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few men had said so, and several had responded accordingly. These two were
handling her as impersonally as if she was a side of frozen mutton, lifeless,
sexless, and uninteresting.
It was even worse when they began smearing the black cream on her skin. It
smelled dreadful, and they were smearing it on in great dripping, gooey
handfuls. They were touching every inch of her skin, even smearing the stuff
into her pubic hair. But they were still doing it impersonally. Now they
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reminded her of two mechanics hard at work on an automobile.
They lifted her, carried her over to the booth, and sat her down in the chair.
The seat was made of black rubber that felt unpleasantly cold against her bare
skin. Lord Leighton went to work, attaching an incredible number of electrodes
to every part of her body. From each electrode a wire ran off into the
computer. Leighton's touch and manner remained as lifeless as the computer,
even when he attached an electrode to each of her nipples.
Eventually Lord Leighton ran out of electrodes, or at least of places on her
body to attach them.
Lights were flashing on the computer's main console. Now it was obviously
programmed and ready for whatever was about to happen. Katerina found herself
wanting to hold her breath, forced herself not to, but could not make herself
relax. In another few moments she would know the secret of this
Project, a mightier secret than any Soviet agent or scientist had ever
unearthed. A moment after that she would be dead, but she would be dead
knowing, rather than ignorant. Somehow that was enormously important to her.
The two men were standing side by side in front of the main console now. Both
of them were looking at her, but Lord Leighton's hand was resting on the
plastic handle of a large red switch. His fingers closed on the handle and
began to pull the switch downward in its slot. It reached the bottom, and
Katerina's world exploded.
It felt as though a giant hand with steel fingers ending in red-hot claws had
clamped down on her head, squeezing and squeezing until her skull cracked and
her brains ran out and were charred by the claws. She had never felt such
pain, never even imagined that she could feel such pain. Then another giant
hand clamped itself just as tightly on her stomach and groin.
She screamed then, screamed in pain, screamed in fear, screamed at the sense
of loss that filled her.
She was going to die without knowing what the Project was all about, die in
agony, die with her body bursting open like a rotten fruit and melting like
butter in the sun. She screamed as if by screaming loudly enough she could
forget the pain or drive it away. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed
Chapter Ten
«^»
Blade awoke and soon realized that he was tied hand and foot to some sort of
framework. He could feel
the ropes around his wrists and ankles, and hard rods digging into his back
and thighs. He was quite effectively immobilized.
It took him a while to realize that he hadn't broken any bones or smashed up
anything inside in falling nearly forty feet. He had certainly picked up a
lovely collection of bruises on every bit of skin he could see, and aches and
pains in every joint he could feel. However, he had felt much worse on other
occasions and still been able to move, run, and fight.
Blade raised his head as far as he could and looked around. Twenty
feet away Arllona lay spread-eagled, naked on a wooden frame. On her
forehead someone had painted or tattooed the flame emblem of the Consecrated.
Her eyes were closed, but Blade could see the slow, regular rise and fall of
her breasts. He hoped she would stay unconscious. After all the poor woman had
been through, the least she deserved was to die without any more terror or
pain.
Beyond Arllona rose a stand of tall trees. Through the trees Blade saw the
orange glow of the Mouth of the Gods, blanking out about a third of the stars
overhead.
Listening carefully. Blade could hear the roar as the great jet of ignited gas
leaped into the sky.
He could also hear, not so faintly, another sound. Not far away heavy cannon
were going off in irregular salvos. In the intervals of silence Blade could
hear the faint sound of musketry. The firing seemed to be coming from the
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outer walls. The Raufi must have settled down within range. At least they were
not over the outer wall yet.
Twenty-odd men were standing on the fringes of the trees. About half of them
were soldiers. In the glow from the Mouth Blade saw that their faces were
chalk colored with fear and slick with sweat. The others wore the robes of the
Consecrated. Standing among them was Jormin. From the way he was waving his
arms, he appeared to Blade to be making some sort of impassioned speech. His
sleeves flapped like the wings of a drunken bird as he spoke. Blade couldn't
hear a single word, but he doubted that he was missing very much.
Blade made another test of his bonds. They were not only well tied, they felt
like wire or something similar that would not burn, chafe or cut. That made
his chances of escaping before they thrust him into the Mouth of the Gods even
smaller than before.
Blade calmly faced the vision of himself dissolving in the flames until there
was nothing left but charred bone and grease, then put it firmly out of his
mind. He slowed his breathing and settled down to gather as much strength as
he could. His chances of escaping looked very slim. His chances of taking a
few
Kanoans with him and dying a quicker and cleaner death than the one awaiting
him in the Mouth of the
Gods that was something else. He wanted to be ready.
After a while Jormin's speech came to an end. Either he'd run out of things to
say or his audience had run out of patience. Jormin led the rest of the
Consecrated over toward Arllona. Blade got a good look at their faces as they
stood around her, looking down. The ugliness of frustrated lust was on every
one of those faces. The Consecrated were sworn to celibacy and asceticism,
but those faces told a very different story. One or two of the robed men
were bold enough to bend down and stroke Arllona's unresisting flesh with
red-gloved hands.
Jormin finally called his group to order and led them toward Blade.
Blade started thinking of particularly ripe insults to throw at Jormin. The
priest stalked closer, his face drained of all emotion except triumph.
Then three deep-toned trumpets sounded from behind Blade, loud enough to drown
out the Mouth of the Gods and the distant gunfire. Jormin's head jerked up as
if it had been pulled by a noose. A
moment later the trumpets sounded again, and after that came the thud of
several sets of hooves and
many pairs of fast-moving feet. Jormin's head swung to the right and the look
of triumph vanished from his face like a puff of smoke.
Three men in the uniforms of the lay servants of the Consecrated rode into
view, mounted on three barrel-chested black horses. Each man carried a silver
trumpet. They reined to a stop with practiced ease, put the trumpets to their
lips, and blew again. Jormin's face twisted. He looked as though he wanted to
burst into tears, or into a fit of temper, or into both at once. Then, slowly,
with obvious reluctance, he went down on both knees. The other Consecrated did
the same, and so did the soldiers under the trees. All faced in the direction
from which the riders had come.
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