The Fenris Device Read Free

no way down through those last hundred meters. No way.”
    â€œYou had power left,” he said. “Power to run away.”
    â€œAnd if I’d used that power to go down?” I said, my voice hoarse as the flow of the argument matched the flow of feeling coming back into my body—and with the feeling, renewed pain. “What would I have used to come away?” I finished.
    â€œOnce we were down...,” he began.
    â€œAnd what if we ran out with ten meters still to go?” I interrupted. “Or ten centimeters? All we had to do was roll over...and we’d be down forever.”
    â€œIt was my fault,” Johnny’s voice came over the circuit. “It was my fault. If I could have held the flux just a few seconds...I lost her. It wasn’t Grainger’s fault....”
    Of all the help I’d never needed....
    â€œIs that true?” said Charlot.
    â€œNobody could have held it,” I said. “Nobody. Johnny was brilliant. Nobody could have done more. Not Rothgar, not Jesus Christ. Nobody human can land a ship on that world. It just cannot be done.”
    â€œI could have done it,” said Johnny, his voice sounding like the knell of doom. “If only....”
    â€œWill you shut your bloody mouth!” I howled at him. “You want to go down there again? Don’t be a fool. You did your best. Your ultimate best. There’s no more that could be done. It’s impossible. There’s no point in whining, now or ever. You have to realize that there are some things that just can’t be done.”
    It can be done, said the wind, and you know it.
    I didn’t need him. Yes, it could be done, with a perfect engineer and a perfect pilot. The ship could do it. But Johnny was only Johnny, and I wasn’t making any claims for myself. Yes, it could be done. But only by a lunatic. And only a lunatic would suggest to Charlot that there was any point at all in making another attempt. He was only human. He couldn’t send us down again. Not if there was no way.
    Stylaster—the Gallacellan for whose benefit all this pantomime had been staged—said something in his native tongue. No human knew the language—the Gallacellans guarded their privacy—so we all had to wait for the interpreter. His name was Ecdyon.
    â€œStylaster says that your pilot has been damaged,” said Ecdyon, addressing Charlot. “Will he have to be replaced for the second attempt?”
    I gave him the filthiest look I could conjure up. It was wasted. What can a filthy look mean to an alien? Ecdyon knew the score, and I was willing to bet that Stylaster knew as well. They were playing a tough game. This was a real test for Charlot’s famed diplomatic talents.
    â€œThe pilot cannot be replaced,” said Charlot, speaking to Ecdyon but keeping one eye on me. “He will have to be rested until he is well. Then we will talk about a second attempt.”
    â€œYou can talk all you bloody well like,” I said. “But I’m not going back down there again.”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it later,” said Charlot, ominously, and quietly, because Ecdyon was busy clicking away at Stylaster in Gallacellan.
    â€œIt’s impossible,” I said.
    â€œThat’s for me to decide.”
    â€œLike hell it is,” I said. “You only own this ship. I fly it and Nick is the captain. The only man who can order me to fly back into that hell is Captain delArco. Now, he knows I’m serious when I say it can’t be done, and he’s not going to order me to do it. So legally, Mr. Charlot, you can’t touch me.”
    He looked at me with pure poison in his gaze. All the politeness and the helpfulness and the almost-friendship that we’d built up on Pharos was gone. He was an old man. He was a sick man. If there was one thing he wanted to do more than any other before he died it was to make meaningful contact with the