by Andre Norton
The freighter's hatches were open, blown off by the force of the explosion. He ran for the sternmost one and half climbed, half dropped below. To his relief, the seacocks were where he expected to find them, and he threw them open, letting the cold ocean water into as many of the holds as were low enough to receive it.
That done, the spacer returned to the deck and darted once more to the prow.
He had come up none too soon. One of the fires was already licking the Salty Sue's side.
Jellico's tongue ran across dry lips. The metal plates would not burn, but her deck would once the flames came so far.
That was irrelevant. As far as he knew, the ammonium nitrate inside did not require the actual touch of fire to go up. A significant rise in temperature would probably accomplish that just as effectively.
The fire guns, too, were stored where reason and his knowledge of similar vessels said they should be. He freed the one closest to the charging fires. Now, if only it still functioned. Equipment like this was built to keep on working under emergency conditions, but an explosion of such magnitude at such proximity . . .
The foam came. Miceal played it on the nearest fire, driving it back, away from the ship, then sprayed a longer stream on the second blaze that was making fast inroads toward her.
For the first time, he felt a touch of relief. As long as the press of battle remained close to this level, he should be able to hold the ship, provided the gun kicked over to seawater when the supply of foam was exhausted. There were others, of course, but none quite so well situated, and there was no guarantee any of them would work if this one did not.
Twenty minutes went by. A third fire was challenging the Sally Sue, bigger and hotter than the others and stronger by a large measure in its advance.
Great black clouds of hot smoke formed its van. The stuff stank, and he wondered precisely what was feeding it. His throat and chest felt as if they were burning in their turn with every breath of it that he was compelled to draw.
The stream of foam sputtered suddenly and was gone.
For an eternal instant, he was left with a limp feeder hose in his left hand, then it stiffened once more, and a strong, cold, silver river shot from the gun.
It looked lovely in that moment, but the man's eyes followed it somberly. The supply might be unlimited, but water was not as efficient as foam, and all the fires on the dock were rapidly gaining in strength, threatening to merge into one overwhelming conflagration.
They were definitely attacking along a wider front. It was a rare moment now when he was not faced with a serious assault, usually with more than one, and not a moment at all when the ultimate hopelessness of his stand was not starkly apparent to him.
Miceal acknowledged his doom when he finally noticed the barrels. There were about twenty of them lying in a jumble on the farther side of the dock, where the flames and smoke had combined to screen them from his sight and awareness. A sudden, brief clearing of the air revealed them, tall, sturdy metal cylinders with the word benzol emblazoned across them. He did not know how much heat that stuff could take, but he imagined there was a point, probably not terribly high, at which it would go up. When that happened, the Sa7/y Sue would follow, and they would all die, Rael, himself, everyone in Canuche Town and what remained of Canuche Town itself. She was carrying so much more ammonium nitrate than the Man's that total obliteration was a certainty.
28
Rael Cofort's head remained bowed. She should be with the Queen's Captain, fighting this battle beside him, if need be, dying beside him.
Her hands balled. He had been right to order her to stay where she was. She had her own business here, a patient in deep need of help, and she was patently unfit for heavy work. Her efforts to examine Keil's injuries had so aggravated her own that it was taking all her will not to surrender, not to sit back and give herself over to the pain rending her side.
That could not even be considered. She was a Medic, and she would function as one while the need was there and life remained in her, whatever her own discomfort and whether she was fated to die before her work was completed or not.
Keil Roberts was severely wounded. If he did not get into surgery, he would die of those injuries eventually, but she could patch him up well enough to hold him until he could be flown out.
The missile transfixing him could not be removed. She would have been afraid to try that alone even if she were physically equal to the task. There was too much danger that she would not be able to stanch the ensuing hemorrhage rapidly enough. He had lost too much blood already, and any further significant drain would severely compromise him.
She would need bandages. Rael went to the rear seat of the flier and drew her knife from her belt. Working swiftly, she cut what was left of the tunic off the dead woman and ripped it into large strips, then returned to her patient.
Luckily, the full weight of the huge missile had not come directly down on him. His right leg had been caught and viciously torn, but the massive thing pressed on him in such a way as to greatly retard the flow of blood. He was still alive because of that, but the respite was only temporary. The slow, steady drain had already badly weakened him, and unless it was brought to a stop soon, it would kill him.
The woman crawled and squirmed along the floor of the transport until she was beside Roberts and able to work on his injuries. It was a cramped, punishing position, but she could function. That was all she could allow to matter. She fixed her concentration on what she had to do, ignoring the agony that was her body. Fortunately, Keil could not see her face and was probably too absorbed in his own pain to be aware of any discomfort she was not strong enough to conceal.
It was slow work, but at last she was able to wriggle back out and creep to the door of the transport, where she could sit upright and rest for a few moments supported by the seat and metal frame. Her eyes closed, and she struggled to breathe evenly, fearing that any deep or ragged movement
of her chest would sharpen the agony in her side to the point that it would overpower her. It would not take much more at all to do that.
The worst stabbing soon lessened with the easing of her position. The Medic straightened and carefully studied her patient.
She was satisfied. He was deathly pale, of course, and in pain, but he seemed to have weathered her treatment well enough. There was no more she could -do for him now except offer support and encouragement until help arrived. If they or anyone else were around much longer to give or receive it.
For the first time, Rael permitted herself to look in the direction of the Salty Sue. Her heart gave a great leap. It was a terrible sight, and it was magnificent. Flames were clearly visible now. The several small fires had grown fewer and larger as one had merged into another, presenting a far more formidable and threatening aspect. At present, three of them actively imperiled the freighter, and those Jellico was struggling to hold at bay.
Pride swelled in her even as tears blurred her eyes.
Courage was necessary to a starship Captain, but to her mind it was one thing to face the dangers, known and unknown, of interstellar travel, even the blasters and lasers of a pirate wolf pack, and another to stand alone against the awesome, mindless primal power of fire.
Her hands clenched and whitened by her sides. It was a foredoomed effort! The dock provided too much fuel for the flames. They would swell and grow until no individual could hope to oppose their advance . . .
"He needs help," Keil observed quietly.
She glanced at him, then nodded and came to her feet, stifling the gasp the movement drew from her. Her work here was finished, and she was needed on the deck of the Sally Sue.
"Rael!"
She turned quickly. Van Rycke and Dane Thorson! "Miceal!" she shouted, pointing to the ship. "The Captain!
He's trying to save that freighter. She's loaded with ammonium nitrate!"
29
Dane took one look at the war his commander was waging and broke into a run.
H
is young body was hard and unwearied by the fast but relatively untrying advance he and Van Rycke had made to the coast. The rugged way ahead of him did little to slow him even when he had to jump or detour around some major obstacle, and he reached the pier in rather less time than Jellico had taken.
Once there, he did stop. He frowned. Why was the Captain turning his gun on the back of the dock, just about at the limit of its useful range? There was fire enough far closer to claim his attention . . .
He saw the barrels, probably the remnants of a larger consignment, the most of which must have been flung into the water during the explosion and its aftermath. The better part of these had been knocked over as well but had stayed fairly near to one another. The flames were licking at the closest of them.
His eyes darkened. He recognized as well as Jellico had before him the danger they represented. The containers were obviously well insulated, but they were designed to guard against mischance, not long-term, direct contact with open fire. The contents must be getting perilously close to the explosion point.
If even one of them went, that would be the end. The rest would rupture and go up in almost the same moment and the freighter a breath's space later. Even if by some miracle she did not, she would have taken fire many times over, multiple fires that would set her off in a matter of minutes.
The end result would be the same.
The Cargo-apprentice dove through the tall, narrow band of flame assaulting them, moving so quickly that he gave the fire no time to bite on him. He flung himself at the nearest barrel, seizing it in his arms and shoving it back toward the edge of the dock.
He released it again in the next moment with a sharp cry.
The metal was hot, not quite glowing but not terribly far from it. His flesh felt as if it were searing beneath his clothing.
Steeling himself, he grasped the cylinder again. Tears welled in his eyes. His gloves were giving his hands some protection, but the lighter tunic provided little defense for his chest or arms. They were burning.
Cursing, he manhandled his burden to the end of the pier, flung it over.
He did not pause to listen for the hiss of hot metal striking cold seawater or to see the answering rise of steam or splash. The other barrels were in equal danger, presented an equal threat. Each would have to be served in the same manner.
The next one was on its side. It would roll easily, but he would have to use his knees as well as his hands.
It was no less hot than its predecessor. As he had anticipated, his trousers gave no greater protection than the tunic had, and this time the pain in his hands equaled anything he felt elsewhere. They were already damaged, and the gloves were only meant to guard against the hazards of rough manual labor, not to meet the challenge of fire and extreme heat. He could not have expected them to shield him forever.
The burning increased with every moment he remained in contact with the metal. The apprentice wondered how he would be able to endure that level of punishment long enough to dispose of this barrel, and his heart and courage sank at the thought of the eighteen more remaining after it. All of them had to be removed, or his efforts would be valueless.
It would not be that bad, he told himself savagely, not all of it. The third barrel, aye, he would suffer with that one, but the others were farther back, out of direct contact with the flames and at least a little distant from their heat. They should not be so brutally hot.
He staggered toward his next target only to be driven back from it. Jellico had seen him and had been trying to give him as much cover as possible, but another of the fires had pushed too close to the ship, and the Captain had been compelled to switch his attention to that, leaving this front free to continue its assault.
Thorson pushed right into its shimmering shadow. What difference whether he seared himself like a steak against the container or was turned into a human torch, he thought bitterly. He would die equally painfully either way.
For one instant, he thought he would take fire, but though his exposed skin blistered, he managed to push the barrel over and out of the flames' direct reach. It was not
quite as hot as the others, he judged as he rolled it toward the edge. It had not been on the front line as long as the other two. Hope stirred in his heart. If that held true for the rest, and the effect was magnified by distance, then he might win this impossible race. Even with the hungry fire advancing unchecked and himself already fairly severely burned, he should be able to shift reasonably cool barrels quickly enough to put them once and for all out of danger.
They were not all that heavy in themselves, and he was nothing if not experienced in moving cargo by this time.
What would happen to him after that was another matter, but it was not his immediate concern, and he refused to allow himself to dwell on it. The task before him demanded his full attention.
miceal started at the sight of a movement, a man, opposite him on the dock. At first, he thought it was an illusion, delirium even, the product of smoke and flame and his own imagination, augmented by the increasingly pungent fumes he was compelled to breathe, sickening and weakening him beyond any weariness. He recognized Thorson then, but before he could try to shout instructions to him, the young man realized their peril and moved of his own accord to dispose of the barrels.
The Captain cringed at the thought of how hot that metal had to be, but there was no help for it. They had to be dumped.
Was that still possible? The apprentice had proven his courage and determination often enough, but he had never been challenged like this. The cost of every contact with those containers and the ever-present, ever-increasing horror of the fire itself would have been sufficient to break an older, more experienced man, whatever his knowledge of the stakes riding on him. Jellico could not say how much of it he himself could have taken.
There was almost nothing he could do to help. Those barrels were located right at the limit of the fire gun's range. Its stream reached barely far enough to discourage the fire from sweeping over Dane, and even that pitiful defense would have to be terminated long before the job was done.
The Sally Sue was under too heavy an assault herself . . .
Miceal whipped the fire gun down, training its muzzle on the dock just before him. An arm of fire had worked its way along the pier and was licking right at the ship's side almost at his feet.
It was a small advance, and he was not long in driving it back, but the three major fires had now become one.
Jellico's heart was heavy. Thorson's suffering and sacrifice were for nothing. He would not be able to keep up his own part. He would be able to hold out a few minutes more, five or perhaps ten, but the deadly little fires had become a conflagration that would soon sweep over him and the ship he was battling to save. He would go down still fighting, but that would be small comfort to those he had failed to save. It had just been too big a task for only one man . . .
A thud sounded beside him as someone sprang onto the deck. His head turned sharply. Jan Van Rycke! The Cargo-Master grinned but said nothing as he raced for the nearest fire gun, seized and activated it. It functioned, praise the Spirit ruling Space, and a powerful stream of foam belted a gap in that part of the fire wall nearest them.
Three minutes later, another stream joined it from a point near the freighter's middle. Rael!
Miceal's spirit sang. This equipment was designed to handle major trouble—witness the stand he had been able ' to make alone guarding so broad a front. With the three of them manning the guns, they had a chance—not a cer- tainty—but for the first time a true chance of defeating the primal force before them.
They had won. They had seen the fire fall back, great patches of it dying under cold water and smothering foam, well before the air above them had suddenly filled with Fire Department fliers, all spilling what had seemed like half an ocean of foam.
Jellico smiled at the memory as he wearily leaned back against his pillow. The four spacers had just about drowned along with the fla
mes, but he did not recall hearing any protests. He himself certainly had not been inclined to object.
A knock brought him back to his present surroundings.
It had been soft and rather timid and was not immediately repeated. Rael Cofort.
He sat up quickly and began refastening the collar snaps on his tunic. "Come in," he called as he pressed the last into place.
The woman obeyed instantly. She had Queex with her, draped over her arm, but almost without thinking, she set him on Jellico's desk. Her eyes fixed on the Captain's face, studying him intently. His voice had sounded hoarse, but that was nothing, merely the result of the abuse his throat and lungs had taken. It would clear up of its own accord soon enough.
"Mr. Wilcox said you'd knocked out," she said.
"Mr. Wilcox should keep his mouth shut," he grumbled.
"Not with me pestering him. — You're all right, Mi- ceal?"
"Aye. I just started running out of fuel. Since there's no need to play ultraman at the moment, I decided to call it an evening."
"Smart move. It's no fun having one's lungs scrubbed."
She moved closer to him and touched her fingertips to his forehead, "There doesn't seem to be any fever."
"I told you I was all right," he responded irritably.
"I know, but I am a Medic. Habit's hard to break."
She turned to the desk. "I guess we should leave and let you get some rest."
"No. Stay a bit."
Jellico's cabin was full size, unlike hers, and was outfitted with a permanent desk and a chair.
She released the seat from its fastenings and drew it next to the wide bunk.
Miceal saw her grimace as she sat down, and now it was his turn to examine her closely. "Eight broken ribs. I knew you were hurt, but I didn't think it was that bad."