I was alone now, except for the ominous sphere behind the screen. I hoped for a caller, though. I went to the door which leaned aslant against the rough brick wall outside and unlatched it, maneuvered it into place and dropped the pins back in the hinges, then closed and relatched it.
I went back to the over-stuffed room, started looking through drawers, riffling through papers on the desk. I hoped for something—something that might give me a hint of what Bale planned. I didn’t find any hints, but I did find a long-barrelled twenty-two revolver, loaded. That helped. I hadn’t given much thought to what I would do when Bale got here. I was in no condition to grapple with him; now I had a reasonable chance.
I picked out a hiding place to duck into when and if I heard him coming, a storeroom in the hall, between the bomb and the door. I found a small liquor cabinet and poured myself two fingers of sherry.
I sat in one of the fancy chairs, and tried to let myself go limp. I was using up too much energy in tension. My stomach was a hard knot. I could see the edge of the bomb behind its screen from where I sat. I wondered if there would be any warning before it detonated. My ears were cocked for a click or a rumble from the silent grey city-killer.
The sound I heard was not a click; it was the scrape of shoes on wood, beyond the door. I sat paralyzed for a moment, then got to my feet, stepped to the storeroom and eased behind the door. I loosened the revolver in my pocket and waited.
The sounds were closer now, gratingly loud in the dead silence. Then a key scraped in the lock, and a moment later the tall thin figure of Chief Inspector Bale, traitor, shuffled into view. His small bald head was drawn down between his shoulders, and he looked around the room almost furtively. He pulled off his coat, and for one startled instant I thought he would come to my storeroom to hang it up; but he threw it over the back of a chair.
He went to the screen, peered at the bomb. I could easily have shot him, but that wouldn’t have helped me. I wanted Bale to let me know whether the bomb was armed, if it could be moved. He was the only man in the Imperium who knew how to handle this device.
He leaned over the bomb, took a small box from his pocket and stared at it. He looked at his watch, went to the phone. I could barely hear his mutter as he exchanged a few words with someone. He went into the next room, and as I was about to follow to prevent his using the shuttle, he came back. He looked at his watch again, sat in a chair, and opened a small tool kit which lay on the table. He started to work on the metal box with a slender screwdriver. This, then, was the arming device. I tried not to breathe too loud, or to think about how my legs ached.
Shocking in the stillness, the phone rang. Bale looked up, startled, laid the screwdriver and box on the table, and went over to the phone. He looked down at it, chewing his lip. After five rings it stopped. I wondered who it was.
Bale went back to his work. Now he was replacing the cover on the box, frowning over the job. He got up, went to the bomb, licked his lips and leaned over it. He was ready now to arm the bomb. I couldn’t wait any longer.
I pushed the door open, and Bale leaped upright, grabbing for his chest, then jumped for the coat on the chair.
“Stand where you are, Bale,” I said. “I’d get a real kick out of shooting you.”
Bale’s eyes were almost popping from his head, his head was tilted back, his mouth opened and closed. I got the impression that I had startled him.
“Sit down,” I said. “There.” I motioned with the pistol as I came out into the room.
“Bayard,” Bale said hoarsely. I didn’t say anything. I felt sure now that the bomb was safe. All I had to do was wait until the crew arrived, and turn Bale over to them. Then we could carry the bomb to the shuttle, and send it off into the Blight. But I was feeling very bad now.
I went to a chair, and sank down. I tried not to let Bale see how weak I was. I leaned back, and tried breathing deep through my nose again. If I started to pass out I would have to shoot Bale; he couldn’t be left free to threaten the Imperium again.
It was little better now. Bale stood rigid, staring at me.
“Look, Bayard,” he said. “I’ll bring you in on this with me. I swear I’ll give you a full half share. I’ll let you keep B-I Two as your own, and I shall take the home line; there’s plenty for all. Just put that gun aside…” He licked his lips, started towards me.
I started to motion with the gun, squeezed the trigger instead. A bullet slapped Bale’s shirt sleeve, smacked the wall. He dropped down into the chair behind him. That was close, I thought. That could have killed him. I’ve got to hold on.
I might as well impress him a little, I thought. “I know how to use this pop gun, you see,” I said. “Just a quarter of an inch from the arm, firing from the hip; not bad, don’t you agree? Don’t try anything else.”
“You’ve got to listen to me, Bayard,” Bale said. “Why should you care what happens to these popinjays? We can rule as absolute monarchs.”
Bale went on, but I wasn’t listening. I was concentrating on staying conscious, waiting for the sounds of help arriving.
“…take one moment, and we’re off. What about it?”
Bale was looking at me, with a look of naked greed. I didn’t know what he had been saying. He must have interpreted my silence as weakness; he got up again, moved toward me. It was darker in the room; I rubbed my eyes. I was feeling very bad now, very weak. My heart thumped in my throat, my stomach quivered. I was in no shape to be trying to hold this situation in check alone.
Bale stopped, and I saw that he suddenly realized that I was blacking out. He crouched, and with a snarl jumped at me. I would have to kill him. I fired the pistol twice, and Bale reeled away, startled, but still standing.
“Hold on, Bayard, for the love of God,” he squealed. I was still alive enough to kill him. I raised the pistol, aimed and fired. I saw a picture jump on the wall. Bale leaped aside. I didn’t know if I had hit him yet or not. I was losing my hold, but I wouldn’t let him get away. I fired twice more, peering from my chair, and I knew it was the light in my mind fading, not the room. Bale yelled; I saw that he didn’t dare to try for the door to the hall or the room where the shuttle waited. He would have to pass me. He screamed as I aimed the pistol with wavering hands, and dived for the other door. I fired and heard the sound echo through a dream of blackness.
* * * *
I wasn’t out for more than a few minutes; I came to myself, sitting in the chair, the pistol lying on my lap. The screen had fallen over, and lay across the bomb. I sat up, panicky; maybe Bale had armed it. And where was Bale? I remembered only that he had dashed for the next room. I got up, grabbed for the chair again, then got my balance, made my way to the door. There was a strange sound, a keening, like a cat in the distant alley. I looked into the room, half expecting to see Bale lying on the floor. There was nothing. The light streamed through an open window, a curtain flapped. Bale must have panicked and jumped, I thought. I went to the window, and the keening started up again.
Bale hung by his hands from the eave of the building across the alley, fifteen feet away. The sound came from him. The left leg of his trousers had a long stain of blackish red on it, and drops fell from the toe of his shoe, five stories to the brick pavement below.
“Good God, Bale,” I said. “What have you done?” I was horrified. I had been ready to shoot him down, but to see him hanging there was something else again.
“Bayard,” he croaked, “I can’t hold on much longer. For the love of God…”
What could I do? I was far too weak for any heroics. I looked around the room frantically for an inspiration; I needed a plank or a piece of rope. There was nothing. I pulled a sheet off the bed; it was far too short. Even two or three would never make it. And I couldn’t hold it even if I could throw it and Bale caught it. I ran to the phone.
“Operator,” I called. “There’s a man about to fall from a roof. Get the fire department here with ladders, fast; seventy-one Ostermalmsgatan, fifth floor.”
I dropped the phone, ran back to the window. “Hold on, Bale,” I said. “Help’s on the way.” He must have tried to leap to the next roof, thinking that I was at his heels; and with that hole in his leg he hadn’t quite made it.
I thought of Bale, sending me off on a suicide mission, knowing that my imposture was hopeless as long as I stood on my own legs; I thought of the killer shuttle that had lain in wait to smash us as we went in; of the operating room at the hideout, where Bale had planned to carve me into a shape more suitable for his purpose. I remembered Bale shooting down my new-found brother, and the night I had lain in the cold cell, waiting for the butcher; and still I didn’t want to see him die this way.
He started to scream suddenly, kicking desperately. He got one foot up on the eave beside his white straining hands; it slipped off. Then he was quiet again. I had been standing here now for five minutes. I wondered how long I had been unconscious. Bale had been there longer now than I would have thought possible. He couldn’t last much longer.
“Hold on, Bale,” I called. “Only a little while. Don’t struggle.”
He hung, silent. Blood dripped from his shoe. I looked down at the alley below and shuddered.
I heard a distant sound, a siren, howling. I dashed to the door, opened it, listened. Heavy footsteps sounded below.
“Here,” I shouted, “all the way up.”
I turned and ran back to the window. Bale was as I had left him. Then one hand slipped off, and he hung by one arm, swinging slightly.
“They’re here, Bale,” I said. “A few seconds…”
He didn’t try to get a new hold. He made no sound. Feet pounded on the stairs outside and I yelled again.
I turned back to the window as Bale slipped down, silent. I didn’t watch. I heard him hit—twice.
I staggered back, and the burly man called, looked out the window, milled about. I made my way back to the chair, slumped down. I was empty of emotion. There was a noise all around me, people coming and going. I was hardly conscious of it. After a long time I saw Hermann, and then Barbro was leaning over me. I reached for her hand, hungrily.
“Take me home, Barbro,” I said.
I saw Manfred.
“The bomb,” I said. “It’s safe. Put it in the shuttle and get rid of it.”
“My crew is moving it now, Brion,” he said.
“You spoke of home, just now,” Goering put in. “Speaking for myself, and I am sure also for Manfred, I will make the strongest recommendation that in view of your extraordinary services to the Imperium you be dispatched back to your home as soon as you are well enough to go, if that is your wish. I hope that you will stay with us. But it must be for you to make that decision.”
“I don’t have to decide,” I said. “My choice is made. I like it here, for many reasons. For one thing, I can use all the old clichés from B-I Three, and they sound brand new; and as for home…” I looked at Barbro:
“Home is where the heart is.”
THE END