This was perverts' corner - and the place that Madeleine had suggested for their rendezvous. Renton wondered whether she was making a point. But then he saw her. She was standing by a window of the gallery. Even with her luscious brown hair now cut to Dustforce requirements, her cool blue eyes and her fine-boned face were unmistakable. And so too was her fine-boned body…
'Madeleine!'
'Renton!'
'Madeleine, you look great!'
'And you look just like a knight, Renton. I can hardly believe it.'
'Oh, and this is Meitchars, Madeleine. He's a real knight.'
All three of them were now standing together, and Madeleine shook Meitchars' hand. Her expression betrayed her disbelief that this odd shaped being in front of her could really be a paid-up Tickler. But the expression was a fleeting one. In the next instant it was overtaken by a sort of surprised concentration as Renton kissed her. It had been quite a long time.
'Well, we're here,' he announced as he disengaged, 'two truant Ticklers at your command, boldly going where no Ticklers have gone before!' He looked around. 'I must say, Madeleine, your idea of a discreet meeting place is a bit on the weird side. But I suppose…'
'Oh, I thought it would be ideal,' she smirked, 'and that it might even bring back some memories…'
'Madeleine!' interrupted Renton. 'You'll make Meitchars blush. And anyway, this all looks a bit pedestrian compared to what I rem…'
'Renton!' re-interrupted Madeleine. 'You and your memory need reminding that…'
'OK, OK, better drop that for now and…' But then he forgot to finish his sentence, because his attention had been caught by something that was entirely unpedestrian. It was three pairs of ladies' briefs, in various shades of pink, which, unlike the other mobiles in this place, were not simply slithering slowly, but were instead rushing up and down their host legs at such speed that they were almost a blur. And standing next to them was a museum attendant, a short stocky insectal with a green head - who seemed quite unperturbed - quite unconcerned with these turbo-charged togs in his charge…
'It's the field from his maser,' said Meitchars. 'He must have it switched on.'
'Shit!' observed Madeleine.
'Yes, shit,' agreed Renton. And then the attendant was drawing his maser, and they were in it: the shit - because they'd not got a maser between them. They'd had to hand them in at the entrance.
And then their training engaged - with Madeleine taking the lead. Her knowledge of the geography of the building required her to do so.
'This way. To the door over there.'
And the three of them were off. Renton followed Madeleine straight to the door as indicated. Meitchars took the scenic route, knocking over as many of the half-dressed half-mannequins as he could, anything to create a confusion. And it worked. As the first maser blasts shattered the peace of this smalls-infested emporium, they were well wide of their mark. The only casualties were a clutch of the exhibits. They would never rise to the occasion - or fall to it - ever again.
Then the three of them were into a corridor. But so too were two more “attendants”, both with their masers drawn and apparently murder on their mind. Madeleine stopped and drew her handbag and prepared to fire it. It was enough. Their would-be assailants flinched, and Renton was onto one of them and Meitchars cartwheeled into the second. They were both unconscious before they hit the floor. Renton's modules and Meitchars' prowess were both proving their worth. Renton took one maser and Meitchars threw the other to Madeleine. 'Where to now?' he asked.
'To the end of the corridor and left,' instructed Madeleine. 'There's a door there that leads into one of the main galleries. And I think there's a fire exit there - just up some stairs.'
'OK, Madeleine. Renton, you go first. I'll follow. Come on. Let's go.'
And with that they were away. It was no time to stay and debate their position.
Renton led the way into the main gallery. It was the one full of barrage bloomers, the tethered undies of yesteryear. It was also full of more maser-wielding attendants. Whoever they were, they had taken over the whole museum - with, it appeared, just one purpose in mind: to extinguish two knights and a Dustforce officer. The air exploded into maser fire in an instant - and all of it coming their way.
None of Renton's modules had dealt with the most effective use of floating pants as cover against incoming enemy fire. But he improvised. He found rolling around on the floor and firing between the tether wires to be a reasonably successful approach. And that's what Madeleine was doing too. But Meitchars wasn't.
He had no maser, but he had a little plasma knife; he always carried it. And he had those enormously long legs. And he was pronking all over the place using this little plasma knife to cut through as many of the tether wires as he could. Knickers were floating off from their moorings all over the place. The higher reaches of the room were becoming full of them.
As a pair of light-blue Y-fronts exploded into shreds near Renton's head, he heard Meitchars shouting.
'The stairs. Make for the stairs now!'
And so he did. And so did Madeleine. And the three of them made it to the bottom of the stairs together, all still alive and all still unscathed.
Renton looked up. Meitchars' liberating activities had done their job. There was now a cloud of lighter-than-air drawers floating all about the stairs - and providing as much cover for their flight as they would ever get. He didn't need any prompting. Neither did Madeleine. They were on up those stairs like their feet were on fire. But Meitchars was still at the bottom. He'd stayed behind to use his plasma knife for a spot of micro-surgery. His patient now lay wriggling on the floor with a new orifice in his throat. He could now sound like an organ pipe tuned to C sharp just by breathing. Only it didn't look as though he had a long career ahead of him. And Meitchars had a maser.
He gambolled his way up the stairs, maser blasts peppering the wall behind him as he arrived at the top. Then all three of them were out through a door and into a new corridor. A quiet and welcome change of scenery.
'What's along there, Madeleine?' asked Meitchers.
'A way onto the roof,' responded Madeleine. ' And then there's a fire escape down…'
'OK,' interrupted Meitchars. 'Sounds like the best way out. So what do we do, Renton?'
Renton hesitated just a split second and then snapped out his answer. 'Wait here till they come through the door, take out as many as we can, back down into knicker-world and then out through the main entrance.'
'Spot on, Renton. We'll make an old knight out of you yet.'
Renton could see that Madeleine was impressed and he felt very happy. Then there was no more time to feel anything. The hordes were through the door.
Twelve perished in the doorway. Meitchars' reactions were phenomenal. Then he took another six in their flight down the stairs, and the rest scattered through the forest of tethered pants, seemingly more aware of the condition of their own than of any of those on display.
Their devastating momentum was maintained - all the way through the museum - until they reached the cathedral-like entrance. For even Meitchars couldn't have run through the throng of villains that had gathered here. There must have been more than fifty of them, all of them still with their wits intact and with a very definite purpose in mind. It looked to be a bit of a no-hope situation. In fact, just the sort of situation to trigger exactly the same response from each of our outnumbered trio - and all in an instant. Renton and his two colleagues began to shoot upwards - upwards towards the supports for those giant smalls, the 'normous knickers hanging from the ceiling and the walls of the entrance hall. Their accuracy was astounding, and their assailants were astonished - and then shrouded - lost in the folds of dinosaur-sized drawers and parachute-sized pants. Yes, as the largest-ever-size lingerie drifted to the floor, it first confused and then it covered all those who had gathered there. And in no time at all, an army of thugs had been reduced to ineffectiveness by overwhelming underwear. Indeed, for the
first time in history, a band of brigands had been successfully subdued by a blanket of briefs.
Then they were out. The scudder was just a hundred yards away. Then just fifty yards, but with maser blasts around their heads. Then just ten with the air thick with blasts. Then they were in and Renton was into his drag-racing start. But when they were just a few hundred feet high he looped back over the museum and slowed. Just long enough for Meitchars to obliterate the two mini-cruisers that were parked on the far side of the museum. They were really working as a team now, and that teamwork would stop their pursuit. Or, at least, it might just slow it down…
As the scudder shot up into the upper atmosphere of Four-Uranus, Meitchars despatched a brief coded signal into the ether. Then he made a very rude remark. About the guys who'd attacked them. It borrowed from the theme of the museum - with a reference not quite to knickers, but to knicker-zone anatomy. It was a distinct lapse from his normal standard of chivalrous behaviour. But in the circumstances, it was hardly surprising.
22.
It was now nearly twenty-four hours since that briefest of messages had been sent by Meitchars. It had said just “down”, and it was Tickler code for something along the lines of “need to maintain complete communications blackout to avoid detection by enemy; don't expect to hear from us any time soon”. It had, of course, been intercepted by the enemy. But it was hardly going to help them. It told them nothing they didn't already know. And they would have expected it anyway.
That's why they'd resorted to Simmercill.
Simmercill looked out of the cruiser's bridgeroom. Peton's moon shone brightly in the blackness of space. Soon they would be close enough to make out Meitchers' scudder sitting on its barren surface. And Simmercill would have proved beyond doubt that he was more than a match for that cocky bastard.
He could have been mistaken for Meitchars himself, but he was a little broader in the shoulders and his eyes were totally different. They were evil eyes.
He knew all about Meitchars and all about his skills. About Meitchars' unparalleled ability to track spacecraft in hyper - when all he had was an exit trace… Well, it wasn't an unparalleled ability. Because Simmercill could do it too. And just as quickly. It was the reason he'd been stationed near Four-Uranus. Just in case those buffoons at the museum managed to make some monumental cock-up. And they had done. Unbelievably they'd let all three of those creeps get clean away. But not squeakily clean away. There was the scudder's unavoidable exit trace. And that was enough. This time they would have them. This time those bastards couldn't confound their way out of trouble. They were well and truly trapped.
Simmercill chuckled. He had his weather-front device switched on. As did his other five cruisers. There was nothing that smart-arse could do that he couldn't. Nothing.
And then he saw a dot on the moon's surface. It was the scudder. Just where he'd predicted it would be - and just where he wanted it to be. In his grasp.
Now he had to be careful. Despite every precaution they were taking, he had to assume that Meitchars might be aware of their presence. He was a tricky bastard as well as a cocky bastard. So nothing too smart. No clever assault where Meitchars and his cronies might have a chance to retaliate. And, of course, no pissing around with taking prisoners. None of that sort of nonsense. They'd just come within pho-on range and cook the sods. Then go and make sure they'd been crisped to a turn.
Simmercill shouted to his lieutenant. 'Lock the pho-on onto the scudder and wait for my command.'
His lieutenant complied, and then they both waited in silence. A minute passed and the pho-on ranger emitted a low buzzing. They were at last close enough. Simmercill had them in the palm of his hand. And now he was going to crush them.
'Activate!' he snapped. And the lieutenant flicked a switch on the pho-on ranger. Outside the bridgeroom window there was a sudden flash of light. The cruiser and the scudder, fifty miles below, were now linked by a dazzling blue beam. And visible from the cruiser was the new red colour of the scudder. For the scudder was now an oven, its casing red hot, its insides as well - and those that were in it would now be in Hell!
After ten seconds the beam disappeared. Simmercill didn't want to melt the scudder into a solid lump of metal. He wanted to have some trophies to take home with him. He especially wanted some relics of what had once been poor old Meitchars. Poor now-not-so-cocky old Meitchars.
He smiled and nodded to his lieutenant to take the cruiser down. They would land near the scudder and inspect their handiwork. But carefully. They would check for life signs as they went in. And they would keep the other five cruisers hovering overhead. Simmercill might be super-clever, but he still had to be super-careful. One could never take anything for granted with the likes of Meitchars. Even so, he was now pretty sure…
The cruiser was down. All was well. All was very well. There were no life signs. None at all. He'd killed them! He'd actually killed them! Time to put on those blasted spacesuits and take a walk. But it would be worth it. Even if they had to wait for the scudder to cool down. Mind, with a temperature of minus 200° out there, they'd not have to wait very long.
He took all but three of the cruiser's crew with him. They might as well earn their keep - and you couldn't be too careful. And so, when he started across the powdery surface of this small world, he was flanked by more than a hundred heavily armed soldiers - just in case. And above him he could see the comforting sight of his other five cruisers. 'Well, Meitchars,' he said to himself, 'even if you can manage a bit of resurrection, I'd like to see you get yourself out of this one'. He smiled in his fishbowl helmet. He felt very good.
And now they were at the scudder. It was a roasted black colour. 'Just like those bones inside,' he thought.
Then somebody put the lights on. This moon was a bright enough place to start with, but suddenly it became very bright. And then brighter still. And this extra illumination was from directly overhead. Simmercill looked up and saw that two of his cruisers were now incandescent fireballs. Then a third went. He couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible. He was hallucinating. He had to be. There must be something wrong with his air supply. He shook his head and looked up again - and the fourth cruiser went. And he thought he saw a scudder sprinting away from the growing fireball. Then another. And another.
The fifth cruiser went just as the ground bombardment started. Heavy-duty maser blasts were knocking holes in the moon's surface - and in the ranks of his soldiers. They were dropping like flies - when there was anything left of them to drop, that is.
It was time to go. Forget the bones. Just get back to the cruiser and clear off. Whoever had come to avenge the mighty Meitchars was playing for real. And Simmercill wanted no part of it.
He started to run - kangaroo leaps in the fractional gravity of this small moon. Then he saw a trapdoor open in the moon's surface - about fifty metres away. And somebody emerged, somebody with long legs just like his own. Then somebody else with regular legs. And then a third: somebody a little smaller than the first two. And they started running towards him - and what was left of his force. And the long-legged one was shooting at him.
In the last five seconds of his life he managed to cram in a large helping of disappointment and an even bigger scoop of agonizing bewilderment. In those five seconds he knew that Meitchars had stuffed him. With his two cronies here and his scudder-born cronies above, he had beaten him - hands down. And he just couldn't imagine in the name of something really unspeakable, how he could possibly have done that. Then he was dead. Meitchars had given him a heart bypass - of the maser variety: just past his heart but right through his lung.
So he didn't witness the demise of his last soldier a mere five seconds later, nor the demise of his cruiser just after that - as it made a very poor take off and ploughed into a cliff face no more than a mile or so away.
And by the time the scudder fleet had landed on the moon's surface, and its occupants, For-bin-Ah and the Pandiloop troopers, were being welcomed by Meitchars,
Madeleine and Renton, Simmercill's body was already a dry, frozen lump of meat, and no longer a match for anybody - let alone that living, long-legged cocky bastard who'd killed him.
But how had it happened?
23.
It had started with the “down” message beamed into space. In their desperate flight from Four-Uranus, Meitchars had already assumed that their assailants would track them through hyperspace - not immediately, but within a fairly short time. And then they would attack again. Hence the “down” transmission, Meitchars' first step in preparing for this next encounter. And, of course, he'd been right…
Any knight hearing this transmission would inevitably understand its coded meaning, the “I'm closing down communications to avoid detection” meaning. And any knight would include Grader. But one knight would know it had a second meaning, its code within a code meaning. If Meitchars was sending the message, For-bin-Ah would know that it meant “I'm heading for the fox-hole on Peton-Alpha. Need your help immediately.”
Peton-Alpha was Peton's moon. Many thousands of years ago it had been used as a nuclear test range. But so long ago, that nobody now remembered. Nobody anywhere knew of its deadly past. Except Meitchars and For-bin-Ah, and more recently, Renton. He'd been let in on the secret on his first day on Pandiloop. He'd been told of Peton-Alpha's deep underground shelter, used to protect the nuclear weapons testers - and that the shelter was still operative. And that, most important of all, it was one of the best hidey-holes in the universe. As well as being forgotten, it was invisible - with just one discreet trapdoor in the moon's surface leading to its depths, depths that were so deep that nobody snooping about above would detect any life-forms below. You were as hidden as you ever could be in that bunker. And even somebody as clever as Simmercill wouldn't know you were there.
Then it was all about timing. Making sure you were deep enough to avoid detection during the enemy's approach, but back to the surface quickly enough after his landing. And you were able to detect the landing with the equipment still functioning in the nuclear bunker. It also picked up For-bin-Ah's announcement of his arrival and the obliteration of the enemy's still airborne escort. His timing had been fantastic.
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