Jonti took a step backward and kicked the suitcase aside. He poised himself to withstand a charge and said, "I see your vile implication. My only explanation for it is that you are criminally insane."
Biron was trembling, and not with cold. "My father was popular with your men, Jonti. Too popular. An Autarch cannot allow a competitor in the business of ruling. You saw to it that he did not remain a competitor. And it was your next job to see to it that I did not remain alive either to replace or to avenge him." His voice raised to a shout, which whipped away on the cold air. "Isn't this true?"
"No."
Jonti bent to the suitcase. "I can prove you are wrong!" He flung it open. "Radio equipment. Inspect it. Take a good look at it." He tossed the items to the ground at Biron's feet.
Biron stared at them. "How does that prove anything?"
Jonti rose. "It doesn't. But now take a good look at this."
He had a blaster in his hand, and his knuckles were white with tension. The coolness had left his voice. He said, "I am tired of you. But I won't have to be tired much longer."
Biron said tonelessly, "You hid a blaster in the suitcase with the equipment?"
"Did you think I wouldn't? You honestly came here expecting to be thrown off a cliff and you thought I would try to do it with my hands as though I were a stevedore or a coal miner? I am Autarch of Lingane"-his face worked and his left hand made a flat, cutting gesture before him-"and I am tired of the cant and fatuous idealism of the Ranchers of Widemos." He whispered then, "Move on. Toward the cliff." He stepped forward.
Biron, hands raised, eyes on the blaster, stepped back. "You killed my father, then."
"I killed your father!" said the Autarch. "I tell you this so you may know in the last few moments of your life that the same man who saw to it that your father was blasted to bits in a disintegration chamber will see to it that you will follow him-and keep the Hinriad girl for himself thereafter, along with all that goes with her. Think of that! I will give you an extra minute to think of that! But keep your hands steady, or I will blast you and risk any questions my men may care to ask." It was as though his cold veneer, having cracked, left nothing but a burning passion exposed.
"You tried to kill me before this, as I said."
"I did. Your guesses were in every way correct. Does that help you now? Back!"
"No," said Biron. He brought his hands down and said, "H you're going to shoot, do so."
The Autarch said, "You think I will not dare?"
"I've asked you to shoot."
"And I will." The Autarch aimed deliberately at Biron's head and at a distance of four feet closed contact on his blaster.
19. Defeat!
Tedor Rizzett circled the little piece of tableland warily. He was not yet ready to be seen, but to remain hidden was difficult in this world of bare rock. In the patch of tumbled, crystalline boulders he felt safer. He threaded his way through them. Occasionally he paused to pass the soft back of the spongy gloves he wore over his face. The dry cold was deceptive.
He saw them now from between two granite monoliths that met in a V. He rested his blaster in the crotch. The sun was on his back. He felt its feeble warmth soak through, and he was satisfied. H they happened to look in his direction, the sun would be in their eyes and he himself would be that much less visible.
Their voices were sharp in his ear. Radio communication was in operation and he smiled at that. So far, according to plan. His own presence, of course, was not according to plan, but it would be better so. The plan was a rather overconfident one and the victim was not a complete fool, after all. His own blaster might yet be needed to decide the issue.
He waited. Stolidly he watched the Autarch lift his blaster as Biron stood there, unflinching.
Artemisia did not see the blaster lift. She did not see the two figures on the flat rock surface. Five minutes earlier she had seen Rizzett silhouetted for a moment against the sky, and since then she had followed him.
Somehow, he was moving too fast for her. Things dimmed and wavered before her and twice she found herself stretched on the ground. She did not recall falling. The second time, she staggered to her feet with one wrist oozing blood where a sharp edge had scraped her.
Rizzett had gained again and she had to reel after him. When he vanished in the glistening boulder forest, she sobbed in despair. She leaned against a rock, completely weary. Its beautiful flesh-pink tint, the glassy smoothness of its surface, the fact that it stood as an ancient reminder of a primeval volcanic age was lost upon her.
She could only try to fight the sensation of choking that pervaded her.
And then she saw him, dwarfed at the forked-rock formation, his back to her. She held the neuronic whip before her as she ran unevenly over the hard ground. He was sighting along the barrel of his rifle, intent upon the process, taking aim, getting ready.
She wouldn't make it in time.
She would have to distract his attention. She called, "Rizzett!" And again, "Rizzett, don't shoot!"
She stumbled again. The sun was blotting out, but consciousness lingered. It lingered long enough for her to feel the ground jar thuddingly against her, long enough to press her finger upon the whip's contact; and long enough for her to know that she was well out of range, even if her aim was accurate, which it could not be.
She felt arms about her, lifting. She tried to see, but her eyelids would not open.
"Biron?" It was a weak whisper.
The answer was a rough blur of words, but it was Rizzett's voice. She tried to speak further, then abruptly gave up. She had failed!