Inherit the Earth - Brian Stableford [78]
It occurred to Damon then to wonder where the tiny machine—and its partner, which was already visible—had come from. Such toys had insufficient range to have been launched from Lanai or Kahoolawe, but if they had not come from another island, they must have come from the deck of a ship. What ship? How had it come to be here so soon after his own arrival—unless that arrival had somehow been anticipated?
“Please, Mr. Hart,” said the desperate Rajuder Singh, coming forward as he spoke and reaching for a pouch suspended beside his beltpack. Damon guessed immediately what it was the thin man was reaching for, and was struck by the sudden thought that he didn’t know for sure whose side Rajuder Singh was on. Everything the man had told him had seemed plausible enough—but the fact remained that Steve Grayson had kidnapped him and brought him here against his will. What if it had not been Karol Kachellek who had given the order? What if Karol Kachellek had sent the helicopters in hot pursuit from the deck of the Kite?
As the miniature gun came out of its hiding place Damon reacted with a streetfighter’s instinct. He hadn’t been able to do anything about Grayson’s weapon, but the situation was different now. The blow he aimed with the edge of his right hand was delivered with practiced efficiency, knocking the hand which held the gun aside. That left Singh’s midriff wide open, and Damon lashed out with his right foot, ploughing his heel into the thin man’s solar plexus. The sudden shock put Singh down, as it would have put anyone down, no matter how efficient his internal technology was. Singh’s mouth had been open as he prepared to speak, but all that came out now was a sharp gasp of surprise. Damon pinned the thin man’s right arm to the floor with his foot and knelt down in order to pluck the weapon out of his hand.
The gun was a darter, even less powerful than Grayson’s pepperbox. It was incapable of inflicting any lethal injury, although its darts were presumably capable of inducing paralysis for several minutes, until his internal technology could rally itself to cancel out the effects of the toxin.
Singh pried his right arm loose and tried to grab the gun, wailing: “You don’t understand!”
Damon lifted the weapon out of his captive’s reach but didn’t hit him again. “Nor do you,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
The noise of the whining helicopters was louder now; both machines were hovering close to the house, perhaps coming in to land. They were descending slowly, presumably because the machines were delicate and the available space between the flower beds was by no means generous.
Now there was another sound audible beyond and beneath the whine of the toys: a much deeper drone, of the kind a real helicopter might make. There was no possibility that a real helicopter could have been launched from the deck of the Kite—but there was a possibility that the big machine was in pursuit of the little ones rather than complementing their mission. All was confusion, and confusion heaped upon confusion—and Damon had not the slightest idea what he ought to do next. He only knew that he had to make up his mind very quickly.
Under more relaxed circumstances, Damon might have been able to take advantage of Rajuder Singh’s obvious distress. He felt that if he were to demand answers to his questions under the threat of further violence, he would probably get them. The thin man’s eyes were flickering wildly from side to side, as if he expected to be shot at any moment—but there was no time for questions. Damon had to make his move, and there