Part 2

Wolf looked at his five dependables. He passed each face slowly, as if he had never seen them before. They were young, and old, and middle-aged. They were dark from the hours in the sun, strong from the work that pulled their muscles for the long hours each day. They smiled at him, grimly, nervous, but they were good men.

_The faces of freedom_, Wolf thought. _These are the faces and the bodies of freedom._

Then it was time.

* * * * *

The streets were lined with silent people when the procession came into view around the slight curve.

Then there was a tentative cheer from someone. It was taken up by someone else, and soon the crowd was roaring its synthetic appreciation of Administrator Mayne Landing. Wolf breathed easier.

Craning his neck in the crowd, Wolf spotted the other five, standing dispersed in the crowd, but all near the spot on the street opposite the tailor's shop. They made no acknowledgement except meeting his eyes, then turning away to watch the procession near.

As they came closer, Wolf noted with satisfaction that several of the guards occasionally glanced at the street behind them.

Good. They had seen the knot of men outside town, then. If they expected anything, they were expecting it from behind them.

He could see the tall, straight figure of Mayne Landing in the ground car. He took in the familiar face almost hungrily, the great shock of white hair moving gently in the slight breeze, the characteristic gesture, a half-salute, the slight smile, the kindly eyes of the old man--

He tore his eyes away from the dignified figure and glanced behind him, down the street. He saw a figure move on a roof-top, and wondered if the guards saw it, too.

Then the ground car was opposite, and Wolf had a wrenching sensation that the diversionary squad was not going to go through with it....

An explosion rocked the street a block away, shaking the ground underfoot, shattering windows in the adjacent stores. A billow of dirty black smoke began to drift toward the sky. There was a scattering of small, explosive fire.

The tone of the crowd's roar changed. It deepened and became a mass cry of confusion and fright.

Quietly, Wolf edged forward to the street, automatically noting that his men were doing the same. Several of the guards had turned, were running back toward the source of the excitement, and others were turned toward it. But those around Mayne Landing had not responded. They were keeping their eyes fixed on the crowd. They were too well trained to be drawn off, and Wolf cursed under his breath.

He stopped his forward motion and waited, rocking on the balls of his feet. This was the part he hadn't told his five about.

Suddenly there was a flurry in the crowd on the opposite side of the street. The nearest guard whirled, in time to draw his hand gun and fire. The first of the five sprawled in the street, a bloody stump where his head had been. But the guard's blast had not been in time to stop the long mowing knife that buried itself to the hilt in his throat. He lurched forward, dropping the hand gun. His momentum carried him almost into the edge of the crowd, and a woman screamed hysterically.

Wolf's other men had been only a fraction of a second behind the first, and the street was now a chaos of shouting and the sharp, flat reports of the guards' hand guns. The crowd milled frantically, adding to the confusion as the attackers leaped at the procession.

Wolf waited, waited, watching for the single split-second when the guards were fully engaged with the crowd.

Then it came, and their heads were momentarily turned away from Mayne Landing.

Wolf sprinted from the crowd, the short stiletto cradled in his hand. He leaped to the side of the ground car just as Mayne Landing turned toward him.

He saw the old man's face clearly in that moment. It held no fear, but only an unbelievable surprise, an astonishment beyond understanding. Then the stiletto slid gently into the throat, severing the jugular, and all surprise and emotion was lost in the implacable blank agony of death. The still-pumping heart forced a pulsing stream of bright arterial blood around the blade of the knife.

Then, as quickly as he had come, Wolf was gone. He slipped back through the crowd, into the door of the tailor shop. Seconds later, Joseph Carroll was there, one side of his gray farmer's tunic turning brown-black from the blood that soaked it.

"Come on!" Carroll snapped, running for the back.

"What about the others?"

"Gone," said the old man shortly. "All of them." He dashed out the door of the tailor shop into the back and Wolf followed him.

"Daimya!" Wolf shouted.

"She's waiting for us in the foothills."

The sound of the crowd and the blasting of hand guns was loud behind them as they began their dash across the checkered fields. For a few moments, nothing followed. Then Wolf heard a faint shout behind them, and a huge gout of dirt erupted from the field beside him, almost knocking him down.

He regained his balance and started to run low, crouched and zig-zagging while the tiny explosive pellets pocked the field around him. It seemed an eternity before they had crossed the field, but he knew it was not more than a couple of minutes.

Joseph Carroll was ahead of him, already beginning to tear through the scrub growth of the foothills, making his way up. Just as he entered the undergrowth, Wolf saw the old man joined by a smaller, slighter figure.

There was a roar in his ears, and he fell, a searing pain across his back. Numbly, he realized he'd been hit, but somehow it didn't seem important. He picked himself up and followed Carroll into the scrub. Soon he was out of sight of their pursuers, though the explosions of their weapons still followed them with uncanny accuracy.

He caught up with the old man and his daughter in a small clearing. Carroll lay with his head cradled in Daimya's lap, gasping for breath.

"We've got to go on," Wolf said. "Come on, I'll help."

"You're hurt!" the girl said.

"Not badly. Come on, we've got to get your father out of here!"

The old man put his arms around the shoulders of the other two, and they struggled up the hill, breaking their way through the brush, slipping, sometimes falling. Behind them, there was still the occasional sound of the explosive pellets, and infrequently, one came very near.

"Close," muttered Wolf as an explosion showered them with dirt. "They're on the path now."

They went a few steps farther, and Joseph slumped between them.

"Dad!" called Daimya. "Please! Please try to go on!"

Wolfs hand slid down the old man's back, came away warm and wet.

He was silent for a moment, then gently lowered the suddenly limp body to the ground.

"Come on," he said to Daimya. The girl was standing over the inert form of her father, not understanding what had happened, words of encouragement still on her lips.

"Dad?" she said, bewildered.

Wolf took her arm. "Daimya, he's gone. Come on."

"No--Dad--" She knelt beside him on the ground.

"Sorry, Daimya," Wolf said under his breath. He swung, hitting her cleanly behind the head. The girl collapsed soundlessly, and he slung her over his shoulder and started on up the hill.

Finally, he cleared the crest. Just beyond it, lying in a tiny meadow lay the black, unmarked shuttle ship. As he came in view, the port opened and a man ran toward him. Wolf stumbled, caught his balance, went on.

"Here," said the crewman, "let me take her."

Silently, out of fatigue, Wolf relinquished his load and stumbled toward the port. It slid shut behind them, just in time to keep them from being covered with dirt blown from a hole that suddenly appeared a yard behind. Wolf caught a glimpse of men appearing at the crest.

Inside the ship, he could hear the thud and clang of the explosive cartridges detonating uselessly against the permalloy hull. Then the drives roared their song of power, and the shuttle lifted clear.

* * * * *

The crewmen were more than curious.

"Who the hell's the girl?"

"Got me. Never heard of such a thing."

"Well, I suppose a Raider has a right to pick up a little booty now and then," another laughed. "They don't have the easiest job in the world."

"Bet she's going to be mad when she wakes up."

"Yeah. Looks like the Raider might be worrying a little about that right now."

Wolf stood at the forward screen, silently watching the shape of the mother-ship grow larger and larger until the screen held nothing but the great black hull.

The crewmen were wrong, he wasn't worried about Daimya's waking. He could take care of that when the time came.

He was thinking about other things, the things that came to him when he slept, the faces, the names, the actions, the right and wrong of living according to what you think is right, no matter what the cost.

But the cost, the cost....

It was so high sometimes, so terribly high.

_This trip_, he thought. A shuttle crew. Five good men, probably the whole village, eventually. Those who did escape into the hills would lead a life of fear and pursuit, foraging as they went until finally they were caught. And worst of all, this was worst of all, and mentally he saw the list, the list of his responsibilities, the list for which he would someday have to account.

The bright name of Mayne Landing: victim.

His mind shied away from it.

_Can that be forgiven? Can such a thing ever be forgiven?_

Gray Landing, called Wolf in the underground, turned away from the forward screen and began to prepare to board the mother-ship.