No!" Aeia screamed. "Jason . . ."

Karl crabbed himself around.

Jason was still stretched out on the sand, but now he clutched at his belly, where the dark blood flowed freely. The slaver's shot hadn't missed.

Oh God. No. Not Jason.

"Healing draughts. We have to—"

"We don't have any," Tennetty said, her tone flat, her words evenly spaced.

"Help." Jason's face was contorted into an almost inhuman mask. "It hurts so much."

"No." Karl held his son to him; he could feel Jason's fast-pounding heartbeat getting weaker. "Please God, no."

Doria's voice was calm and level.

"Let go of him, Karl," she said, her words evenly spaced, distant. "Let go of him."

Gentle fingers that were far stronger than they had any right to be pried Karl's arms away from the boy.

"You must let go of him,"

She stretched Jason's form out on the cold sands; the boy's body was limp, perhaps unconscious, perhaps already dead.

No. Not dead. Please not dead. Not Jason.

Logically, it didn't matter whether or not he was dead yet. If he wasn't dead already, he would be in just minutes, his life's blood dripping away into Melawei sands. Just like Rahff.

"No! There's got to be something we can do besides give up on—"

"Shh." Ahira's grip was strong on Karl's good shoulder. "Be quiet, Karl. Don't interfere."

"I will heal him." Doria's fists were trembling in front of her face, her jaw clamped tightly as she stood over Jason's prostrate form.

Her forehead beaded with cold sweat, her breath came in short gasps as she flailed her arms at something nobody else could see, her body tightened as she matched her strength against her invisible adversary's.

"I will," she said. "I will do as I will, not as you would have me. I belong to me, not to you. I belong to me!"

Bands of force became almost palpable, tightening around Doria, first dragging her arms down to her sides, then slowly driving her to her knees, forcing her head down.

You will obey me, daughter, a distant voice seemed to say in a whisper, a harsh whisper that could shatter rocks.

"No."

Doria weakened; she pulled her hood around her head, and, almost vanishing into her robes, began to jerk spasmodically. But she did not give up. She struggled on.

Just when it seemed that the battle would not be won, could not be won, the forces restraining Doria snapped, gone to where a burst soap bubble goes.

Doria's strength tore through the darkness, and the evanescent words of healing poured from her mouth in a rapid torrent.

The words flowed into Jason; the wound in his belly expelled a flattened hunk of metal before sealing itself behind the bullet. Ribs snaked under his skin, freezing into their proper places. Beneath the bandage on his shoulder, skin and muscle twisted and shifted.

Doria staggered away from the boy; if Ahira hadn't reached out a supporting arm, she would have fallen.

Karl reached out a hand as Jason's eyes flickered, then opened.

He lived.

My son lives. Karl gave Jason's arm a quick squeeze, then called to Ahira and Walter.

"You'll have to carry him. Now. Leave me some of your guns, and get the hell out of here, all of you. The slavers will be along any minute." He propped himself up against the base of a tree. "I'll hold them off."

It was a logical necessity. His leg wouldn't support him; the best he could do with the staff Bren had cut him would have been a slow hobble. With slavers closing in on them, the others needed more of a head start than they had. It wasn't only necessary to get to Ganness' ship; they also had to get it moving, to get it at least far enough offshore that the slavers wouldn't be able to swarm aboard, overwhelming them by sheer numbers.

And they had to get going now, before the other slaver ship could arrive in the morning, and be told that someone had snuck a ship by. This attack, and the healing of Jason, had eaten up time they couldn't afford. They had to go.

Now.

"The others can go." Tennetty clasped her hand to her side. "I won't leave you."

There wasn't time. Somebody had to stay and slow the slavers down. Only one. Two wouldn't do any better.

He looked her straight in the eye. "It's an order. Or are you going to betray me by staying?"

There were shouts and cries from down the beach. Off in the night, the slavers had made it to the sand. Only a matter of time until they headed this way; only a matter of time until they were all caught.

Karl looked from Bren Adahan to Aeia, to Walter, Tennetty, Doria, Ahira, and the still-woozy Jason, staggering until the dwarf swept him up in his arms. Doria had saved his life; she hadn't been able to bring him back to full strength, not after the injuries the boy had suffered.

Wordless, Aeia knelt beside Karl and kissed him on the forehead, then rose.

But nobody moved. "We don't have time for long goodbyes," Karl said. "Get going. And know that I love you all."

Tennetty thought it over for a long second. "Yes, Karl." Tennetty laid the last of the rifles near him. "I'll take the powder," she said. "I don't think they'll give you a chance to reload."

"Right. Good luck."

"Karl," she said, dry-eyed, only a little tremor at the edge of her voice. "Is there anything you want me to tell Andrea?"

"She already knows it. Move."

"Be well." Her hand still clapped over her own wound, forced herself to her feet. "You all heard the man. Let's move out, people. And now means now."

Aeia started to say something, but Karl shook his head. "We don't have time, girl. Just go. Run for it. Get her out of here, Bren."

Bren Adahan threw Karl a brief salute, then caught Aeia's hand and dragged her away. She only resisted for a few feet, then broke into a sprint, her shoulders shaking.

"I said now," Tennetty first kicked Ganness into a trot, then shoved Slovotsky into motion, while Ahira, holding Jason in his arms, took off in a dead run.

"Just a moment. I'll catch up with you," Doria said, her voice cracking.

"He said to move it," Tennetty snapped. "So you move it."

"It's okay, Ten," Karl said. "Get going. Get them home."

"Understood, Karl." Tennetty nodded once, and staggered off after the others, her pounding feet sending sand flying into the air.

Doria laid a hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. "I have something for you," she said. She gripped his arm more tightly. "It's not much, but it's all I have left. The Mother took all the rest. I can't heal you, Karl, but I can sustain you. Just a little longer."

The wind whispered a distant message, a vague threat.

"Oh? That's not what you left me this for?" She addressed the air. "I don't care; we take care of our own, old woman. We take care of our own."

Staring into Karl's face, she laid her hands on his shoulders and began to mutter harsh syllables, words that could only be heard and forgotten.

It was strange. Weren't Doria's eyes yellow on This Side? And wasn't her face gaunter here? The eyes seemed dark; the face seemed to soften.

Where her fingers touched him, strength flowed into him like an electric current.

His wounds still ached; as he tried to get his right leg underneath him, it still refused to support him. But the pain in his leg and side were somehow distant; all fatigue was gone.

"It will . . . sustain you longer than they'll think possible, Karl," Doria Perlstein said. She was twenty again, a bit chubby, her eyes brown now. The Hand cleric was gone. "I hope. It's not enough, but it's all I can do—"

"Get out of here, Doria."

"Goodbye." She turned and ran off after the others.

God, he felt strong.

He looked down at what he had. Six rifles, and thirty or so assembled bombs, plus three pistols. He crabbed himself over to the pistols and gathered them all together, then tucked one into his belt.

He waited.

He didn't have long. There was a distant shout as three men came into view.

Rolling over into a prone firing position, Karl cocked the nearest rifle, put it to his shoulder, took aim and pulled the trigger; at the crack of the rifle all three of the slavers fell. It took him half a moment to realize that at least two of them had taken cover; his single shot couldn't have knocked down all three.

I knew I was good, but I didn't think I was that good.  

He laughed out loud, letting them hear it. "Come on, you bastards. I'm waiting for you." He thought about ducking back toward the treeline, but decided against it. It would be too hard to haul the rifles along with him, and he was going to need all of them. As well as the bombs.

He hefted one of the bombs. Probably best to use a bomb next. Shake them up a bit.

Maybe there was another way to shake them up. Maybe he could make them think they were up against more than one lone man.

"Chak, Rahff, Fialt," he shouted, "the next one of the bastards is mine. Hold your fire."

Another man crept around the bend, his rifle held out in front of him as though it was some sort of magical shield. Karl disabused him of that notion with a misthrown bomb that sent sand flying into the air, and the man flying for cover.

"Dammit, Chak," he shouted, "I wanted that one. I had him in my sights until you threw the bomb."

Maybe he could hold out long enough. Maybe. Give the others just a few minutes to get going, and then perhaps Karl could crawl into the woods, dig himself into some sort of cover, and hide out.

"Ease back out of the line of fire, Rahff. You'll kill more of them if they can't see you."

But first he had to give the others enough of a head start. The slavers wouldn't be long in coming. Not long at all.

Another man poked his head out from around the bend, and Karl let him fire off a shot before taking aim with his next rifle. He let the man creep a bit forward, and then potted him neatly.

"Nice shooting, Fialt. We'll kill them all by dawn."

Just a bit more time, that was all.

He waited patiently for several minutes. What was keeping them?

Maybe it's just as well I didn't go through such a long goodbye scene. A few more minutes of this and I'm getting my butt out of here, if at all possible.  

He didn't look forward to holing up while he healed, and then trying the overland route back to the Middle Lands, but he'd been through worse. Probably he had sufficient supplies in the cave of the sword, and he could swim out there even without the use of one leg.

He smiled as he forced himself to a sitting position and pulled two more of the rifles onto his lap, cocking one and bringing it up to his shoulder. Just a few more slavers, a few more minutes, and—

Pain exploded in his back; he tumbled to the ground, his body gone from the chest down.

From behind—idiot! They had sent somebody to creep around him. The other slavers had just been trying to slow him down.

There was blood in his mouth. Salty, it seemed to warm him.

The world began to grow gray around the edges. The dark shapes gathered around him.

"Careful with him. He's still dangerous."

"He's nothing. I'll take him."

Got to—

His distant, clumsy thumb and forefinger worked hard between his belly and the sand, pried a pistol from his belt, and cocked it.

But he couldn't turn over. The world was just too far away; his arm was just too weak.

"Careful, I said. Turn him over and make sure he doesn't have another weapon. Then bind him."

Rough fingers pulled at his shoulder, adding just enough to what remained of his fast-fading strength to let him get his pistol out from underneath him.

Grayness spreading across his body, Karl Cullinane—

"He has a gun! Stop him!"

—pointed it at the stack of guncotton bombs, each with its own detonator.

"Andy . . ." he said, then decided that he didn't have the time for fancy last words.

He pulled the trigger once, hard.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:

Profession

Being a hero is about the shortest-lived profession on earth.  

—Will Rogers

They gathered around the bombs, more than slightly the worse for wear, although Walter Slovotsky and Ahira were only out of breath. Karl's and Tennetty's wounds were closed, but by no means fully healed; Karl's right shoulder was a constant deep ache, and his right leg refused to support him.

Bren Adahan and Aeia were winded, gasping on the sands like fish out of water. Ganness seemed stunned, still white-faced from his bout of vomiting.

Doria seemed physically fine, but she was almost silent, barely able to speak.

Karl gripped Jason's hand. Jason was the worst. While healing draughts and pressure bandages had stopped the bone-deep gash in Jason's arm from bleeding, the boy's ribs were badly broken, and the pieces had shifted during their half-run, half-stagger to the beach. Jason screamed every time anyone tried to move him.

"You'll have to carry the boy," Karl said to Ahira. "Careful, now."

Slovotsky nodded. "Bren—go cut Karl a staff; we're going to have to hobble ourselves out of here."

Bren Adahan drew his knife and moved away in the dark.

"Not a boy, Father," Jason shot back, clenching his teeth as he spaced out the words evenly. "I killed Ahrmin."

"You sure?" Walter Slovotsky said.

Doria turned a sweat-shiny face toward Slovotsky. "He shot his fucking head off."

Karl forced a smile. "Not a boy." He let go of Jason, and accepted the stick that Bren had cut for him to use as a cane.

Ahira helped Karl to his feet. He could barely move at a slow walk, and this was a situation that called for running. He didn't like it at all.

Best to get moving and worry later about how much he didn't like it.

"Let's get out of here, people," he said. "Ahira, you carry Jason; Walter, you and I will bring up the rear, slow down any pursuit."

Slovotsky nodded. "Right. And—"

A single shot rang out.

Karl had never seen Walter Slovotsky move faster. Diving, Slovotsky drew and threw a knife at something in the darkness, then completed his dive to snatch up one of Karl's pistols, brought it up and cocked it, and pulled the trigger.

It spat fire into the darkness.

Two men screamed.

"Everybody down," Karl said as he let himself fall to the sand.

He snatched up a bomb, struck its fuse to sputtering life with his thumbnail, and threw it in the direction that Slovotsky had fired. The slaver or slavers had missed once; even if they were injured, it wasn't safe to assume that they would miss again.

"Cover your eyes," he said, throwing an arm over his own face.

The bomb went off with a flat crump that drowned out the slavers' screams. Hot sand spattered him.

"Okay, people," Walter Slovotsky said. "We've drawn about enough attention to ourselves." Walter smiled down at Karl as he offered a hand. "Nice toss, Karl. Now, let's get out of—"

"No!" Aeia screamed. "Jason . . ."

Karl crabbed himself around.

Jason was still stretched out on the sand, but now he clutched at his belly, where the dark blood flowed freely. The slaver's shot hadn't missed.

Oh God. No. Not Jason.

"Healing draughts. We have to—"

"We don't have any," Tennetty said, her tone flat, her words evenly spaced.

"Help." Jason's face was contorted into an almost inhuman mask. "It hurts so much."

"No." Karl held his son to him; he could feel Jason's fast-pounding heartbeat getting weaker. "Please God, no."

Doria's voice was calm and level.

"Let go of him, Karl," she said, her words evenly spaced, distant. "Let go of him."

Gentle fingers that were far stronger than they had any right to be pried Karl's arms away from the boy.

"You must let go of him,"

She stretched Jason's form out on the cold sands; the boy's body was limp, perhaps unconscious, perhaps already dead.

No. Not dead. Please not dead. Not Jason.

Logically, it didn't matter whether or not he was dead yet. If he wasn't dead already, he would be in just minutes, his life's blood dripping away into Melawei sands. Just like Rahff.

"No! There's got to be something we can do besides give up on—"

"Shh." Ahira's grip was strong on Karl's good shoulder. "Be quiet, Karl. Don't interfere."

"I will heal him." Doria's fists were trembling in front of her face, her jaw clamped tightly as she stood over Jason's prostrate form.

Her forehead beaded with cold sweat, her breath came in short gasps as she flailed her arms at something nobody else could see, her body tightened as she matched her strength against her invisible adversary's.

"I will," she said. "I will do as I will, not as you would have me. I belong to me, not to you. I belong to me!"

Bands of force became almost palpable, tightening around Doria, first dragging her arms down to her sides, then slowly driving her to her knees, forcing her head down.

You will obey me, daughter, a distant voice seemed to say in a whisper, a harsh whisper that could shatter rocks.

"No."

Doria weakened; she pulled her hood around her head, and, almost vanishing into her robes, began to jerk spasmodically. But she did not give up. She struggled on.

Just when it seemed that the battle would not be won, could not be won, the forces restraining Doria snapped, gone to where a burst soap bubble goes.

Doria's strength tore through the darkness, and the evanescent words of healing poured from her mouth in a rapid torrent.

The words flowed into Jason; the wound in his belly expelled a flattened hunk of metal before sealing itself behind the bullet. Ribs snaked under his skin, freezing into their proper places. Beneath the bandage on his shoulder, skin and muscle twisted and shifted.

Doria staggered away from the boy; if Ahira hadn't reached out a supporting arm, she would have fallen.

Karl reached out a hand as Jason's eyes flickered, then opened.

He lived.

My son lives. Karl gave Jason's arm a quick squeeze, then called to Ahira and Walter.

"You'll have to carry him. Now. Leave me some of your guns, and get the hell out of here, all of you. The slavers will be along any minute." He propped himself up against the base of a tree. "I'll hold them off."

It was a logical necessity. His leg wouldn't support him; the best he could do with the staff Bren had cut him would have been a slow hobble. With slavers closing in on them, the others needed more of a head start than they had. It wasn't only necessary to get to Ganness' ship; they also had to get it moving, to get it at least far enough offshore that the slavers wouldn't be able to swarm aboard, overwhelming them by sheer numbers.

And they had to get going now, before the other slaver ship could arrive in the morning, and be told that someone had snuck a ship by. This attack, and the healing of Jason, had eaten up time they couldn't afford. They had to go.

Now.

"The others can go." Tennetty clasped her hand to her side. "I won't leave you."

There wasn't time. Somebody had to stay and slow the slavers down. Only one. Two wouldn't do any better.

He looked her straight in the eye. "It's an order. Or are you going to betray me by staying?"

There were shouts and cries from down the beach. Off in the night, the slavers had made it to the sand. Only a matter of time until they headed this way; only a matter of time until they were all caught.

Karl looked from Bren Adahan to Aeia, to Walter, Tennetty, Doria, Ahira, and the still-woozy Jason, staggering until the dwarf swept him up in his arms. Doria had saved his life; she hadn't been able to bring him back to full strength, not after the injuries the boy had suffered.

Wordless, Aeia knelt beside Karl and kissed him on the forehead, then rose.

But nobody moved. "We don't have time for long goodbyes," Karl said. "Get going. And know that I love you all."

Tennetty thought it over for a long second. "Yes, Karl." Tennetty laid the last of the rifles near him. "I'll take the powder," she said. "I don't think they'll give you a chance to reload."

"Right. Good luck."

"Karl," she said, dry-eyed, only a little tremor at the edge of her voice. "Is there anything you want me to tell Andrea?"

"She already knows it. Move."

"Be well." Her hand still clapped over her own wound, forced herself to her feet. "You all heard the man. Let's move out, people. And now means now."

Aeia started to say something, but Karl shook his head. "We don't have time, girl. Just go. Run for it. Get her out of here, Bren."

Bren Adahan threw Karl a brief salute, then caught Aeia's hand and dragged her away. She only resisted for a few feet, then broke into a sprint, her shoulders shaking.

"I said now," Tennetty first kicked Ganness into a trot, then shoved Slovotsky into motion, while Ahira, holding Jason in his arms, took off in a dead run.

"Just a moment. I'll catch up with you," Doria said, her voice cracking.

"He said to move it," Tennetty snapped. "So you move it."

"It's okay, Ten," Karl said. "Get going. Get them home."

"Understood, Karl." Tennetty nodded once, and staggered off after the others, her pounding feet sending sand flying into the air.

Doria laid a hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. "I have something for you," she said. She gripped his arm more tightly. "It's not much, but it's all I have left. The Mother took all the rest. I can't heal you, Karl, but I can sustain you. Just a little longer."

The wind whispered a distant message, a vague threat.

"Oh? That's not what you left me this for?" She addressed the air. "I don't care; we take care of our own, old woman. We take care of our own."

Staring into Karl's face, she laid her hands on his shoulders and began to mutter harsh syllables, words that could only be heard and forgotten.

It was strange. Weren't Doria's eyes yellow on This Side? And wasn't her face gaunter here? The eyes seemed dark; the face seemed to soften.

Where her fingers touched him, strength flowed into him like an electric current.

His wounds still ached; as he tried to get his right leg underneath him, it still refused to support him. But the pain in his leg and side were somehow distant; all fatigue was gone.

"It will . . . sustain you longer than they'll think possible, Karl," Doria Perlstein said. She was twenty again, a bit chubby, her eyes brown now. The Hand cleric was gone. "I hope. It's not enough, but it's all I can do—"

"Get out of here, Doria."

"Goodbye." She turned and ran off after the others.

God, he felt strong.

He looked down at what he had. Six rifles, and thirty or so assembled bombs, plus three pistols. He crabbed himself over to the pistols and gathered them all together, then tucked one into his belt.

He waited.

He didn't have long. There was a distant shout as three men came into view.

Rolling over into a prone firing position, Karl cocked the nearest rifle, put it to his shoulder, took aim and pulled the trigger; at the crack of the rifle all three of the slavers fell. It took him half a moment to realize that at least two of them had taken cover; his single shot couldn't have knocked down all three.

I knew I was good, but I didn't think I was that good.  

He laughed out loud, letting them hear it. "Come on, you bastards. I'm waiting for you." He thought about ducking back toward the treeline, but decided against it. It would be too hard to haul the rifles along with him, and he was going to need all of them. As well as the bombs.

He hefted one of the bombs. Probably best to use a bomb next. Shake them up a bit.

Maybe there was another way to shake them up. Maybe he could make them think they were up against more than one lone man.

"Chak, Rahff, Fialt," he shouted, "the next one of the bastards is mine. Hold your fire."

Another man crept around the bend, his rifle held out in front of him as though it was some sort of magical shield. Karl disabused him of that notion with a misthrown bomb that sent sand flying into the air, and the man flying for cover.

"Dammit, Chak," he shouted, "I wanted that one. I had him in my sights until you threw the bomb."

Maybe he could hold out long enough. Maybe. Give the others just a few minutes to get going, and then perhaps Karl could crawl into the woods, dig himself into some sort of cover, and hide out.

"Ease back out of the line of fire, Rahff. You'll kill more of them if they can't see you."

But first he had to give the others enough of a head start. The slavers wouldn't be long in coming. Not long at all.

Another man poked his head out from around the bend, and Karl let him fire off a shot before taking aim with his next rifle. He let the man creep a bit forward, and then potted him neatly.

"Nice shooting, Fialt. We'll kill them all by dawn."

Just a bit more time, that was all.

He waited patiently for several minutes. What was keeping them?

Maybe it's just as well I didn't go through such a long goodbye scene. A few more minutes of this and I'm getting my butt out of here, if at all possible.  

He didn't look forward to holing up while he healed, and then trying the overland route back to the Middle Lands, but he'd been through worse. Probably he had sufficient supplies in the cave of the sword, and he could swim out there even without the use of one leg.

He smiled as he forced himself to a sitting position and pulled two more of the rifles onto his lap, cocking one and bringing it up to his shoulder. Just a few more slavers, a few more minutes, and—

Pain exploded in his back; he tumbled to the ground, his body gone from the chest down.

From behind—idiot! They had sent somebody to creep around him. The other slavers had just been trying to slow him down.

There was blood in his mouth. Salty, it seemed to warm him.

The world began to grow gray around the edges. The dark shapes gathered around him.

"Careful with him. He's still dangerous."

"He's nothing. I'll take him."

Got to—

His distant, clumsy thumb and forefinger worked hard between his belly and the sand, pried a pistol from his belt, and cocked it.

But he couldn't turn over. The world was just too far away; his arm was just too weak.

"Careful, I said. Turn him over and make sure he doesn't have another weapon. Then bind him."

Rough fingers pulled at his shoulder, adding just enough to what remained of his fast-fading strength to let him get his pistol out from underneath him.

Grayness spreading across his body, Karl Cullinane—

"He has a gun! Stop him!"

—pointed it at the stack of guncotton bombs, each with its own detonator.

"Andy . . ." he said, then decided that he didn't have the time for fancy last words.

He pulled the trigger once, hard.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed