To Prime the Pump - A. Bertram Chandler [57]
Grimes ejected the empty clip, put in a full one. He was firing more slowly and carefully now, in short bursts. Then, anticlimactically, the rogue fluttered , slowly to the ground. There was no explosion, only a thin trickle of blue smoke. He watched it for a second, then hurried to Marlene. She was sitting up now, only a few shreds of ruined shirt clinging to her torso. There was a trickle of blood from her right shoulder.
She waved him away, pointing. "Bruno. First you must . . . do what is necessary for him . . ."
He did it. A single shot from the Minetti sufficed. Then he walked slowly back to her, fell on his knees beside her.
"Marlene! You're hurt . . ."
"Only a scratch. But for you I . . . I could have been killed."
And when you're a near-immortal, he thought, death can be important. But, for the first time perhaps, he could see her point of view, could feel with her and for her. Suddenly there was a warmth between them, a warmth that, until now, had been lacking. It could be that it was shared fear that brought-them together, shared peril. It could be that, at last, there was the admission of a common humanity.
But her arms were about him and her face, grimy and tear-stained was lifted to his, and his arms were about her, and her mouth on his was soft and warm and moist, and suddenly all barriers were down, scattered like the clothing that littered the turf around them, and the sun was warm on their naked bodies, although never as warm as the heat of their own mutual generating . . .
Almost, Grimes did not hear the sharp plop.
Almost he did not hear it, but he felt the metal strands writhing about his bare skin, biting into his limbs, binding himself and Marlene together in a ghastly parody, an obscene exhibition of physical love.
Into his limited range of vision, still further obscured by the tangle of the girl's blonde hair, stepped de Messigny. In his hand he held one of the bell-mouthed net-throwing pistols.
"A pretty picture!" he sneered. "A very pretty picture." In spite of the deliberate coldness of his voice, it was obvious that he was struggling to contain his fury. "As for you, Marlene, you slut! An affair with one of us I could have tolerated, but for you to give yourself to a lowbred outworlder!"
Her voice, in reply, was muffled. Grimes could feel her lips moving against his face. "I'm not property, Henri. I'm not your property."
"I would not want you now, you bitch."
Grimes saw that the man had pulled a knife from the sheath at his belt. He struggled to get his mouth clear, after an effort was able to mumble, "Put that thing away."
"Not yet, Mr. Grimes. Not yet."
"But this is not Marlene's fault, de Messigny."
"I have come here neither as judge nor as executioner, Mr. Grimes, although Marlene will be most appropriately punished for what she has done. I have come, only to sacrifice Lobenga's white goat, and the white goat is you."
Grimes waited for the descent of the blade. Stab or slash, what did it matter? Although a stab might be faster. And then de Messigny uttered a choking cry, seemed to be trying to contort himself so that he could strike with the blade at something behind him. Wound tightly about his neck there was a thin, metal tentacle. He was jerked out of sight.
Grimes heard the threshing sounds of the Comte's struggles slowly diminish. They finally ceased.
"The miniwagon . . ." whispered Marlene, and only a carryall but it has intelligence of sorts, and it's supposed to protect its mistress to the best of its ability. But it's slow. It was almost too slow . . ."
"It . . . it got here in time."
"Only . . .just."
She was close to him, even closer then she had been before de Messigny cast his net. Suddenly he was acutely conscious of her, all of her. And he had some freedom, not much, but a little, enough.
"Can you . . . .?" she murmured. Then, "After all, as the old saying has it, we might as well be hung for sheep as lambs . . ."