United States or Cambodia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Each pulse of her heart throbbed blood to the wound in her scalp until it seemed her skull would burst with the agony. She had stripped down to the short tunic in spite of Brion's insistence that she keep her body protected from the sun and that clung to her, soaked with sweat. She tore at it in a desperate effort to breathe. There was no escape from the unending heat.
In every external physical detail the man was human. Brion's theory was becoming more preposterous with each discovery. If the magter weren't alien, how could he explain their complete lack of emotions? A mutation of some kind? He didn't see how it was possible. There had to be something alien about the dead man before him. The future of a world rested on this flimsy hope.
"I want to meet a man who thinks there is something more important than the Twenties." While the doctor stood undecided, Ihjel moved quickly around him and closed the door in his flushed face. He looked down at the Winner in the bed. There was a drip plugged into each one of Brion's arms. His eyes peered from sooty hollows; the eyeballs were a network of red veins.
Telt was scrambling back towards the crumbled entrance as he talked. His back was turned when Brion fired. The magter had appeared silently as the shadow of death. They charged without a sound, running with expressionless faces into the bullets. Two died at once, curling and folding; the third one fell at Brion's feet. Shot, pierced, dying, but not yet dead.
The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel that reached out and ended on Irolg's chest over his heart. Waves of sound cheering and screaming lapped against Brion's private world, but he was only remotely aware of their existence. Irolg dropped his foil, and tried to shake Brion's hand, but his legs suddenly gave way.
"The radio won't work this far underground." "Then the bombs will fall?" Ulv asked, looking searchingly at Brion's face in the dim reflected light from the cavern. "Unless something happens that we know nothing about, the bombs will fall." They said nothing after that they simply waited. The three technicians in the cavern were also aware of the time.
"Save them they'd all be radiated and dead!" Brion's voice rose in anger. "Not the Disans. I want to save the Nyjorders. Stop clenching your fists and sit down and have some of this cake. It's delicious. The Nyjorders are all that counts here. They have a planet blessed by the laws of chance. When Dis was cut off from outside contact, the survivors turned into a gang of swampcrawling homicidals.
By the time they reached the tower it was seven, and Brion's nerves felt as if they were writhing under his skin. Even though it looked like suicide, attacking the tower brought blessed relief. It was movement and action, and for moments at a time he forgot the bombs hanging over his head. The attack was nerve-rackingly anticlimactic. They used the main entrance, Ulv ranging soundlessly ahead.
"Sounds rather" Brion weighed the word before he said it, but could find none other suitable "repellent." "From your point of view, it would be. I'm afraid we get so used to it that we even take it for granted. Sociologically speaking...." She stopped and looked at Brion's straight back and almost rigid posture. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in an unspoken oh of sudden realization.
There was sympathy in Brion's voice but also the firmness of an order. Faussel swayed for a second longer, then collapsed. He sat with his cheek against the window, eyes closed. A pulse throbbed visibly in his temple and his lips worked. He had been under too much tension for too long a time. This was the atmosphere that hung heavily in the air at the C.R.F. building when they arrived.
Word Of The Day