Tin Woodman by David Bischoff, Dennis R. Bailey Page B

you were involved.”
    He grinned. “Always great to have women dream about me.” His expression grew grim. “But we’d better get on with it.”
    “Yes. I’ll do whatever you say.” Even as she spoke, the details of the dream faded, slipping from memory.
    But she knew it would come again.

    Bif Hersil leaned over the microphone attached to the launch monitor. “Programming complete,” he intoned crisply, businesslike. “Request permission to proceed with jettison.” He peered through the thick plastic window of Hangar Deck Control at the robot cranes positioning the cylindrical Mark IV above the hangar doors.
    “Acknowledged,” replied the launch computer. “Proceed as directed.” A quick touch to a glowing console plate before him activated the pre-programmed launch sequence.
    There was a hush of air behind him—the door opening. Ston Maurtan stepped into the room.
    “Moving up in the ranks, eh?” said Maurtan, smiling. He settled easily into a chair close to Hersil. “At last you’re awarded a task befitting your inestimable talents.”
    Hersil grinned back at him, “Yep. Completing a computer circuit.” He held up his forefinger, gazed at it sardonically. “This is all the computer needs. I could have left my brain up in quarters. Hey—how’s the hand?”
    “Itches under the bandage.” Maurtan glanced at the instrument array before him. Above the air-pressure indicator, a chronometer was flashing out the minutes and seconds remaining before the hangar depressurization commmenced: 4:57 it said. Then 4:56 . “Got bored with staring at the video in my cabin. Thought I’d hop down here, watch you make this trash dump.”
    “Don’t know as I’d call it trash,” mused Hersil, regarding the messenger ship. “Put a little work into it, and it might be all right. But the brass doesn’t want to bother.”
    “Only you on duty?”
    “Might be somebody in the observation rooms. I doubt it though. Don’t tell me that after all the time you’ve spent on starships these things still interest you.”
    “Well—actually I brought somebody down with me. You know Ensign Welbourne?”
    Hersil shook his head.
    “He’s down there right now, matter of fact.” Ston stabbed a finger toward the figure that walked across the hangar doors, toward the Mark IV.
    “He’s crazy,” cried Hersil, jerking his attention away from Ston, as planned. “Ston, the hangar bay seals automatically at five minutes until . . .” He checked the chronometer. “He’ll be killed! I’ll have to abort the drop!” He turned to his microphone.
    “Don’t.” Maurtan pulled his right hand from behind his back; it held a welding laser, the sort used to repair heavy engine shielding. He leveled it at Hersil. “Turn around, Bif. Walk toward the door.”
    HersiI did not budge. He stared at the tool-turned-weapon, then at Maurtan’s eyes, as though trying to measure his resolve.
    “Come on—be sensible, and do what I sayl” Ston demanded. “No room in here for another hero.”
    Without a word, Bif Hersil walked toward the door. Ston paced behind him, hand steady on the torch, marching him into an empty observation room adjoining the control room. “You’ll be safe here.” He stepped back, shut the door, turned the torch on the door lock. Metal fused under the blue laser light, sealing the door, imprisoning Hersil inside.
    He wasn’t keeping or making any friends these days, he thought as he re-entered the control room. Moving to the console, he searched out the proper buttons, pressed them. He checked the chronometer again. 3 :03 .
    Switching the torch up full, he aimed for the window, depressed the firing stud. The transparent plastic melted and burned, pouring so much noxious smoke into the room that it was necessary to hold his breath until he was finished.
    Taking off his uniform vest, he laid it across the hot, blackened metal sill of the frame, then climbed through. He let himself down to hang by his hands a