Spartan Planet - A. Bertram Chandler [50]
Brasidus stopped, heard Margaret Lazenby slither to a halt behind him.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"Brasidus. Lieutenant, Police Battalion of the Army. Take us to whoever's in charge here."
"Oh, I recognize you—that painfully shy workman who strayed in from the warehouse . . . But who are you?"
"I'm from the ship."
"What I thought." The blonde stood there, juggling absently with her knife. And she'll be able to use it, thought Brasidus. "What I thought," repeated the woman. "So, at long last, the Police and the outworld space captain are arriving in the nick of time to save us all from a fate worse than death."
"I'm afraid not," Peggy Lazenby told her. "Our respective lords and masters have yet to de-digitate. We're here in our private capacities."
"But you're hung around with all sorts of interesting-looking hardware, dearie. And I can lend Brasidus a meat chopper if he wants it."
Brasidus said that he did. It was not his choice of weapons, but it was better than nothing. The Arcadian went back through the door, through which drifted the sound of excited, high-pitched voices, returned with the dull-gleaming implement. Brasidus took it. The haft fitted his right hand nicely, and the thing had a satisfying heft to it. Suddenly he felt less helpless, less naked.
"And what's your name, by the way?" the blonde Arcadian was asking.
"Lazenby. Peggy Lazenby."
"You can call me Terry. Short for Theresa, not that it matters. Come on."
With her as a guide, they found their way to the vestibule without any delays, bypassing the wards which the infants were making hideous with their screams. But the noise in this entrance hall was deafening enough; it was like being inside a lustily beaten bass drum. Furniture had been piled inside the door, but with each blow of the battering ram, some article would crash to the floor.
There were doctors there, white-faced but, so far, not at the point of panic. There were nurses there, no braver than their superiors, but no more cowardly. They were armed, all of them, after a fashion. Sharp, dangerous-looking surgical instruments gleamed in tight-clenched fists, rude clubs, legs torn from furniture, dangled from hands that had but rarely performed rougher work than changing a baby's diaper.
"Heraklion!" Terry was calling, shouting to make herself heard above the tumult. "Heraklion!"
The tall doctor turned to face her. "What are you doing here, Terry? I thought I told you women to keep out of harm's way." Then he saw Brasidus and Peggy. "Who the hell are these?" He began to advance, the scalpel in his right hand extended menacingly.
"Lieutenant Brasidus. Security."
"Looks like a helot to me," muttered somebody. "Kill the bastard!"
"Wait. Brasidus? Yes, it could be . . ."
"It is, it is!" One of the nurses broke away from his own group, ran to where Heraklion was standing. "It is. Of course, it's Brasidus!"
"Thank you, Achron. You should know. But who are you, madam?"
"Doctor Margaret Lazenby, of the starship Seeker."
Heraklion's eyes dwelt long and lovingly on the weapons at her belt. "And have you come to help us?"
"I let myself get talked into it."
"I knew you'd come," Achron was saying to Brasidus. "I knew you'd come." And Brasidus was uncomfortably aware of Peggy Lazenby's ironic regard. He said to Heraklion, more to assert himself than for any other reason, "And what is happening, Doctor?"
"You ask me that, young man? You're Security, aren't you? You're Captain Diomedes' right-hand man, I've heard. What is happening?"
Brasidus looked slowly around at the little band of defenders with their makeshift armament. He said, "I know what will happen: massacre, with ourselves at the receiving end. That door'll not hold for much longer. Is there anywhere to retreat to?"
"Retreat?" demanded Heraklion scornfully. "Retreat, from a mob of hoplites and helots?"
"They—the hoplites—have weapons, sir. And they know how to use them."
"Your Doctor Lazenby has weapons—real weapons."
"Perhaps I have," she said quietly. "But ethology happens to be my specially.