Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [293]
"No," Alim gasped, but no one heard.
"We can do it," a voice said nearby. It took Alim a moment to recognize it. Jerry Owen. "They don't have any poison gas in the power plant. Even if they do, it won't matter. We take all the mortars and recoilless rifles out on the barge and blow up the turbines. That'll end that power plant."
"Strike in the Name of God!" Armitage was shouting. There were some answers now. "Hallelujah!" someone called. "Amen!" another said. Tentative at first, but as Armitage continued, the responses became more enthusiastic.
"Shee-it." That had to be Sergeant Hooker. Alim couldn't turn his head to look at him. "Alim, you hear me?"
Alim nodded slightly.
"He says he hears," Erika said. "Leave him alone. He's got to rest. I wish he'd get some sleep."
Sleep! That would kill him for sure. Every breath was a fight, something to struggle for, an effort of will. If he relaxed for a moment he'd stop breathing.
"What the hell do I do now?" Hooker was asking. "You the only brother left I can rap with."
Words formed on Alim's lips. Erika translated. "He asks how many brothers are left."
"Ten," Hooker said.
Ten blacks. Were they the last blacks in the world? Of course not. Africa was still there. Wasn't it? They hadn't seen any black faces among their enemies, though. Maybe there weren't any more in California. He whispered again. "He says ten is not enough," Erika said.
"Yeah." Hooker bent low, to speak into Alim's ear. No one else could hear. "I got to stay with this preacher," he said. "Alim, is he crazy? Is he right? I can't think no more."
Alim shook his head. He didn't want to talk about that. Armitage was speaking again, of the paradise that waited for the fallen. The words blended into the vague, slow thoughts that crept into Alim's consciousness. Paradise. Maybe it was true. Maybe that crazy preacher was right. It was better to think so. "He knows the truth," Alim gasped.
The fire's warmth was almost pleasant. Darkness gathered in his head despite the glimpses of morning sunshine he thought he'd seen earlier. The preacher's words sank through the dark. "Strike now, ye Angels! This very day, this very hour! It is the will of God!"
The last thing Alim heard was Sergeant Hooker shouting "Amen!"
When Maureen reached the hospital, Leonilla Malik took her and led her firmly into a front room.
"I came to help," Maureen said. "But I wanted to talk to the wounded. One of the Tallifsen boys was in my group, and he—"
"He's dead," Leonilla said. There was no emotion in her voice. "I could use some help. Did you ever use a microscope?"
"Not since college biology class."
"You don't forget how," Leonilla said. "First I want a blood sample. Please sit down here." She took a hypodermic needle from a pressure cooker. "My autoclave," she said. "Not very pretty, but it works."
Maureen had wondered what happened to the pressure cookers from the ranch house. She winced as the needle went into her arm. It was dull. Leonilla drew out the blood sample and carefully squirted it into a test tube that had come from a child's chemistry set.
The tube went into a sock; a piece of parachute cord was attached to the sock, and Leonilla used that to whirl the test tube around and around her head. "Centrifuging," she said. "I show you how to do this, and then you can do some of the work. We need more help in the lab." She continued to swing the test tube.
"There," she said. "We have separated the cells from the fluid. Now we draw off the fluid, so, and wash the cells with saline." She worked rapidly. "Here on the shelf we have cells and fluid from the patients who need blood. I will test yours against theirs."
"Don't you want to know my blood type?" Maureen asked.
"Yes. In a moment. But I must make the tests anyway. I do not know the patient blood types and I have no way to find out, and this is more certain. It is merely very inconvenient."
The room had been an office. The walls had been painted not long ago and were well scrubbed.