THE TRAILER SLEWED wildly. So did the tractor driver. So did the tractor. Instead of completing the turn the right-hand front wheel went over the edge of the spiral downramp next to the well.
Chip looked back at the hitch-wishbone. It would snap now. Well, it'd probably only been the C-clamp and the wire he'd wound around the porcupine-weld that had held it together for so long across very rough terrain. And there was no time to do anything now. The tractor and the trailer were not going anywhere—except possibly over the edge and all the way down.
"All off!" shouted Bronstein. "Cut the stuff we need off the trailer and toss it over the edge. We're going to have to run."
"Alas, I cannot run," complained the Korozhet. "My poor spines are so cramped from this bag. Abandon me! Virginia and I will hide here and the rest of you can draw pursuit."
"No," said Siobhan, "We must look after you. We'll lower you down first."
Chip cut the Crotchet's bag free with a single swipe of the Solingen. "Come on. You're the only one who claims to know where we're going. Grab me that rope, Ginny. I'll get him down quick."
"But I do not wish to be lowered." The Korozhet clacked his spines at him. "I will run."
"Tough shit." Chip pulled the rope through the top loops of cargo net.
"Methinks we rats will abseil with you," Melene comforted, while rolling a drum of diesel to the edge.
Doc, bent nearly double under a bag of alcohol bottles, agreed. "Yes. We have to use original ideas. I was going to lower these bottles. Once I have done that the logical thing is for us rats to abseil down too. We are needing to go down, Madam Korozhet, you said. . . ."
Chip swung the alien over the edge and began lowering. Siobhan flew down alongside her.
Meanwhile, Bronstein was furiously organizing, and Eamon was fiddling with last-minute touches on a trip wire attached to the limpet-mine on the jammed trailer. Chip saw O'Niel pat their doomed steed with a gentle wing. "You're a foine, foine device," the bat said thickly. "Eamon, you'll be seeing it be quick, will you now?"
"'Tis not a bat," gruffed Eamon, as he tensioned the wire.
O'Niel gave a mournful sniff. "I know. But it was a fine and a gallant companion."
Eamon shook his head. "'Tis a machine, O'Niel. But she'll go out wi' glory. A fine fiery send-off, fitting of a bat. And a number of her enemies with her. Now lend me a foot."
The Crotchet was down, and Chip and Ginny came to help carry the heavy stuff. One of the few things the humans could do better than anyone else was porter. They carried fertilizer bags and turfed them over the edge twenty yards from the rats' abseil-point.
On his second trip, Chip noticed that Nym was sitting quite still, pouring brandy down the air intake while patting the little tractor awkwardly. Snuffling all the while. Chip took his grappling iron in one hand and the rat in the other along to where the others were abseiling. Cursing all the while.
"They're on their way. GO, go, go!" shouted Bronstein, from higher up the ramp.
Chip realized with horror that he was going to have to abseil again. And worse, Ginny had no homemade harness, or any idea what to do.
He took a deep breath. "You'll have to get onto my back," he said, hoping he sounded calm to her. Trying to ignore the small booms of the expedient mines higher up the ramp, he rigged himself. He knew he couldn't afford to make any mistakes now, or they'd both fall and die. On the other hand, if he didn't move fast they'd be blown to glory along with the tractor and trailer.
She walked up close. "How do you want me to hold?" she asked with perfect faith.
Chip found that hard to deal with. "Tight. And you, Fluff, go down that rope. Chop-chop. Send it."
As calmly as possible, he lowered the two of them over the edge. Her body was warm against his. Very warm, very firm, very soft, very—very—
He forced himself to concentrate on the rope.
At least abseiling with double the weight was easier. But he'd swear he didn't even hear the vineyard tractors's last blast.
He did notice pieces of Maggot and masonry falling past. And then, they were falling too. Something had severed the rope. Fortunately a five-foot fall onto a pile of fertilizer granules wasn't going to kill them. And he managed, somehow, to spin them so that Ginny landed on him rather than vice versa.
The plump rat regarded them with a wry rat-smile. "Methinks that was definitely virgin on the ridiculous."
"Oh shut up, Fal," muttered Chip.
Fal chuckled. "Only if you'll tell me how you get it right in that position. Or is that the explanation for the virgin part, eh, Ginny?"
Just in time she realized he was teasing. She had been about to start on an impetuous tirade against Melene not being able to keep a secret. But he really didn't know. And, with a sudden shock, she also realized he wasn't really trying to be nasty. He was just . . . being Falstaff.
"Fal, you are ugly and your mother dresses you funny," she said sternly.
He grinned. "That's the spirit, girl. You'll make a proper rattess yet. Now get off the muck heap."
"What do you mean `muck heap'?" grumbled Chip.
Ginny laughed. "Fertilizer. That's the way soft-cyber logic works."
Chip grinned. "You understand it better than I do. Anyway, Fal, I'm sore, and bruised, and I'm tired. Why shouldn't I lie in the muck if I want to? Got nice company." Despite the words, he was trying to stand up.
Not fast enough to suit Fal. "Up, up!" he shouted. "I'm supposed to be collecting the muck into these bags while the rest of the thinner rats are off laying charges with the bats. Even your galago has gone along . . . with Doll, I think. Bronstein says that this brood-heart bit isn't likely to be unguarded, and we might want to blow it up. Besides, we need something for you humans to carry. To keep your feet on the ground, and your minds from wicked thoughts."
Pistol scampered up. "They can always carry us," he proclaimed. "I mean, when a human's in debt to the tune of fifty cases of whiskey, the least he could do would be to provide transport."
Ginny realized Chip might have more luck at getting to his feet if she let go of him. Still, it seemed a pity.
"Will you two get up so that I can collect the explosive, or are you just going to bang right there?" demanded Fal. "And, as you're back so quick, Pistol, you can help."
"Bang?" The one-eyed rat laughed wickedly. "Old Chip doesn't need any help. Does he, Ginny?"
She realized that she'd somehow passed imperceptibly from being an outsider, to being one of them. The thought brought a fierce glow. This was the first time in her life she'd ever felt that way.
The others began trickling back, as they gathered up as much of the fertilizer as possible.
" 'Tis to be hoped t'ose Maggots aren't fast runners," said O'Niel. "I set mine on three minutes."
"Indade, you're a fool, O'Niel," snapped Eamon. "I said to you—plain as day—two and a half!"
"Oh, foine. 'Tis a fool I am, now. Just because my claw slipped," muttered O'Niel.
"Indade?" said Eamon. "A drunken fool!"
"Will you two stop bickering? Let's go." Chip had shouldered two half-bags of fertilizer and was rolling one of the three dented twenty-five-liter drums of diesel that had made it down.
"We're waiting for Siobhan and Doc," said Melene.
Fal looked around. "And the Korozhet."
Ginny looked alarmed. "Where did he go? Och. I mean she, the Professor, go?"
Pistol pointed. "He went with Doc. They were arguing about—`the dialectic,' or some such."
Chip put his load down. "We'd better get after them. When Doc gets going he's unlikely to notice a little thing like a time fuse."
They found her first. By smell. Something very unpleasant had happened to Siobhan. Murder. Murder most foul. The twisted body lay just inside the access-tunnel mouth.
Bronstein bristled. "Her pack is missing. No Maggot ever takes anything."
With a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, Chip ran past the bats. The little body of Doc lay on top of the pile of fertilizer. For a moment he stood, frozen. Then he noticed a minuscule twitch of the nose. Fal and Melene arrived, full tilt.
"Whoreson! What the hell killed him?" demanded Fal.
Melene, who had dived onto the philosopher, was listening intently. "His heart is beating. But it is very faint."
Suddenly, it all fell into place in Chip's head. He grabbed Doc, and gathered Melene up too in the same armful. "Fal—Run!"
They sprinted. At the tunnel mouth, the remaining bats and remaining rats were congregated with Ginny and the galago.
Ginny looked up. "You've got Doc! The Professor must be in there too!" She turned, hastily, toward the tunnel.
Chip dropped his burdens and dived on her, bringing her down.
The galago shrieked as he flew from her shoulder. "I will go . . ."
Chip saw Pistol, moving like a blur, knock the little galago down.
Then, as he had foreseen, the charge in the tunnel went off.
"The Professor!" Virginia tried to scramble to her feet.
Chip hung onto her fiercely. "Don't you see, you little fool, the goddamn Crotchet killed Siobhan—and tried to kill Doc. It's a fucking murderer!"
She struggled. "NO! Never! He couldn't be! Korozhet are GOOD."
Bronstein's gargoyle face twisted. "Yes." The word sounded torn out of her. "But we can't go in there. The rest of the charges are due to go off at any moment. We must finish what the Korozhet wanted us to do."
Ginny struggled some more. "You go on. I must go back and see."
"You'll come with us," Chip said, half dragging her. "If I have to knock you out and carry you, you'll come with us now!"
"I won't!" she struggled hysterically.
He hit her. In the solar plexus. Hard. As her breath whoofed out, he grabbed her and began to run for the dark tunnel where the Korozhet had said their destination should be. He had a sinking feeling about that, too, now.
Chip dumped her, groaning, in the entry tunnel. He turned on the rats who had followed with Doc. "You let her out of here, and I'll kill you. Got me?"
"And if he doesn't, I will," said Bronstein grimly.
Chip ran to gather the bags they'd dropped on their way in. He'd just made it back when the various tunnel charges went off.
"I never ever want to speak to you again," Ginny said fiercely. "You left the Professor there to die, you . . . you Vat."
"Suits me, Shareholder bitch," he said, dragging the bags along past her. He didn't even look at her.
"Uh. Ginny." Someone plucked gently at her elbow. It was fat Fal, being uncharacteristically quiet. "The Korozhet wasn't in there. Honest. The only sign he'd ever been there was that smell. Ask Melene. And if Chip had let you back into that tunnel, methinks all that would have happened, would be that you'd have been killed too."
She sniffed back the angry tears. The inside of her head was a confused and miserable mess. Not a small part of her was wishing that she was dead. "He shouldn't have said that Professor had murdered people." It was a subconscious slip. They were "people" to her now.
Fal shrugged. "Chip's a valiant little whoreson, but he speaks his mind. I know it couldn't be true, but . . . be fair, Ginny. That is what it looks like."
"It's all so unfair!" she sobbed. "Thanks, Fal." She found herself hugging the most unlikely rat in the world.
"Gently, gently," said Fal, in faintly crushed tones, but speaking gently himself. He comforted: "Never mind Ginny. It'll all come right. If we ever get out of this we'll steal you the biggest box of candy in the whole world to give to him. Meanwhile, have a drink."
Bronstein fluttered up. "Come on, girl. Come on, you fat-rat. We must finish this now."
"Methinks 'tis typical of a bat," grumbled Fal, getting to his feet, "letting a little thing like an unfinished job get in the way of drinking and kinky sex."
The tunnel into the tower was typical of a Magh' structure. It was a wide spiral inwards. After about fifty feet of cautious advance they found something that wasn't, in their experience, typical of Magh' architecture.
A door.
It wasn't a human-type door, though. It was a circular structure, with a spiral of interlocking black plates. Chip reached out and touched it. At this stage he was still so mad he didn't care if that had got him killed. He'd saved her damn life! And all she cared about was that murderous ball of prickles!
The door certainly wasn't metallic. It felt more like some kind of gritty hardwood.
"To be sure if there's a door this must be an important place," said Bronstein. "Well, let's blow it. Shot holes . . ."
"Why bother?" Chip asked, pushing the panel upwards. It had moved when he'd put his hand to it. It opened like a camera iris, the plates spiraling into the wall. Warm, sticky air gushed out. The air carried a prickly "green" scent with it, reminiscent of fresh-cut bell peppers.
Chip stepped through the gap. And stopped. The tower was perhaps six hundred meters tall. The roof of the chamber they stood in was fully half that height. And it was full of racks. Endless vertical racks about a foot apart, going almost up to the roof. A soft champing noise came from the quarter-mile high grub-racks of the scorpiary. "Oh, fuck me," said Chip.
And not even Doll said "not now, I've got a headache."
Eamon came fluttering up. "Maggots are coming down the walls. Pouring down, like, like . . . Maggots."
O'Niel fluttered up as well. "Well, boyos. I hope this was where you'd be wanting to go. Because, indade, there's no going back." There was an explosion.
"Just the tunnel mouth," said Eamon.
Then there was a long slow rumble. Ginny and the galago hastily bundled in. Nym spiraled the door shut on a last view of the tunnel filling up with fine sand.
There was a long silence. Then Chip spoke quietly. "Well. That's it. We're stuck. This is the wrong address. And that was obviously the last ditch defense. I'll bet the whole thing has a double hollow wall, full of that fine stuff. We can't even dig our way out."
Bronstein looked around. "To be sure, we won't be lonely. It looks as if we have several hundred million baby Maggots due to join us, shortly."
"I wonder if they're born hungry?" asked Chip.