Houston Run

Chapter Three

Hickok heard the three voices before he saw the speakers. He recognized the distinctive vocal traits instantly.

“…agreed to drop the subject, yes?” said the first speaker.

“I didn’t agree to drop nothin’!” snapped the second speaker in a lisping, high-pitched voice. “You bozos did all the agreeing!”

“We had to,” asserted the third speaker, his tone low and raspy. “We knew we’d never hear the end of it otherwise.”

“You still ain’t heard the last of it!” stated the second speaker angrily.

Hickok was traveling a well-defined trail toward the western half of the Home. He walked past a row of pine trees and there they were, seated in the center of a small clearing, so involved in their argument, so wrapped up in the heat of their dispute, that their normally acute senses hadn’t detected his approach. But they spotted him the moment he stepped into view, and one of them jumped up.

“Hickok! You startled Gremlin, yes?” the nervous one exclaimed.

“Howdy, Gremlin,” Hickok said, greeting him, then nodding at the other two. “What are you yahoos doin’? Holdin’ a powwow?”

“Powwow? Gremlin has never heard of a powwow, no,” Gremlin said.

He stood about five feet ten, and his skin was a leathery gray. Except for a brown loincloth, he was naked. His facial features were hawk-like, his noise pointed, his ears small circles of flesh, and his mouth was a mere slit. The eyes in his bald head contained eerie, stark red pupils. “What is a powwow, yes?”

“He means shootin’ the breeze,” stated the second of the three in his high-pitched voice. This one, when standing, stood under four feet in height, and he weighed only 60 pounds. His bony physique was covered with a coat of short, grayish-brown fur, and his face was decidedly feline in aspect: green, slanted eyes, pointed ears, and a curved forehead, just like a cat’s. His fingernails were long and tapered to points. Like Gremlin, he wore a loincloth, but his was gray.

“So what are you guys doin’, Lynx?” Hickok asked the cat-man.

“What’s it to you?” Lynx retorted.

“Ignore him, Hickok,” advised the third member of the trio. “He’s in a bad mood. Again,” he added in his low tone.

“What’s got Lynx riled this time, Ferret?” Hickok inquired, moving over to join them.

Ferret was only an inch taller than Lynx. He wore a black loincloth. His whole body was encased in a coat of brown hair, three inches in length.

His head resembled that of his namesake, with an extended nose and tiny brown eyes. His nose constantly twitched. “The same thing he’s been upset about for months,” he answered.

“What’s that?” Hickok questioned.

“Fitting in,” Ferret said.

“I don’t follow you,” Hickok mentioned.

“What’s to follow?” Lynx interjected, annoyed. “I want to fit in around here, is all.”

Hickok glanced at Gremlin and Ferret. “But you guys do fit in. Has anyone in the Family given you a hard time ’bout livin’ here?”

“No,” Lynx responded. “But they wouldn’t pipe up even if they didn’t like us. Your Family is so sicky-sweet and lovey-dovey, spreadin’ kindness and love all over the place, they wouldn’t say anything to hurt our feelings.”

The gunman studied the cat-man. “If no one’s objected to you bein’ here, what’s the beef?”

Lynx’s feline features rippled as he struggled to repress his surging emotions. He was obviously furious over something, and was striving to keep his fury in check. “Would you really like to know what’s buggin’ me?”

Hickok nodded. “I’d really like to know,” he answered sincerely.

Lynx pointed at Gremlin and Ferret, then tapped his furry chest. “We’re not like the rest of you. Or ain’t you noticed?”

“You’re mutants. Big deal,” Hickok said. “The world is crawlin’ with mutants since the Big Blast.”

“We’re genetically engineered mutations!” Lynx stated angrily. “And that makes us different than all the rest.” He swept his right arm in a wide arc. “All the other mutations out there are the result of all the radiation and chemicals and who-knows-what-else dumped on the environment during World War III. But we came from a test-tube, Hickok! A lousy test-tube! The damn Doktor created us in his lab! Took ordinary human embryos and turned ’em into us!” Lynx clenched his hands into compact fists. “Freaks! That’s what we are! Nothin’ more than freaks!” He paused.

“You know, I heard test-tube babies were a big deal before the war. I heard the scientists were experimenting with all types of genetically engineered creatures. Slicing genes and all kinds of crap like that. The Doktor just took their work one step further. He wanted to create his own little personal assassin corps. Intelligent pets to do his bidding! That’s why the bastard made us!”

“But you rebelled,” Hickok reminded the fiery feline.

Lynx snorted derisively. “Fat lot of good it did us! Oh, sure, we survived when the rest of the Doc’s Genetic Research Division was destroyed. And it was real kind of your Family to take us in for helpin’ you out. But…”

“But what?” Hickok prodded.

“But what have we done since?” Lynx demanded. “We do some huntin’ for you, and odd jobs now and then, and play with the munchkins. That’s it!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Hickok asked. “Sounds to me like you’ve got it easy.”

“We do,” Lynx admitted. “But I’m tired of havin’ it easy. I was bred for action, Hickok. I’m a natural-born fighter, just like you and Blade and Rikki and the rest of the Warriors. And part of me is human, and my human part wants to do something constructive with my life. Something worthwhile. I want to contribute my fair share to the Family, repay you for your hospitality. I want to fit in.”

“So that’s what you meant,” Hickok said.

Lynx took a step toward the gunflghter. “You can help us, Hickok.”

“How?” Hickok asked. He could guess the answer. Blade and he were both aware of the ongoing dispute the mutants were having over Lynx’s not-so-secret desire. And, as Blade had rightly pointed out, it was up to the mutants to broach the subject first.

“Shhhhhh!” Gremlin suddenly hissed, glancing skyward.

“What is it?” Ferret inquired.

“Gremlin heard something, yes,” Gremlin told them.

Hickok looked at the tallest genetic deviate. Gremlin was the antsy type, highly emotional. But he was loyal to a fault, and his eyesight and hearing were superb. During Gremlin’s youth, while at the Citadel in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the Doktor had performed an exploratory operation on Gremlin’s brain as part of the Doktor’s continual upgrading of his medical knowledge and expertise. The Doktor had removed a portion of Gremlin’s brain as an experiment. The result was Gremlin’s unorthodox speech pattern.

“I didn’t hear nothin’,” Lynx said.

“You were talking,” Ferret noted. “And I was listening to you. Did you hear anything, Hickok?”

The gunman shook his head.

“Gremlin heard something!” Gremlin insisted. “We must investigate, no?”

“You investigate,” Lynx said. “I want to finish talkin’ to Hickok.”

“If Gremlin goes,” Ferret stated, “we all go. Isn’t that what we pledged? You were the one who read The Three Musketeers in the Family library, remember? One for all and all for one. Right?”

“Yeah,” Lynx responded, frowning. He gazed at Gremlin. “What did you hear?”

“Gremlin’s not certain, yes?” Gremlin replied, his red eyes staring to the east. “Funny kind of buzzing, no?”

“Maybe it was a giant mosquito,” Hickok quipped, only partially in jest.

Certain insect strains had developed tendencies toward inexplicable giantism since the war, growing to immense proportions.

“Not mosquito, no,” Gremlin asserted. “Something different, yes?”

“Let’s go find the damned thing!” Lynx snapped. He faced the gunfighter. “Why don’t you come along? I’d like to talk with you some more.”

Hickok hesitated, thinking of his waiting wife and son.

“Please,” Lynx persisted.

Hickok’s eyes narrowed. He’d never heard Lynx ask anything so politely before. Lynx must consider it very important indeed. And he could hardly refuse Lynx, because he still owed all three of the mutants for saving his wife’s life. “I’ll stick with you a spell,” he declared. “But let’s get this over with. I’ve got to get home.”

Gremlin led them into the trees, bearing to the east. Lynx came next, then Hickok and Ferret.

Hickok marveled at their incredibility silent passage through the vegetation. He was only a few feet away, but couldn’t hear a sound.

Gremlin increased his speed, and Lynx kept pace.

Ferret caught up with Hickok and nudged the gunman’s right elbow.

“You’re not mad at Lynx, are you?” he whispered.

“No,” Hickok answered softly. “Why should I be?”

“Lynx has a way of getting people upset,” Ferret said. “He can be too blunt at times, too inconsiderate. Especially when he’s in a bad mood, like now.”

“I’ll hear him out,” Hickok promised. “If he needs my help, I’ll do what I can. I’m not forgettin’ what you guys did for my missus.”

“That was last October,” Ferret mentioned. “This is April.”

“A debt is a debt,” Hickok stated. “Any hombre who doesn’t pay his debts ain’t much of a man in my book. The same holds true for women.”

“We could use your assistance,” Ferret remarked. “We want—”

“Shhhh!” came from Gremlin, ten yards ahead.

Hickok, crouched. Ferret passed him, stooped over, and he followed.

They reached a cluster of bushes and found Gremlin and Lynx on their knees, gaping at an object in a large clearing beyond. Hickok peeked over the top of the bushes, wondering if it was a wild animal, or one of the bizarre ravenous mutations, or even raiders who had somehow managed to scale the outer wall and swim the inner moat. His mind contemplated every possibility in the space of several seconds, his hands on his Colts, thinking he was prepared for anything.

He was wrong.

The gunman’s mouth dropped at the sight of the enormous craft in the clearing, a huge black aircraft of advanced design. Hickok racked his memory, attempting to recall the books in the Family library dealing with aviation. He’d read many of them as a child, entranced by the technological accomplishments of prewar society. The Family’s Founder had stocked the library with hundreds of thousands of volumes on every conceivable subject. The books containing photographs were especially prized by members of the Family, fascinated as they were by any glimpse of their ancestors’ civilization. Although many of the old volumes were faded or yellowed with age and required diligent care when handled, the Family members perused them avidly. Hickok had seen dozens of photographs of ancient aircraft. He’d even seen a functional jet once, and helicopters. But never a craft like the one before him.

“What is it?” Ferret blurted, amazed.

“It ain’t no mosquito,” Lynx said.

Gremlin turned toward Hickok. “You are Warrior, yes? What we do is up to you, no?”

Hickok peered at the aircraft. The strange vehicle was more than 20

yards away, too far to discern much detail. What was the craft doing there? he asked himself. Why was it in the Home? And who was flying the thing? Why had they landed in the dead of night? Sabotage? A spy mission? What?

“Come on, chuckles!” Lynx urged him. “Let’s check this sucker out!”

“I should let Blade know about this,” Hickok whispered.

“Can’t any of you Warriors take a leak without Blade aimin’ your pecker?” Lynx retorted.

Hickok slowly stood. The craft was quiet, and no one was in sight. He could see a doorway of some sort near the nose of the craft. The door was ajar, permitting a greenish light to illuminate a rectangular area under the nose.

“Are you makin’ up your mind, or did you fall asleep?” Lynx queried sarcastically.

“We’ll take a look,” Hickok said, “but you three stay behind me.” He drew his Pythons.

Lynx rose. “We don’t need you to baby-sit us!” he said indignantly.

Hickok spun. “I’m the Warrior here! And in times of danger, the Warriors are in charge! For all we know, that thing could pose a threat to the Family! So if you want to come, come! But you do what I say, when I tell you! Got it?”

Lynx grinned. “Anyone ever tell you how cute you are when you’re pissed off?”

Hickok turned toward the craft, then carefully advanced through the bushes to the clearing. He distinguished three immense wheels supporting the aircraft, one under the nose, and one under each wing. The wings were configured differently from those on the jet he’d seen. They began about a third of the distance from the nose, then flared out to form a gigantic triangular shape. They vaguely resembled those on a military craft in one of the books in the library, and he recalled a term he’d read: delta wing. A faint greenish light was visible under the canopy. And big white letters had been painted on the side.

Lynx came up on the gunman’s left. “I ain’t seen nothin’ like that before,” he said. “Not in the Civilized Zone, not with the Doktor, not anywhere.”

“Neither have I, pard,” Hickok remarked, his keen blue eyes sweeping the aircraft and the surrounding terrain. He angled toward the doorway, reflecting. How long had the craft been there? How could such a big thing have landed without being spotted? Jets and helicopters made a heap of noise. So why hadn’t anyone heard the craft in front of him? The ominous black aircraft was distinctly unsettling, and the implications of its presence worried him.

“Do you want one of us to sneak inside and see what’s in there?” Lynx queried in a whisper.

“If anyone goes in there,” Hickok replied, “it’ll be me. You just do what I tell you.”

“Yes, sir!” Lynx rejoined.

Hickok gazed along the length of the mystery craft. He estimated the aircraft was a minimum of 40 yards long. The wing span was difficult to gauge because of the darkness. He surveyed the edge of the clearing, perplexed. A ring of trees and brush surrounded the clearing. Didn’t jets require a lot of space to take off or land? So how the blazes had this black craft descended? Straight down? He shut all speculation from his mind as he neared the doorway, located 15 yards from the nose.

“What’s that mean?” Lynx asked, pointing at the side of the aircraft.

Hickok glanced at the white lettering. ANDROXIA.

“What’s Androxia?” Lynx questioned.

“You’re askin’ me?” Hickok responded. He cautiously approached the doorway. The door was open several inches.

“Perhaps we should knock, yes?” Gremlin inquired from behind the gunman.

“Are you crazy?” Lynx said. “We don’t know who’s in there.” He deliberately paused. “Unless, of course, Mr. Hickok wants to knock.”

“I’d like to knock your block off,” Hickok quipped. He reached the door.

“I’d like to see you try!” Lynx countered.

“Children! Please!” Ferret spoke up. “This is not the time or place.”

“Ferret speaks the truth, yes?” Gremlin added. “You two stop bickering, no?”

“Who’s bickering?” Lynx responded.

“Will all of you shut up!” Hickok hissed. “How can I sneak inside with you three idiots flappin’ your gums?”

“Who are you callin’ an idiot?” Lynx demanded.

“Go find a mirror,” Hickok retorted, and eased the metal door open.

The interior of the craft was lit by a greenish light emanating from recessed translucent squares in the ceiling. A narrow passage ran from the doorway to another, wider corridor.

“You three stay put,” Hickok stated. “I’m goin’ in.”

No one said a word.

Hickok crept into the aircraft. He was surprised to find panelling on the walls and carpeting underfoot. A row of doors lined the left side of the passage. On an impulse, Hickok reached out and yanked on the latch of the second door he passed. The door swung out, revealing four silver uniforms hanging from a rack. On the shoulders of each uniform, enclosed in a circle, was that word again: ANDROXIA. He closed the door and hurried to the connecting corridor.

“Which way?”

Hickok whirled.

Lynx and Ferret were right behind him.

“I thought I told you to stay put!” Hickok growled.

“Don’t lay an egg!” Lynx advised. “Gremlin is keepin’ watch.”

Hickok reined in his raging temper. He intended to settle the matter with the cantankerous feline at the first opportunity, but as Ferret had noted, now was not the time or place. He grit his teeth and took a right, heading toward the nose of the craft.

Lynx and Ferret padded on his heels.

Hickok passed four more doors. The corridor apparently ran the length of the craft. It widened slightly as it neared the nose, and suddenly they were in the spacious cockpit. A large canopy was overhead. Three cushioned seats were positioned in the middle of the cockpit, facing a complicated array of electronic components.

“That’s a computer!” Ferret exclaimed. “The Doktor used them all the time.”

“What are all those blinkin’ lights?” Hickok asked.

“I don’t know,” Ferret admitted. “I saw the Doktor use his, but I wasn’t taught how to use them.”

“All that bastard taught us was how to kill,” Lynx remarked. “As if we needed lessons!”

“The pilot isn’t here,” Hickok declared. “We’d best alert the Family.”

“I’ll go find Blade,” Ferret offered.

“Good idea,” Hickok concurred. “The last time I saw him, he was south of here a ways, lookin’ for a Bowie he lost.”

“I’ll find him,” Ferret stated. He turned.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, the noise of someone in a hurry.

Gremlin appeared at the junction, saw them, and raced to the cockpit.

“They’re coming!” he blurted in alarm. “They’re coming, yes!”

“Calm down, dimwit!” Lynx barked. “Who’s coming?”

“Men in gleaming clothes, yes!” Gremlin exclaimed. “Gremlin saw them, yes!”

“How far away are they?” Hickok asked.

“Don’t know, no!” Gremlin replied. “Gremlin saw them coming through trees to south, yes! Maybe a hundred yards, yes!”

“Then it’ll take ’em a minute or two to get here,” Hickok said, calculating. “We can surprise ’em.”

“Did you see their faces?” Ferret inquired. “Are you sure they’re men, Gremlin? Are you sure they’re human?”

“Gremlin did not see faces, no,” Gremlin answered. “What else could they be, yes?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Hickok stated. “Find a place to hide.”

“One more thing, yes!” Gremlin said.

“What is it?” Hickok queried, searching the cockpit for a suitable hiding place.

“They carry someone, yes!” Gremlin told them.

“They’re carryin’ someone?” Hickok repeated.

“Are you certain?” Ferret inquired.

Gremlin nodded. “Gremlin certain, yes.”

“You saw them carrying someone that far off?” Lynx chimed in. “I know we’ve got good eyesight, but—”

Gremlin’s red eyes narrowed. “Gremlin saw them, yes! Don’t call Gremlin liar, no!”

“I ain’t callin’ you a lair, you ding-a-ling!” Lynx said.

“Find a spot to hide!” Hickok ordered. “And don’t nobody make a move unless I give the word.”

“Can I wee-wee without permission?” Lynx cracked flippantly.

Hickok ignored the cat-man and turned to a row of doors. He opened the first one. Inside was a closet containing a pile of boxes and a strange metal instrument, a square affair with a dozen switches and dials. There was plenty of space to the left of the pile, and he bolstered his Pythons and quickly eased inside. “Hurry!” he declared, then closed the door. Darkness enveloped him. He could hear the others scurrying to concealment. A door opened to his right, and he knew one of them was using the next closet to hide. He was about to ask who it was, when he heard a voice whispering.

“Gremlin doesn’t like this, no! Not one bit, yes!”

Hickok grinned. He lifted his right hand and rested it on his right Colt.

There wasn’t much room to maneuver, but he was confident he could draw if necessary. He debated a course of action. Should he confront these jokers as soon as they returned? Or should he wait, bide his time, eavesdrop on them, and possibly learn what they were up to, why they were at the Home? He opted for the second plan.

There was a muffled thump from the cockpit, from the direction of the computer, as if someone had bumped something.

“Damn computer!” Lynx muttered.

Hickok smiled. It served the runt right! Lynx was normally a feisty critter, but he’d never seen Lynx as touchy as tonight. He’d known something was bothering the feline for months, but Lynx hadn’t said a word to any of the Family about the cause. On numerous occasions he’d seen Lynx and the other two engaged in intense arguments. Lynx seemed to be taking one side, Ferret and Gremlin the other. Hickok had a notion why they were spatting, but he hadn’t wanted to…

Somewhere, a door slammed.

Hickok waited expectantly.

There was an exchange of muted voices.

Hickok fingered the trigger on his right Python.

“…immediately. Primator will be pleased,” said a deep voice, the audibility increasing as the speaker neared the cockpit.

“I was impressed,” said a second person. “He is quite formidable.”

Hickok pressed his right ear to the door panel. Oddly enough, the two voices were almost, but not quite, identical.

“I’m proof of that,” commented yet a third party.

The unknown trio reached the cockpit, and there was a commotion as they went about their business.

“How much coolant have you lost?” asked one of them.

“Two quarts,” answered another.

“Go to the Wells Repair Module,” instructed the first voice. “I will perform emergency crimping on your tubes. It will suffice until we reach Androxia.”

“Thank you,” said the other one. “I will place my hand in the Boulle to prevent excessive dehydration.”

What the blazes were they talking about? Hickok wondered.

“If his knife had penetrated your Heinlein, you would require a major overhaul,” commented the third one. He paused. “Should Blade be placed in stasis?”

Blade! They had Blade! Hickok felt a slight vibration under his feet as he gripped the latch and shoved. He leaped from the closet, his thumb on the hammer of his right Python. “Don’t move!” he shouted, whipping his right Colt up and out, then stopping, stupefied.

There were three of them, each seven feet in height, each attired in a silver uniform. They all had blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. They looked enough alike to be triplets. One stood in front of the computer. The second one, with Blade’s unconscious form draped over his left shoulder, was standing five feet to the left of the gunman. The third giant was near the doorway, a ragged tear in his uniform in the center of his chest, a pale fluid seeping from the hole, holding his severed left hand in his right!

The one near the computer glanced at the one holding Blade. “You were correct. You did observe someone near the Hoverjet.”

“I’ll do the talkin’!” Hickok snapped. He wagged his Python at the one with Blade. “You! Set my pard on the floor! Nice and easy like!”

To the gunman’s astonishment, his command was ignored. The one with Blade looked at the one near the computer. “This must be another Warrior. Should we dispose of him?”

“I believe this is the organism called Hickok,” remarked the silver man near the door. “I’m familiar with primitive firearms, and those are Colt Pythons. He is an associate of Blade’s.”

“Then we will transport him to Androxia,” the one by the computer stated.

“You ain’t transportin’ me nowhere!” Hickok declared. “This contraption of yours is stayin’ right on the ground!”

“That’s impossible,” the one near the computer stated.

“Wanna bet?” Hickok rejoined, pointing his Python at the man’s head.

“We do not gamble,” the silver man said. “And we can not stay on the ground when we are already in the air.” He motioned toward the canopy.

Hickok risked a hasty glance upward. He could see the stars, and they were moving! With a start, he suddenly realized the stars weren’t really moving: the aircraft was! They were airborne!

The silver man near the computer scrutinized the gunman’s expression.

“We departed your Home over a minute ago. Our onboard navigational computer automatically implemented our takeoff. The Klinecraft is soundproofed, and motion fluctuation is minimal. There was no way you could have known.”

“Turn this buggy around!” Hickok demanded. “You’re takin’ us back.”

“No, we are not,” said the one by the computer, and he nodded at the silver man near the doorway.

Hickok whirled.

The one with the cut-off hand was already charging, his right arm upraised to deliver a crushing blow.

Hickok’s right Python boomed, thundering in the confines of the cockpit. As he invariably did, Hickok went for the head. He was a staunch advocate of always going for the brain. If an opponent was hit anywhere else, they could keep coming. Even if a foe was shot in the heart, they could linger for several seconds or longer, enough time to squeeze a trigger or get in a final swipe. But snuff the brain, as Hickok liked to say, and nine times out of ten the enemy was instantly slain. Nine times out of ten.

This time was the tenth.

The silver man was struck in the left eye, the impact of the 158-grain hollow-point slug jerking his massive body to the left and stopping him in his tracks. He hesitated for just a fraction, then plunged forward, seemingly immune to pain and heedless of the gaping cavity where his left eye had just been.

Hickok’s Python blasted again. And once more. Each shot was on target. The first one caught the silver man in the forehead, snapping his head backward and blowing the rear of his cranium outward, spraying the cockpit wall and carpeted floor with grisly pieces of flesh and hair and spattering everything with a colorless liquid. The silver man halted, shook his head once, then resumed his attack. Hickok’s next shot hit his assailant in the right eye.

The silver man doubled over, clutching at his shattered face, a watery substance spewing onto the floor.

Hickok was astounded. Never had he seen anyone take such punishment and still keep coming.

But this one did.

The silver man straightened, his arms extended. He had dropped his left hand, and the fingers on his right clawed at the air. His eyes were gone, yet he advanced, shuffling in the direction of the Warrior, his right arm swinging from side to side.

How the hell did he do it? Hickok sent two more slugs into the silver man’s head.

The man in silver abruptly stiffened. His mouth curved downwards, his lips trembling. He took a single halting step, then collapsed in a heap.

Hickok couldn’t accept the testimony of his own eyes.

Smoke was wafting from the dead man’s ruined eye sockets!

The gunman’s superb instincts sensed danger, and his left hand streaked to his left Colt as he pivoted to face the other two silver men. He almost made it.

The silver man near the computer had already sprung into action, executing a flying leap, his heavy form hurtling through the intervening space and crashing into the Warrior, slamming the gunman against the closet door, ramming the gunfighter’s head into the door. The panel split from the force of the blow, and the gunman slumped to the green carpet, his right Python slipping from his limp fingers.

AS-1 rose to his full height and stared at the Warrior at his feet. “These Warriors are not to be taken lightly,” he commented. “I will inform Intelligence upon our return to Androxia.” He glanced at his crumpled companion. “OV-3’s Bradbury Chip was struck by one of Hickok’s shots,” he deduced.

IM-97 transferred Blade from his left shoulder to his arms, then walked to the doorway. “I will place this one in stasis and return for Hickok.”

AS-1 nodded. “I will transmit the status of our mission to Androxia.”

IM-97 gazed at the body of OV-3. “How do you think Primator will react to the loss of a Superior?”

AS-1 nudged OV-3 with the tip of his right toe. “The humans have an expression,” he remarked. “Apropos in this instance.”

“What is it?” IM-97 inquired.

“The shit will hit the fan.”