Текст книги "Mercenary's Star"

Автор книги: Уильям Кейт

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Laid over the map was a network of dotted lines that marked the locations of known and probable jungle trails learned from documents seized at the Fox Island complex. His people were still sifting through the mounds of papers and computer files taken in the raid. With equal diligence. Dr. Vlade and his assistants were still sifting through the minds of prisoners taken on Fox Island. More trails, caches, or hidden bases might yet emerge in days or weeks to come. There was no way to predict what future intelligence discoveries would emerge. For now, though, the jungle remained impenetrable and closed.

"There are thousands of hectares of jungle out there, and an army of BattleMechs could be swallowed up without a trace." Nagumo's eyes narrowed. "The mercenaries are our biggest threat."

"Their training has obviously stiffened the main rebel army."

"More, it's given them a rallying point. I wonder..."

"My Lord?"

"I was wondering about their ship, the one that ran the blockade and brought the mercenaries to Verthandi in the first place.”

“It was destroyed in a storm."

"Was it? Our air patrols reported debris on the beach at Hunter's Cape, but not enough to indicate the wreckage of something as massive as a DropShip,"

"Our orbital stations would have detected a spacecraft lifting off, even in a storm. Certainly nothing lifted above atmosphere."

"I know." Nagumo closed his eyes, sighed. He was so tired. "Our strike at Fox Island should have finished them...rebels andmercenaries. No BattleMech unit can exist without its support units...Techs, ‘Mech repair cradles, heavy machinery, cranes, spare parts...Without all that, those ‘Mechs will begin to fall apart within days. They'll run out of ammunition after the first skirmish. They'll overheat and shut down with the first long, hard march. That is why your failure to close with the enemy column in the jungle is not so serious as it might have been. Without their precious Fox Island, the enemy is dead! But I wonder. If the DropShip survived..."

"But how, my Lord? They didn't lift off and it no longer sits at Hunter's Cape."

"Never mind, Colonel. Never mind. If their DropShip survives, it will have much equipment to replace what they've lost at Fox Island. But they can never replace the Techs and other trained personnel we took there, or the supplies. What's more, by capturing the members of the Revolutionary Council, we have broken the back of the rebellion. All that remains are bands of ragged bandits cowering in the jungle."

"Your orders then, my Lord?"

"We'll search for them and for that ship, just in case. If the ship survives, that's where the mercs will be, tied to it by lines of supply and the need for maintenance and repair. If the ship was destroyed, they must come to us...eventually. Even if the ship survived somehow, they must still come to us...eventually. Our best hope is to wait until they decide to hit us again somewhere...and catch them then."

"Would they be stupid enough to attack us after losing their base?"

"They could have other bases out there," Nagumo saidk sharply. "I would. Most important, though, they haveto attack us, or they don't have a rebellion. A ragged band of half-starved, half-armed rabble squatting out in the jungle is not a rebellion! Not when we control the cities, the spaceports, the farms, the factories– everything, in fact, of any importance at all on Verthandi!

"No, we keep vigilant. We should increase our air patrols over the sea, I think, and maintain an especially close satellite watch on the jungle between Regis and the Azure Coast. By the time Duke Ricol gets here, we'll either be able to report Verthandi secure, except for these bandits out in the wilderness...or we'll have met them on ourground...and beaten them!"

25

 

Lying between the jungle and the endless sea, Westlee was a fishing village of centuries-old stucco huts and houses jumbled together along winding streets. From the heights above the town, the sea was a spectacular sight, haze-shrouded beneath an overcast sky, but struck to fire by Norn's red-gold rays slanting through the clouds. Rock cliffs dominated the far side of the bay, sheer walls cloven by the gash that was the opening to Ostafjord. Farther out, half-hidden in grey mist and fiery gold was an island of black rock. It heaved skyward through the fog, its bulk casting sharp-edged shadows through the low-lying mists to the west.

Tiny beneath the mass of the fjord headland, unnoticed in skyfire and fog, the Phobosrested in the shadow of rock, grounded on a shallow beach and draped with unkempt tatters of canvas and camouflaged netting. Above the village, a solitary Stingerstood watch. After coded electronic passwords were challenged and exchanged, Grayson's Shadow Hawkstepped from a jungle logging trail into the moming sunlight.

The long march was over. The rebel column had travelled on the day after the skirmish near Fox Island, stopped briefly to rest and to jury-rig repairs on several of the nearly disintegrated AgroMechs, then pressed on into the night The night march was necessary because Grayson knew their only hope was to put more distance between the rebel column and the enemy than the enemy believed possible.

The distance from Fox Island to Westlee was perhaps six hundred kilometers, but by way of the twisting roads and jungle paths, the distance actually travelled was more like a thousand Limited by the lurching pace of the heavier AgroMechs, the column's top speed was something less than 60 kph. There were also frequent stops to repair minor failures in overheated circuits and stress-worn actuators or to give overheated cooling systems a chance to recycle.

The flesh-and-blood elements of the column were proving to be even weaker and more vulnerable to the strain than were the machines. Four apprentice pilots had passed out when the insufficient cooling systems of their AgroMechs failed, and it had taken time to revive them. Two PickerMechshad failed to complete the journey at all, and three hover transports had to be abandoned when their overworked turbofans simply gave out, with no way to repair them in the jungle. The remaining transports had been claustrophobically crowded after that. Even then, the fourteen-hour-long Verthandian night had not been enough to complete the march in darkness. They arrived at Westlee four hours past dawn, dirty and exhausted, their morale utterly crushed.

"Well, what the hell do we do now?" Use Martinez said at the staff meeting Grayson had called upon arrival. It was the question on all their minds, of course, and Grayson was glad that someone else had spoken it aloud. They were seated in the lounge of the Phobosto discuss that very matter.

Save for Jaleg Yorulis, all his Mech pilots were there. Earlier that day, they had buried the young Lyran ‘MechWarrior in an unmarked grave up the beach. Sergeant Ramage was present as well, representing both the mercenary support troops and the rebel infantry, and Grayson had invited two of the oldest Verthandi Ranger Mech Warriors, Rolf Montido and Collin Dace, as representatives of their people.

"We go on," Grayson said in response to Martinez. "We organize what we have left...and go on."

What we have left.The only thing that kept the destruction of the Fox Island camp from being a total disaster was that the ‘Mechs and most of the rebel army had escaped. So much had beenlost, though. All their support facilities and equipment, except for what the Phoboscarried aboard. Fifteen of the Legion's Techs were lost, dead or marched off to captivity. That included both Tomlinson and Karelian, two of their best. All of the Verthandian astechs were dead or captured, as well as the rebel army's own Techs. And, of course, they had all lost friends, comrades with whom they had grown close in the past weeks.

The Revolutionary Council was gone as well, whether killed or captured. The Council was the whole reason for the Gray Death's presence on Verthandi in the first place. It was their paymaster, patron, and client.

Grayson leaned far back in his chair, with hands pressed flat over his eyes. He had changed into a uniform, but only because Yorulis' blood had so soaked the shorts and light mesh shirt he'd been wearing. Though he'd managed a fast shower before the meeting, he still felt coated with sweat, stench, and jungle mud.

"What's the condition of the ship?" he asked Use.

Clay was immaculate in his trim green and brown Roughriders uniform, but most of the others looked as dirty as Grayson still felt. Lori wore the same shorts and top that she'd made the march in, though she had taken a quick splash in the ocean surf to cool off. The rigors of the previous night showed, too, in the haggardness of their expressions and their dark-circled eyes. Each had had a meal and a couple of hours' sleep, but it would take more than that to erase the strain of the night's long march. Khaled, Martinez, and the others who had remained with Phoboslooked fresh and well-rested by comparison.

"The ship," Martinez said patiently, "is not going anywhere until she gets a refit. Her number three tube is cracked and her primary heat exchangers are shot. The fusion pile needs flushing and relining, and the magnetic superconductors in the plasma bottle charge directors need replacement But that stuff is hot...and I mean hot...and I'm not about to try any of thatthis side of a space dock! We barely made it here as a steamboat. We're not going to be a spacecraft again for a long time yet."

"You've checked the foundries of machine shops or whatever is available in Westlee." It was a statement, not a question. Grayson knew that the resourceful DropShip pilot would have tracked down all possible sources of spare parts and repair materials.

Use answered with a sour expression and a downturned thumb. "We could manage temporary repairs—enough to get us back to the jump point—with a lot of work and the facilities of the Regisport ship bays. Maybe."

"Then we're stuck here," Debrowski said. Regisport, ten kilometers north of Regis itself, was heavily garrisoned, for it was the groundside link with the Kurita forces' own space supply lines. "We won't be able to make our rendezvous with Captain Tor."

"We knew that right along," Grayson said. His mind raced. He'd been considering their options all during the trek through the jungle. If they were to run for it, simply give up their Verthandian commitment and make a run for it, there was one chance...

"The invidiousis due back in-system in another 120 hours...make it four local days," he said. "Our only hope if we wanted to leave with her would be to capture a Kurita DropShip and run the blockade."

Clay's eyes narrowed. "Could we do that?"

The silence in the conference room thickened perceptibly as Grayson considered his answer. "Yes," he said at last. "Nagumo doesn't know when our starship is due back in system. He doesn't know it isdue back. We could plan a raid, capture a DropShip at Regisport, and high-tail it to the jump point before he could get organized. Yes, I believe we could pull it off."

McCall smiled through the grease on his face. "Aye, there's tha', but we ca' nae leavit tha' indigs in tha' lurch, noo, can we?"

Grayson glanced at Montido and Dace. "Indig" was generally received as a condescending or even hostile word on most worlds, but both Verthandians seemed inclined to let it pass. Perhaps they reasoned that McCall was as tired as the rest of them and not thinking clearly. Or perhaps they hadn't been able to follow his accented speech.

"I'd like to know what our contract says about all this," Lori said. "Our agreement was with the Revolutionary Council. Looks to me like we don't have any employers now."

Montido stirred. "May I speak, Captain?"

"Of course. It's why we asked you here."

He glanced at Dace, then looked down at the table. "I think I speak for...for what's left of the Verthandi Rangers when I say that we need you. More than ever, we need you."

"God knows how we could pay you, though," Dace added.

"Right. If...if you want to go, get offplanet...we'll help you capture the ship, but that will be the end of us. There's no way we can keep fighting on our own. Not now."

Grayson shook his head slowly. "There are other things at stake besides money" he said. It was surprising how his own thoughts were falling into line as he discussed the matter with the others. How can we abandon them now?"The thought of stealing a Kurita DropShip is tempting, but I'd have to live with myself as well."

Debrowski stirred, frowning. "Sir...we can't still hope to beat them..."

"Why not?”

"Captain, look! It's still just us...well, us and the rebels, sir... against a regiment of ‘Mechs and God knows how many troops! We can't hopeto win against an army like that!"

Grayson looked in turn at each of the others. "A military unit cannot be run as a democracy... but all must at least have some voice in this decision." He looked at Montido and Dace. "Would you gentlemen excuse us for a moment?"

When the Verthandians had left the room, Grayson continued. "I think a show of hands is sufficient. Who wants to stay and help these folks?"

Hands went up around the table: Lori and McCall together, Khaled an instant later. Clay looked at those three, shrugged, and put up his own hand. Sergeant Ramage looked worried. "Captain, I can't speak for all my people, you know that. A lot of the Legion people: would be delighted to get off this dirtball."

"I daresay we all would, Sergeant"

"I also know a lot of them have gotten close to the rebels these past few weeks, I don't think anyone wants to see them slaughtered by Nagumo's bastards." He raised his hand.

Martinez put up her hand, too. "I still don't care for the indigs," she said, "but I don't want to scuttle poor old Phobos,especially after all the work and heartache I've put into her!"

Debrowski was the only one left. He looked thoughtful, then added his hand to the rest. "I'll vote with the rest of you. Jaleg was my friend. Somehow, I don't want to just leave him here, as though it had all been for nothing."

"So we know what we wantto do," Martinez said, "but we still don't know how. I mean, we go out and win the war, right? How?"

Grayson folded his hands together, steepled his forefingers, and studied them. Despite his shower, they were black with ground-in grime. He wondered if he'd even gotten off all the blood.

"In one way, Piter is right," he said at last. "We're not going to win, not in the long run. We could spend years in this jungle, knocking off Kurita supply depots and patrols. But the Combine is going to keep right on tunneling men, ‘Mechs, and supplies into Regis, and Nagumo's ‘Mechs are going to keep right on hunting for us. Sooner or later, they'll get lucky."

Clay scowled. "So what'll we do?"

"We start by doing what we've been doing, only a lot more of it. We hit the Dracos every chance we get to remind them there's a rebellion on. We build training camps in the jungle, organize training cadres, do everything possible to arm, equip, and train local forces wherever we can find people who want to fight We've got an army big enough to fight the Dracos... if we can just mobilize it"

"A lot of them are Loyalists," Martinez pointed out

"The majority are in the middle, uncommitted. It's that way with any fight, of course...but we're going to have to find ways to reach them. I think a lot of the Loyalists will come over, too, if they're given the chance.

"But the firstthing we do is put together the message that we're going to beam at the Invidiouswhen Captain Tor pops back in-system." He looked at each of the others. "We'll have him fetch us some help."

"Who?" Lori asked. "Another bunch of merc ‘Mechs?”

“No...something Free Verthandi needs more right now than a whole BattleMech army.”

“What's that?”

“Recognition."

26

 

Sergeant Ramage gritted his teeth, took another turn of the nylon line about his gloved hands, and set his feet to the ferrocrete wall. His boots scraped faintly as he hauled himself hand over hand up the face of the three-story building.

From the valley on the far side of the building came the sound of gunfire. A moment before, he'd been crouched among the boulders on the crest of the ridge, watching the first moves of the Verthandi Rangers as they swarmed up over the Basin Rim, but he could see nothing now. The attack was going well so far, he knew. Rebel laser and autocannon fire had slashed into the scattered force of light enemy ‘Mechs gathered on the edge of the plateau, catching them by surprise.

One hand found the top of the wall close beside the grapnel, which had lodged behind it. He eased his head up, took in the expanse of the flat, open rooftop. Against the far wall, he saw a pair of sentries whose backs were to him and whose eyes were glued to the viewpieces of their electronic binoculars. Sentries...or perhaps Techs from inside the building. They wore heavy automatic pistols in low-slung belt holsters, but neither carried a rifle or subgun.

That made sense. The base was supposed to be part of the Verthandian government's chain of military outposts along the Basin Rim. The flag waving just below the spidery struts and braces of the station's massive deep space antennae was the green, red, and gold banner of Verthandi... Loyalist Verthandi, the Verthandi that danced to the tune of far Luthien. Yet, the two men observing the battle wore the severe black of Draconis Combine officers.

Advisors, then. Or watchdogs. Ramage wondered how much Nagumo trusted the native forces under his command. The two were intent on the panorama of the battle spread out below them. Neither noticed as he carefully drew the sonic stunner from its holster under his arm, switched off the safety, and drew down on the pair of them.

His weapon gave a sharp, warbling hum once...twice. The two Kurita officers crumpled onto the roof without a sound, and Ramage hoisted himself up and rolled across the rim of the parapet. He saw a wooden trap door and stairs leading into a lighted room below, but there was no sign of other officers, sentries, or soldiers. Turning toward the anxious rebels waiting in the shadows at the base of the building, he gave a thumbs up sign.

As the hand-picked team of ten commandos climbed the rope after him, Ramage stepped over to check the bodies of the two officers. Both were unconscious and would be so for hours. Chancing a peek over the wall, he saw the head and shoulders of an immobile Pantherdirectly below him, the reason he'd chosen to enter the building up the back wall and down from the roof. That Kurita BattleMech sentry was there to prevent a direct assault on this deep-space transmitter station, an attractive rebel target. Its destruction could interfere with Kurita space fleet operations and communications, and it would be expensive to replace.

He spared a second to look down at the battle. With the sun so low on the southwestern horizon behind him, the battlefield was already in the shadow of the com station's ridge. Flashes of autocannon fire stabbed repeatedly through the gathering gloom, and the funeral pyre of a loyalist Waspglowed like a flare. There were perhaps a dozen Loyalist ‘Mechs on the field, more than the rebel scouts had reported, and many support units as well. Yet, the rebel assault was going well anyway. Five rebel ‘Mechs were sweeping forward onto the field, plowing through the Loyalists' center. Ramage easily recognized Montido's big Dervishamong them. Meanwhile, the three heaviest Legion ‘Mechs—the Shadow Hawk, Rifleman,and Wolverine—stayed on the edge of the Basin Rim, pouring round after high-explosive round into the scattering defenders.

At a soft noise behind him, Ramage whirled, stunner up. It was only Gundberg and Willoch slipping over the wail, followed by Chapley, Sorenson, and six more commandos clambering up the rope close behind. Their faces showed relief that the Pantherhad not come around the corner of the building on a check-and-see.

The ten Verthandians hauled up the grapnel rope and began unshouldering their assault rifles. Willoch handed Ramage his. Not knowing what waited on that third-floor roof, the sergeant had not wanted to make the climb encumbered by a rifle.

Tight-lipped and silent, Ramage deployed his men with nods and hand gestures. The next step was to get inside the building. He reholstered his stunner, clicked back the bolt on his TK to bring the first round into the chamber, flicked off the safety, and advanced toward the open trap door, rifle probing ahead.

Ramage got there just as a third Kurita officer was coming up the steps. Painfully young, he wore the collar pips of a junior lieutenant and carried three brimming cups of coffee in two hands.

Ramage stopped his finger before it could complete the trigger squeeze, swinging the butt of the rifle up instead. Planting the stock against the boy's sternum, he gave a firm shove that sent officer, cups, and coffee clattering backward down the stairs. Ramage followed feet-first, not bothering to use the steps. He landed with a knee-jarring crash close beside the shrieking heap of the Kurita Lieutenant.

Three other Kurita officers were in the room, just turning from the communications consoles that ringed the ferrocrete– walled room. His TK bucked three times with carefully placed four-round bursts that picked up the black-uniformed figures and flung them against the consoles in one-two-three order. The Lieutenant's wailing ceased abruptly as the smoking muzzle of the TK swung down level with his nose.

"You!" Ramage barked. "Any more?”

“D-down... downstairs..."

Five of his men descended the steps, rifles ready. Ramage gestured them toward the door leading to the first floor, but that door flew open before they could reach it. The narrow confines of the building's upper story rang with the chatter of automatic weapon bursts and small arms fire. Two Kurita soldiers pitched back from a wooden door suddenly pocked and splintered by bullets, and Chapley went down, arms clasped across his belly. Three other commandos slammed the door shut and dragged a table across to brace it while the fifth guarded the prisoner. Ramage slung his rifle and hurried to the com station.

The console was similar to those he'd used aboard the Invidiousand the Phobos.For that matter, it was like those he'd used on his homeworld of Trellwan. The main panel was already warmed up and tracking, the antennae trained on the Norn system's zenith jump point.

He'd thought it would be. If Captain Tor had kept to his timetable and his promise to return in 900 hours, he should have jumped in-system sometime earlier that afternoon, certainly within the past three hours. The arrival of the Invidiouswould have sent an electromagnetic pulse racing out from the jump point at the speed of light. A little over eleven minutes later, that signal would have raced through near-Verthandi space, triggering computer-guarded alarms on planetary bases and ships. It had been Grayson's guess that every deep-space tracking antenna on Verthandi would have immediately been trained on the newcomer, beaming challenges and listening for a reply.

He was right. A computer screen at Ramage's right hand showed what little was known about the newcomer. It was a freighter, its IFF transponder code that of an independent trader. Mass was estimated at 80,000 tons. Its solar collector sail was already unfurled, but thus far, no communications had been received.

Ramage smiled. It could only be the Invidious,right on schedule.

He found another com channel and adjusted a setting. Holding a microphone to his mouth, he pressed a transmit key. "Skytalker, Skytalker, this is Climber One...Do you read me?"

The voice that came back almost immediately was Lori Kalmar's. "Climber here, Skytalker. I read."

"Jackpot! I say again...Jackpot! Ready to feed on kilo hotel seven seven niner thuh-ree."

"Got it, Climber. Channel open. Here she comes."

Grayson had appointed Lori to the task of carrying the precious, recording tape once it had been cut in the Phobos'scommunications center. Grayson's Shadow Hawkwas needed for the battle with the Loyalist defenders, for a stray hit could put a key antenna out of commission at a vital moment. Ramage was not able to carry the tape himself in something as risky as a ranger assault. Besides, no one in the rebel forces could know what sort of equipment they might find in a communications center supposedly belonging to the Loyalist government, but more likely staffed by Kurita ComTechs. To carry the transmitter gear needed to play the tape into the Kurita equipment would have seriously encumbered the commandos.

Though Grayson was certainly listening in, it was Lori in her Locustwho had carried the tape and listened for Ramage's signal. She had followed the battle line but remained hull-down below the crest of Basin Rim, with only her transmitter antenna protruding above the ridge. On Ramage's signal, she had transmitted the signal to the captured Kurita com gear, where Ramage fed it into the station's recorders. Having compressed the message to a fiftieth of a second's zipsqueal, he then brought his finger down on the button that sent the signal flashing out toward the zenith point at the speed of light.

He looked up from the console. There was a thudding at the door, which shivered, raining flecks of splintered wood. Four pale faces looked across at Ramage.

He shrugged. "I don't think we're going back the way we came, boys." As if to back him up, there came a blast of light and sound from overhead, then a cascade of dust and smoke down the steps into the room. Three of the five commandos that Ramage had left above dropped into the room, their faces ashen, their knuckles white on the grips of their weapons.

The Pantheroutside had been alerted to their presence.

Ramage had cycled the recorded message as a zipsqueal loop going over and over, and he kept it playing now, sending burst after burst of computer-coded data into the sky. It would be eleven minutes before the first signal reached the Invidious,and eleven minutes more before any possible reply could make the return trip. He doubted that they could last over twenty-two minutes to hear it.

The north wall thundered, a sledgehammer of sound that rang in his ears and jarred dust from the bare ferrocrete blocks. The hammering blasted again, and the commandos looked wildly at one another. Would the Pantheractually tear down the com station it was supposed to protect in order to get at the raiders inside? The thunderclap of sound exploded a third time, and the meter-thick walls visibly trembled. Apparently it would.

"Climber, this is Skytalker Leader." Grayson's voice was barely audible over the ringing in Ramage's ears, but he was very glad to hear it.

"Climber here! Message away!"

"I copy, Climber. What's your situation?"

The room thundered again. "Not good. The neighbors want to come in and play. We're trapped on the third floor...no way out."

"Try to hold on. Climber. We're in the thick of it out here and can't win through."

"Acknowledged, Skytalker. We'll...hold." There was nothing else to say. The raiders had known that once they were discovered, their chances of rescue were not good. In endless planning sessions, Grayson and the others had argued insistently that Ramage not sacrifice himself. Ramage was equally insistent that he was the logical one—the onlylogical one—to lead it. He couldn't be budged, and Grayson had finally given in.

To transmit their coded message to the Invidious,they needed a deep-space transmitter. The Phoboshad one, but they didn't dare use it. That could have given the enemy positive proof that the ship still existed, as well as a means to triangulate her position. The only alternative had been to—"borrow" was Grayson's word—a Kurita transmitter.

For a long minute, the Ranger commandos looked at one another silently, wondering what was next. Splinters spat and flew as submachine gun fire chewed at the door, then bullets shrieked through the room. Gundberg kicked backward, blood pumping, dead before he hit the floor.

Ramage cursed and levelled his TK at the closed door. The assault rifle bucked and thuttered on full auto, breaching the door in a dozen places and filling the air with more spinning chips and splinters of wood. Someone started screaming on the far side of the door, as more bullets began chewing through the wood from the other side. This blind firefight carried on for another ten seconds, then died away. There were several head-sized holes in the door's wood now. What would be next, Ramage wondered, a grenade or gas? Keeping low, he darted across to a position just beside the barricaded door. Perhaps from there, he could see the approach of someone with a grenade, and do something about it.

There was a noise outside, like the roar of a DropShip launch, and then the lights went dead. As the room became pitch-black, chunks of sound-proofing sprayed down from the ceiling on the defenders, a fifty-centimeter-thick support beam groaned and cracked, and ferrocrete blocks rained down from above. A twenty-kilo chunk landed squarely in the middle of the communications console, shattering glass and plastic and briefly lighting up the dark with a shower of sparks. There'd be no more broadcasting for the raiders, but that worry was behind them now. Looking up in horror, they saw that the Pantherhad fired its jump jets and was standing now on the roof overhead!

Another explosion of dust and broken stone, and an armored fist one meter across plunged down the stairway, fingers spreading wide like the legs of some monstrous beast. The gigantic metal fingers closed on a shrieking, kicking flurry of motion that jerked once and went limp in its crushing grasp. Ramage and the others looked away as the mangled body of the Kurita prisoner plopped wetly back to the rubble-strewn floor. The gigantic metal fingers opened again, nighmarish in the dust-choked gloom, searching, groping.

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