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hint of threat. "You come with me now," he said.
"Of course." Macurdy turned and stepped out the door. He twitched all the way
to the hostel, remembering the wounds he'd received the last time he'd been
herded from a gate by a man with a spear, fourteen years earlier. That, he
told himself, had worked out well enough in the long run, but this had to work
out in the short.
He'd been right about the number; there were a corporal and four privates.
The domestic staff of five humans was enough to serve if a group came through
from the other side. Macurdy hoped devoutly that it wouldn't happen.
The corporal's name was Trosza, and he spoke German much better than the
spearman. Macurdy talked him into letting him spend the night and return the
next day, meanwhile asking questions. At first about the Voitusotar, and what
it was like to be a Voitik soldier. By supper they were on relaxed and
congenial terms.
He slept till late morning, but that was no problem. He had till afternoon,
sleeping had killed time, and he'd been hit by what in later years would be
known as jet lag. After lunch he talked with the corporal again, until they
felt the gate activate. "It is time," the corporal said.
"Yes, I suppose we should leave soon. Perhaps I could have one more cup of
your tea. We have nothing like it where I come from. It is very good."
He lingered over the refill, talking, deliberately using up time. The gate
always remained open for close to an hour, and he didn't want to be followed.
While they finished their tea, Macurdy slipped an object from a thigh pocket
and pressed it against the underside of the table, where it stuck.
Aboutmidnight, if the device worked on this side, it would flash into dripping
flame, and hopefully burn the place to the ground. Perhaps even killing any
eye witnesses to his being there. At least it would fix their minds on
something else.
Finally he and the corporal went to the gatehouse. By the time they reached
its doorway, they felt the repulsion quite distinctly, the reverse of the
attraction on the other side.
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"I will stop here," said Trosza. "I wish you well."
I wish you welllMacurdy had a job to do, but the Voitu's words would trouble
him afterward. He reached as if to shake Trosza's hand, a civility the
Voitusotar shared with humans. When they clasped, Macurdy pivoted abruptly
away, pulling sharply on the hand, bending, kicking backward and upward, all
in a fraction of a second. The pull half turned the startled Voitu, the kick
striking him below the right ribs, compressing the abdomen, and though Macurdy
didn't know it, tearing the liver. In someone shorter, it would have broken
ribs, collapsed a lung, perhaps resulted in heart spasm.
Trosza blacked out instantly, and Macurdy, hoping no one had seen, dragged
him by the ankles into the gatehouse. If he was pursued, his .45 would be
operable on the other side, but Macurdy wanted to avoid attention on either
side.
As before, he had to lean and push against the gate's repulsion, but within
half a minute experienced the utter blackness, the utter silence, the sense of
absolute nothingness of the return transit. Then, knees buckling, he dropped
on the crest of the Witches' Ridge, the unconscious Trosza behind him.
After handcuffing his captive and tying his ankles, Macurdy struggled the
ungainly burden across his shoulders and started down the road. The Voitu was
slender, but at nearly seven feet, he weighed at least two hundred pounds.
Still it was downhill, and Trosza remained unconscious, which so far as
Macurdy knew, meant that any wakeful Voitu in the schloss wouldn't pick up via
the hive mind that he'd been captured. If necessary he could kill him; judging
by his aura, he was badly hurt already. A Voitik corpse would establish their
reality for Donovan, but the general wanted him questioned. A live Trosza
could verify from the hive mind what the threat was.
A live Trosza. But if Voitar could die of seasickness, might they also die of
airsickness?
He could make out the plane in the deep shadow of lakeside forest, and lay
the unconscious Trosza on the shore nearby. From the Voitu's aura, it was
clear now that he had serious internal damage. Silently, Macurdy cursed the
force of his kick. After getting the raft and inflating it, he loaded his
captive, then paddled the dozen or so yards to the plane, where a curious
MacNab helped him fold the Voitu inside. The pilot had worn his kilt this
time.
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