Emile and the Dutchman Read Online Free PDF Page B

were occupied. "You see any weapons on your natives?"
    "No."
    "None on these, either. There's five—no, six—bodies scattered around the clearing." Buchholtz had given them a good fight. Trails of blood leading into the forest showed that it had taken more than these six filthy lizards to kill Kurt Buchholtz.
    I stowed the camera, then stooped to check his weapons. "His rifle's empty." I slipped the magazine out of his automatic. "Major?"
    "Yeah?"
    "Did Buchholtz keep a round in the chamber?"
    "Yeah. Five rounds left?"
    "Yes, sir. Pistol's been fired three times." His Fairbairn knife was stained with dark-purple blood. "He made the bastards pay, Major." I cleaned his knife with a dirtclod, then raised it in a quick if sketchy salute. There wasn't anything else I could do for Kurt.
    I wiped the rest of the blood off the knife and slipped it into my belt. Maybe I'd be having some use for it. I almost wished—
    "Don't give with the bullshit bravado, kid. Just keep your head on. May be some injured ones around, some survivors. Lessee if we can't survive this one, which would be nice." The Dutchman just kept talking. I don't know whether it was to reassure himself or me. "C'mon back now; the skimmer'll be here in just a couple of minutes. And keep your eyes open, shithead. Take it easy, Emmy. Deep breaths. Get away from the—"
    McCaw's voice cut in. He wasn't talking to me or Norfeldt, I'm sure. "Thank you. Please. If you could . . ."
    "What the fuck? Ah, no—Ari, Ari. Shit." Norfeldt's voice was suddenly calm, even. "Not back here, Emmy. Meet me at the skimmer."
    "But—"
    "Take off in twenty minutes, if I don't meet you. I want the skimmer back at the shuttle ay-sap, fuckhead. If I don't make it, you're going to have to Drop this one, all by yourself. That's an order. Acknowledge."
    I swallowed. "Aye aye, sir."
    "One more thing before you go. Take a look at Kurt's face."
    "Sir?" It was hidden by his bloody, deflated helmet.
    "Shut up and look, Mister. Is he smiling?"
    Using Buchholtz's Fairbairn knife, I cut the rest of the helmet away. It was hard work; membrane helmets are tough.
    "So? Is he smiling, Emmy?"
    It was hidden by the blood, but he was. I couldn't understand it. "Yeah."
    "So's McCaw. And he's dead, too."

VII

    "Lesson time, Emmy." Norfeldt's hands were again folded over his ample belly, as he sat—well, floated, really—in his couch, puffing clouds of smoke toward the ashtray.
    I'm not criticizing. There wasn't a damn thing to do until we reached the Gate.
    But it still didn't seem right. "None of that crap, Major. We blew it. It's going to be a Drop."
    The Dutchman shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke at the exhaust over his head. "You're right—but why?"
    "Because they kill people—espers in particular. I mean, they had to claw Buchholtz to death, but they didn't even have to touch McCaw to kill him. Both of them were psi-positive. Both died. We didn't."
    "Don't be stupid. Think about it. Second Team didn't die, and all of them except the Team leader were highly positive—more than Kurt. Well," he said, waving his chins at the screen, "at least they didn't die here—they died back on our side. How much do you want to bet that the only First Team member who didn't change his psych profile was the TL?"
    "I don't understand."
    "Figures. Try thinking about it."
    "Wait! They . . . didn't think of you and me as people."
    "You're beginning to get it, Emmy." The Dutchman chuckled. "We learned enough down there, just enough to work it out. Remember the greeting that the leader of the aliens gave McCaw?"
    "Something like 'We'll give you what you want,' no?"
    "Close enough. Hey, Emmy," he said, like an idea had just struck him, "you want a beer?"
    It's strictly against regs to drink on duty. And since there were two of us in the scout, one of us had to be on duty.
    "Sure." But a spaceside watch isn't something that you really need to be completely sober for, and a beer was going to do me good. Besides, the Dutchman