Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 55

"They should know better," Alberonn exclaimed, "having seen you direct the metaconcert manoeuvres of our forces!"

"Ah, but a director doesn't have to be a personal hotshot,"

Aiken observed. "As long as he has the right program tucked away in his noodle, mental strength isn't nearly as important as adroitness and the ability to channel energies. I think Hagen might be afraid that I'd be unable to handle Marc in a one-onone confrontation, without a concert to back me up. He's a supercautious young p.r.i.c.k, you know. He doesn't much care for my freewheeling style-going blithely about without three sigma-sh.e.l.ls and a full suit of cerametal armour to safeguard my royal a.s.s from sneak attack. The kid could be worrying that his old man might simply grab me. And use me."

The other ATVs rumbled over the span, one at a time.

Hagen's breezy thought addressed Aiken on the intimate mode: Sir you left us all in the dust didn't you? You're a better driver than any of us! Would you like us to form up for a parade entry into the Establishment? I could even broadcast some snappy bagpipe music over the loudhailerAiken's thought was wry: Just follow Me.

"He would," Dougal said softly, as Aiken started up their own vehicle. "He'd follow for expediency's sake, provided that you demonstrate once and for all who is va.s.sal and who is King." And he tapped the lion's head embroidered in gold on his knightly surtout.

Aiken cast a sidelong glance of surprise at the medievalist, who wore no torc yet so often seemed to know his thoughts.

He noticed for the first time that the leonine charge now wore a crown, and this tripped a half-forgotten memory from his misspent youth on the planet Dalriada. But the thought slipped away before the press of immediate matters and he said, "First we must make absolutely certain that they're planning a coup.

It's never a good idea to waste your shots. Especially when you don't have all that many in the old quiver."

The Iron Master of the new Royal Siderurgical Establishment was a tough old bareneck named Axel, an early defector from the Lowlife Iron Villages in the Vosges. With the King's carte blanche on materials and personnel, the technician had organized a far more sophisticated setup on Breton Island-one that was, moreover, secure from virtually any kind of attack short of aerial bombardment. The mineworkings, which yielded siderite, were entirely underground. Ore was removed with a minimum of human labour by four compact mining machines liberated from the Goriah contraband cache. The initial smelting was done in an adjacent blast furnace equipped with a pair of huge water-powered bellows.

After a brief stroll through the mine and a look at the roaring furnace, Aiken and his party were taken to a catwalk about fifteen metres above the main floor of the enormous smeltery structure. There they watched molten pig iron steam spectacularly from the crucible into a great bucket-shaped charging ladle.

This container was three times the height of the scurrying workers, who attended it dressed in silvery reflective garb that protected them from the heat and flying sparks. When it was full, the ladle came trundling along a track to an even larger, egg-shaped vessel with an open top, tilted on its side ready to receive the unrefined liquid iron.

"We use metal straight from the crucible for arrows and lance heads and other simple applications," Axel explained to the King. "Or cast it into pigs for conversion into wrought iron in the hammer shed next door. But that process is as noisy as the bells of h.e.l.l and not too interesting. I figured your Exalteds would rather watch something livelier-so we're going to do the first blow of the new Bessemer converter for you!"

The King said, "That should be fun."

"I wanted to build one of these up in Haut Furneauxville, but our supervisor, Tony Wayland, overruled me." Axel grimaced.

"He wanted something sophisticated-as if we needed fancy alloys or squeaky-pure iron for stabbing Firvulag! Wayland never did get his electric furnace into operation. We couldn't salvage the proper power supply from Finiah."

The king was listening intently. "This Wayland-in your opinion, was he a topnotch metallurgist?"

The Iron Master's lip curled and he tipped his head toward Dougal. "Better ask him. He was Wayland's keeper. All I know is, we can process a hundred times as much steel in my Bessemer converter as we would have been able to do in Wayland's electric dipstick oven. You'll see!"

The charging ladle poured white-hot metal into the converter's wide mouth. Alberonn remarked, "How the Firvulag Foe would quail, could they but see this abundance of blood-metal being refined to their destruction ... "

"They will see it," Aiken declared, "because I'm going to display some useful steel thingummies at the Grand Tourney, just to let Sharn and Ayfa know that it didn't do them any good to knock out the Lowlife Iron Villages. Then we'll find out if the Little Folks are still keen to start the Nightfall War."

Axel peered down at the workers. One silvery form clasped gloved hands above its hooded head in a sign of readiness. The charging ladle rolled away and the great egg loaded with molten iron began to tilt up on its trunnions. For a moment the mouth faced directly at the group of observers and they shrank back involuntarily from the view of the white, glowing interior. Then the converter was vertical, and finally came to rest canted slightly to the rear, so that the mouth could blow against a curved s.h.i.+eld that protected the building's wooden wall.

"Everybody gather round!" Axel cried, bubbling with s...o...b..z fervour. "I'll explain what's going to happen."

Aiken had been closely hemmed by Tanu members of his entourage, and the North Americans and most of the human retainers were scattered along the railing. The King suddenly told the exotics, "Now, then, Exalted Brothers and Sisters!

Where's your sense of hospitality? Make a place for our North American guests up here close to Me so that they can hear what Axel has to say. And you, too, Yos.h.!.+ Come over here and bring your a.s.sistants. This steelworks is only partially automated, and you might get some useful notions on how to improve production."

The samurai gold-torc bowed. "As you command, Aikensama." Sunny Jim pushed up eagerly to take a front position, but Vilkas hung back with a different air.

"Come along, man," Aiken urged. "We're ready for the big show. Don't you want a front seat? There's plenty of room next to Hagen and Nial."

Young Remillard and his thirteen a.s.sociates stood in a loose group at the King's left. Axel beamed delightedly at them. A human chauvinist to the core, the Iron Master was secretly proud that these important young people were barenecks like himself. They had listened with flattering attention to his little lectures on the tour, and several were particularly impressed by his surrept.i.tious explanation of why blood-metal was the ultimate weapon against both exotic races.

Now Axel addressed the gathering with growing excitement.

"The Bessemer converter is as simple as it is dramatic. You will note that there is no means of externally heating the chamber-and yet, within a few minutes, the temperature will rise, converting certain impurities into glowing gases and others into slag! We do this by forcing a mighty blast of air through nozzles in the converter's bottom. It comes not from a simple bellows but from a solar-powered compressor! The injected oxygen causes carbon still trapped in the iron to ignite. The converter contents boil like a volcano! Undesirable elements belch forth in a display of fireworks that is as awesome as it is efficient!" He hauled out a bandanna handkerchief and swabbed his dripping face. "Any last questions before we let 'er rip?"

"Is there no hazard in the coddling of this devil's egg?"

Dougal asked sternly. "After all-you did say this was its maiden blast-off."

"No danger, none at all," Axel insisted. "Lordy, we're fifty metres away from the thing, and it's pointed the other way!"

"Let's get on with it," Hagen said. "We're not afraid. It should be very interesting." He turned a cool blue eye on Aiken.

"What do you say, Your Majesty?"

"Carry on," said the King.

Axel leaned over the railing and gave the bandanna a vigorous shake. One of the silver figures waved and hurried to a big wheel valve in the pipes entering at the right trunnion. As he hauled the thing open a hissing scream manifested itself and a monstrous tongue of flame howled from the converter mouth.

Sparks erupted in a dazzling shower, bouncing off the protective steel-ceramic s.h.i.+eld on the rear wall. A wave of heat swept over the onlookers. The entire building quivered to the foundations.

Multicoloured smoke roiled into the roof beams to escape through ventilation slots.

"Just wait!" yelled Axel. "It gets better!"

The valve operator was admitting more compressed air. The roaring heightened in pitch until the converter seemed to scream in triumph. The smoke glowed a peculiar brownish scarlet and elongated lances of incandescent gas thrust from it, flickering purple and pink and orange. Drops of molten slag arced through the air like meteorites. The silver-clad workers down on the floor were jumping up and down ecstatically, while on the catwalk, the group gathered about the King was engrossed in the spectacle.

Slowly, the flame spurts became bright yellow. The smoke cleared as the purification of the iron continued and silicon burned. Un.o.btrusively, Hagen and his people edged away to the left, with Vilkas trailing after. The Lithuanian in his festive as.h.i.+garu outfit was openmouthed; his eyes darted back and forth between the King and the fire-spitting egg across the building.

The North Americans stood shoulder to shoulder in a compact knot ten metres away. Their eyes, amazingly, had closed.

The flames of the converter turned from orange to purest white, spraying a diamond glitter and writhing like braided starstuff. Carbon burned now; the incandescent gases were at their hottest, blasting the s.h.i.+eld so that the firebrick cladding became a s.h.i.+ning bullseye.

The converter began to rotate on its trunnions.

Axel screamed, "No!"

The stupendous jet moved off the s.h.i.+eld as the flask pivoted and ignited the wall timbers in a split second. Down below, workers scattered. One heroic figure could be seen wrestling impotently with the air valve. Like a colossal blowtorch, the flames roaring from the egg swept a scorching three-metre patch across the entire roof and down the wall immediately behind the King and his stunned retinue.

Then the open mouth blasted directly at them and they were engulfed in white heat.

Vilkas gave a moan of terror. The catwalk was in flames and the entire building filled with thick smoke. He began to run, and reached the wooden stairway only to stumble and nearly pitch headlong when a gust of smoke choked and nearly blinded him. He sobbed out loud, clung to the railing, howled, "Help, somebody, for G.o.d's sake!"

He heard the roar of the converter cut off. Then the snap of burning timber rustled away to nothingness. There came a great wind that drove the smoke upward, out of the roof vents, and for a brief moment the embers of the quenched wood glowed brightly again before subsiding into dead charcoal.

Vilkas pulled himself upright, tears streaming from his stinging eyes. The great egg-shaped converter was motionless, tipped at an approximate forty-five-degree angle with its mouth aimed at the place where Aiken and his group were standing.