wt.theyearofthequietsun-第30节

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slug　into　the　ankle。　He　heard　a　bellowing　cry　of　pain；　and　the　curse　directed　at　him。　The　target　vanished　from　sight。　Moresby's　gaze　came　back　to　the　empty　shoes　and　helmet　liner　beyond　the　shell　hole。　He　decided　to　move…knew　he　had　to　move　now　to　prevent　that　mortar　from　ing　in　on　him。
　　He　fired　again　at　the　stumps　to　keep　the　mortarman　down；　then　sprinted　for　the　ruptured　hole　in　the　fence　where　the　bodies　of　the　two　aggressors　lay。　He　fell　on　his　belly；　fired　another　round　and　then　jumped　on　all　fours　against　the　nearest　body；　burrowing　down　behind　it　as　a　shield　against　the　mortarman。　The　raging　wind　blew　over　the　hole。
　　Moresby　plucked　at　the　bandit's　shirt；　tearing　away　the　armband　and　bringing　it　up　to　his　eyes　for　a　careful　inspection。
　　It　was　no　more　than　a　strip　of　yellow　cotton　cloth　cut　from　a　bolt　of　goods；　and　bearing　a　crude　black　cross　in　India　ink。　There　was　no　word；　slogan；　or　other　point　of　identification　to　establish　a　fealty。　Black　cross　on　yellow　field。　Moresby　prodded　his　memory；　wanting　to　fit　that　symbol　into　some　known　civilian　niche。　It　had　to　fit　into　a　neat　little　slot　somewhere。　His　orderly　mind　picked　and　worried　at　the　unfamiliar　term：　ram　jet。
　　Nothing。　Neither　sign　nor　name　were　known　prior　to　the　launch；　prior　to　1978。
　　He　rolled　the　stiffening　body　over　on　its　back　the　better　to　see　the　face；　and　knew　jarring　shock。　The　black　and　bloodied　face　was　still　twisted　in　the　agony　of　death。　Two　or　more　slugs　had　torn　into　the　man's　midsection；　while　another　had　ripped　away　his　throat　and　showered　his　face　with　his　own　blood；　it　had　not　been　instantaneous　death。　He　had　died　in　screaming　misery　alongside　the　man　next　to　him；　vainly　attempting　to　break　through　the　fence　and　take　the　defenders　up　the　slope。
　　Major　Moresby　was　long　used　to　death　in　the　field；　the　manner　of　this　man's　dying　didn't　upset　him…but　the　close　scrutiny　of　his　enemy　jolted　him　as　he'd　not　been　jolted　before。　He　suddenly　understood　the　crude　black　cross　etched　on　the　yellow　field；　even　though　he'd　not　seen　it　before　today。　This　was　a　civilian　rebellion…　organ。zed　insurrection。
　　Ramjets　were　Negro　guerrillas。
　　The　mortar　coughed　down　the　slope　and　Major　Moresby　burrowed　in　behind　the　body。　He　waited　impatiently　for　the　round　to　drop　somewhere　behind　him；　above　him；　and　then　by　God　he'd　take　that　mortar。
　　
　　
　　The　time　was　twenty　minutes　after　six　in　the　morning；　4　July　1999。　The　rising　sun　burned　the　horizon。
　　A　ramjet　mortarman　with　a　shattered　ankle　peered　warily　over　a　tree　stump；　and　counted　himself　the　victor。
　　
　　
　　Lieutenant　mander　Arthur　Saltus
　　23　November　2000
　　
　　
　　Yesterday　this　day's　madness　did　prepare；
　　Tomorrow's　silence；　triumph；　or　despair：
　　Drink！　for　you　know　not　whence　you　came；　nor　why；
　　Drink！　for　you　know　not　why　you　go；　nor　where。
　　
　　　　…　Omar　Khayyam
　　
　　
　　THIRTEEN
　　
　　Saltus　was　prepared　to　celebrate。
　　The　red　light　blinked　out。　He　reached　up　to　unlock　the　hatch　and　throw　it　open。　The　green　light　went　dark。　Saltus　grasped　the　two　handrails　and　pulled　himself　to　a　sitting　position　with　his　head　and　shoulders　protruding　through　the　hatchway。　He　was　alone　in　the　room　as　he　expected　to　be；　but　he　noted　with　mild　surprise　that　some　of　the　ceiling　lights　had　burned　out。　Sloppy　housekeeping。　The　air　was　chill　and　smelled　of　ozone。　He　struggled　out　of　the　hatch　and　climbed　over　the　side；　the　step　stool　was　missing　and　he　slid　down　the　hull　to　the　floor。　Saltus　reached　up　to　slam　shut　the　hatch；　then　turned　to　the　locker　for　his　clothing。
　　Another　suit　belonging　to　Chaney　hung　there　in　its　paper　sheath　waiting　to　be　claimed。　He　noted　the　locker　had　collected　a　heavy　amount　of　dust　and　a　fine　film　of　it　had　even　crept　inside。　Wretched　housekeeping。　When　Saltus　was　dressed　in　the　civvies　he　had　elected　to　wear；　he　took　out　a　pint　of　good　bourbon　from　its　place　of　concealment　in　the　locker　and　surreptitiously　slipped　the　bottle　into　a　jacket　pocket。
　　He　thought　he　was　adequately　prepared　for　the　future。
　　Arthur　Saltus　checked　his　watch：　11：02。　He　sought　out　the　electric　calendar　and　clock　on　the　wall　to　verify　the　date　and　time：　23　Nov　00。　The　clock　read　10：55。　Temperature　was　a　cold　13　degrees。　Saltus　guessed　his　watch　was　wrong；　it　had　been　wrong　before。　He　left　the　room　without　a　glance　at　the　cameras；　secretively　holding　his　hand　against　the　bottle　to　mask　the　pocket　bulge。　He　didn't　think　the　engineers　would　approve　of　his　intentions。
　　Saltus　walked　down　the　corridor　in　eerie　silence　to　the　shelter；　dust　on　the　floor　muffled　his　footfalls　and　he　wondered　if　William　had　found　that　same　dust　sixteen　months　earlier。　The　old　boy　would　have　been　annoyed。　The　shelter　door　was　pushed　open　and　the　overhead　lights　went　on　in　automatic　response…but　again；　some　of　them　were　burned　out。　Somebody　rated　a　gig　for　poor　maintenance。　Saltus　stopped　just　inside　the　door；　pulled　the　bottle　from　his　pocket　and　ripped　away　the　seal　from　the　cap。
　　A　shout　rattled　the　empty　room。
　　〃Happy　birthday！〃
　　For　a　little　while；　he　was　fifty　years　old。
　　Saltus　swallowed　the　bourbon；　liking　its　taste；　and　wiped　his　mouth　with　the　back　of　his　hand；　he　stared　around　the　shelter　with　growing　curiosity。　Somebody　had　been　at　the　ship's　stores…somebody　had　helped　himself　to　the　provisions　set　by　for　him　and　then　had　carelessly　left　the　debris　behind　for　him　to　find。　The　place　was　overrun　with　privateers　and　sloppy　housekeepers。
　　He　discovered　a　gasoline　lantern　on　the　floor　near　his　feet　and　reached　down　quickly　to　determine　if　it　was　warm。　It　was　not；　but　a　jostling　shake　told　him　there　was　fuel　remaining　in　the　tank。　Many　boxes　of　rations　had　been　cut　open…emptied　of　their　contents…and　the　cartons　stacked　in　a　disorderly　pile　along　the　wall　near　the　door。　A　few　water　containers　rested　beside　the　cartons　and　Saltus　grabbed　up　the　nearest　to　shake　it；　test　it　for　use。　The　can　was　empty。　He　took　another　long　pull　from　his　birthday　bottle　and　roamed　around　the　room；　making　a　more　detailed　inspection　of　the　stores。　They　weren't　in　the　ship…shape　order　he　remembered　from　his　last　inspection。
　　A　sealed　bag　of　clothing　had　been　torn　open；　a　bag　holding　several　heavy　coats　and　parkas　for　winter　wear。　He　could　not　guess　how　many　had　been　taken　from　the　container。
　　A　pair　of　boots…no；　two　or　three　pair…were　missing　from　a　rack　holding　several　similar　pairs。　Another　bundle　of　warm　lined　mittens　appeared　to　have　been　disturbed；　but　it　was　impossible　to　determine　how　many　were　gone。　Somebody　had　visited　the　stores　in　winter。　That　somebody　should　not　have　been　the　Major…he　was　scheduled　for　the　Fourth　of　July；　unless　that　gyroscope　went　crazy　and　threw　him　off　by　half　a　year。　Saltus　turned　again　to　count　the　used　ration　boxes　and　the　water　cans：　not　enough　of　them　had　been　emptied　to　support　a　big　man　like　William　for　the　past　sixteen　months…not　unless　he　was　living　outside　most　of　the　time　and　supporting　himself　from　the　land。　The　used…up　stores　might　have　carried　him　through　a　single　winter；　supplementing　game　from　outside。　It　seemed　an　unlikely　possibility。
　　Saltus　worked　his　way　around　the　room　to　the　bench。　It　was　littered　with　trash。
　　Three　yellow　cartons　rested　on　the　bench　top；　cartons　he'd　not　seen　there　on　previous　visits。　The　first　one　was　empty；　but　he　tore　away　the　lid　flaps　of　the　next　to　discover　a　bullet…proof　vest　made　of　an　unfamiliar　nylon　weave。　He　did　not　hesitate。　The　garment　looked　flimsy　and　unreliable　buf　because　Katrina　always　knew　what　she　was　doing；　he　put　on　the　protective　vest　beneath　his　civilian　jacket。　Saltus　sipped　at　his　bourbon　and　eyed　the　mess　on　the　bench。　It　wasn't　like　William　to　leave　things　untidy…well；　not　this　untidy。　Some　of　it　was　his　work。
　　A　tape　recorder　and　another　gasoline　lantern　were　on　the　bench。　A　moment　later　he　discovered　empty　boxes　which　had　contained　rifle　cartridges；　another　box　for　the　tape　now　in　the　recorder；　an　opened　map；　and　the　insignia　removed　from　the　Major's　dress　uniform。　Saltus　thought　he　knew　what　that　meant。　He　touched　the　lantern　first　but　found　it　cold　although　the　fuel　tank　was　full；　and　then　leaned　over　the　bench　to　examine　the　recorder。　Only　a　few　minutes　of　tape　had　been　spun　off。
　　Saltus　depressed　the　voice　button；　said：　〃Mark；〃　and　rewound　the　tape　to　its　starting　point。
　　Another　push　and　the　tape　rolled　forward。
　　Voice：　〃Moresby　here。　Four　July　1999。　Time　of　arrival　10：05　on　my　watch；　4：10　by　the　clock。　Six　hours　and　five　minutes　discrepancy。　Dust　everywhere；　stool　missing　from　operations　room；　shelter　unoccupied　and　stores　intact；　but　the　water　is　stale。　Am　preparing　for　the　target。〃
　　Brief　period　of　miscellaneous　sounds。
　　Arthur　Saltus　had　another　drink　while　he　waited。　He　stared　again　at　William's　discarded　military　insignia。
　　Voice：　〃。　。　。　moving　around　the　northwest　corner　in　a　southerly　direction…moving　toward　you。　Estimated　strength；　twelve　to　fifteen　men。　Watch　them；　Corporal；　they're　packing　mortars。　Over。〃　The　sound　of　gunfire　was　loud　behind　the　voice。
　　Voice：　〃Roger。　We've　got　a　hole　in　the　fence　at　the　northwest…some　bastard　tried　to　put　a　truck　through。　It's　still　burning；　maybe　tha