Day of the Dragonstar (21 page)

They’d spilled much of themselves into each other, he and Becky had, and now he was irretrievably caught up with her. She thrilled with the time and energy he took in trying to understand her from the very beginning, despite the lack of success in their first bout of lovemaking. That had been kind of rough. He’d apologized for seducing her, for letting his drives get the better of him, and promised that it would never happen again. But she
wanted
it to happen again, just as he did. And after a couple of days when guilt had put a barrier between them, she explained that she felt guilty as well, and that perhaps they should work through that guilt, because the comfort they could take in each other, physical and emotional, might be the key to the will to survive. He couldn’t argue with that, nor did he want to, and the subsequent sharings of their bodies and minds had proved extremely sustaining for both of them on certain levels. But the guilt and the doubt remained. He was holding back, he knew, because he realized just how possible it was to fall totally in love with her, and he didn’t want that.

Movement in the Chasmosaur herd distracted him from his unsettling thoughts. “Uh oh. I think they’ve picked up our scent.”

The dinosaurs were becoming agitated. The one closest to them had begun to nervously pad the ground with its front feet. “Damn,” said Ian. “I think that big one’s coming this way.” A thrill of fear raced through him. He was in no state to deal with this.

One of the things they had learned about the Ceratopsians since they’d reached the highlands was the difference in temperament between the tough, rhino-like dinosaurs and the fleshy herbivores of the lowlands. The horned dinosaurs, although plant-eaters, were a scrappy bunch who did not scare easily and who would willingly put up a fight against any predator that threatened the safety of their young within their herd. In fact, Ian and Becky had seen the large males inexplicably charge inanimate objects such as rocks and trees with bone-shattering impact.

Becky looked up at him. “Ian. Are we safe here?”

“God knows . . . but I think we’re going to find out. Here he comes!”

The largest of the Chasmosaurs had begun trotting toward their position, gathering speed quickly, kicking up clouds of dirt in its wake. The resemblance to the head-on charge of a big rhino was uncanny, although those mammals were a lot smaller than these bastards.

A knot of fear crawling up his throat, Ian took out his Magnum pistol and flipped off the safety, checking the chamber. The weapon was fine. Coopersmith wasn’t. His hands were trembling slightly.

“I’m going to wait until he gets close enough for these slugs to do the most damage,” he said, swallowing back his fear.

Steady on, old boy, he told
himself. Keep your nerve.

By the time it was seventy meters away, it appeared to have reached its full speed, which was considerable. The air reverberated from the ground-thudding rhythm of its charge.

Suddenly, with incredible volume, it bellowed.

Startled, Ian took a step back, swiftly. He felt the rock behind him dig into his leg even as he lost his balance.

“Jesus!” he cried, tripping over the hard rock. Trying to recover, he twisted around, forgetting his hold on his gun. The weapon flew from his hands into the dust even as he windmilled over into the short drop behind him. He fell a meter and a half, hitting hard on his side. The fall knocked his breath out, and he gasped in pain.

Must get up
, he thought, dazed.
Becky. Must watch out for Becky.

He rolled over. Agony shot through his ribs and up one leg. He tried to scramble up, but he’d sprained his left ankle and he tottered back down again, grabbing hold of the rock that had tripped him. There was the taste of dust and blood and death in his mouth as he saw the Chasmosaur, honking wildly in its unnerving bellow. It was closing the distance rapidly, its head down so that the large horn on its nose was pointing straight ahead. The fanlike sheath of its bony head-crest served as a shield for its softer neck and sagging underbelly. It looked like an armored car bearing down upon them.

Becky was not standing still. She had already dashed over to where the gun had fallen, and retrieved it.

“Stay down, Ian,” she said firmly.

“But Becky . . . !” he said, trying to clamber over the rock. “I said stay down, dammit! No time!”

Becky wedged her right hand between two jagged peaks, taking careful aim down the short barrel of the Magnum.

Ian watched with a mixture of fear and astonishment, forgetting the pain that licked up his leg and his side, ignoring the ache that had begun to pound in his head.

Becky sighted between the rocks, concentrating on the expanding shape of the Chasmosaur’s triangular head. Just below two bony projections on its brow were two small black beads—its eyes. She was going to try to put a bullet into its brain through the eye-socket. There was no way of knowing if a Magnum slug would even penetrate the armored skull. Her chances of hitting the tiny eye, though, were slim, especially since the beast was moving so, fast.

When it was twenty meters away and closing, Becky fired her first shot. It struck the fan-like sheath, shattering it like a dinner plate. Ian had underestimated the destructive force of an exploding slug. He was shocked to see the beast momentarily stagger as its blood pumped through the wound and down the side of its face. It shook its head and resumed its charge as Becky fired again. This time the bullet entered the thing’s mouth just below the curve of its bird-like beak. Bits of bone and a thick mist of blood spurted from its lower jaw. The beast stumbled down upon its front legs, shaking its head violently from side to side. Its bellow reached a higher pitch, and the sound pierced the air, describing the beast’s agony.

“Good Christ!” said Ian under his breath as he watched the hulking creature force itself back up to its feet and begin to again move forward. He felt shattered with fear and helplessness. It was all in Becky’s hands now. There was nothing he could do.

Nothing.

The Chasmosaur’s ugly head was now mottled with blood and dirt. Its lower jaw dangled open helplessly.

But still it
kept coming.

Less than ten meters from their fragile position in the rocks, the Chasmosaur’s speed had slowed to a fast walk. Still, it was moving with enough power to barrel through the rocks by the force of its own momentum.

Ian watched Becky as she drew a breath, sighted again down the barrel, and waited until the monster’s enormous head was thrashing and weaving only meters in front of her. Ian could smell the lizardy reek from the creature, mixed with the dust it had spumed up.

Her face was calm and intent. She fired twice. The first volley struck the horny crest, further obliterating it. The second slammed straight up into the beast’s open mouth, which had been thrown back and up by the explosive force of the first slug. The second bullet must have entered the beast’s brain through the roof of its mouth, because in the next instant Ian saw the back of its neck, just behind the ridge of its bony crest, explode in a geyser of shredded flesh and vaporized blood. The Chasmosaur’s bellowing stopped abruptly as it fell forward, its ravaged head falling into the wedge of rocks where Becky had been firing from, Jumping back, Becky fell and tucked into a tight roll.

Ian cried out and managed to scramble over the rocks and over to her, ignoring the shafts of pain driving through his body. As he touched her, he looked up. The beast’s great head hung over them, unmoving, finally stilled. Blood dripped down the rocks, pooling in the dirt.

“It’s okay now, Becky,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes and stared up blankly.

“You did just fine, darling. You saved our lives.” He pried the Magnum from her hands, and switched the safety back on. The thing was hot from firing.

“Ian! Oh God. Ian . . .” she said, reaching up for him.

He held her for a moment, trying to ignore the pain it caused him in his ribs. He just prayed he hadn’t broken any. Not likely.

“You were incredible, Becky,” said Ian, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Let’s not talk about it . . . not now. Are you all right?”

“I think so. He didn’t touch me. I just lost my balance getting out of the way. What about the other ones?”

Ian stood up and looked beyond the huge head of the dead beast, down to the plateau where the remainder of the small herd continued to graze. He favored his injured leg. “Hmm. Doesn’t look like there’s anybody else who wants to play hero. Just the same, I think we’d better get out of here. This corpse’s going to start attracting scavengers.”

“Ian, your leg . . .” Becky got up, concerned.

“And my side and my head, too.”

“Hurt much?”

“You bet. That was a damned stupid thing I did back there. I should have stayed calm. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, Becky.” He looked away, feeling the full burden of his failure.

“Hey. Just a moment here. You fell over a rock. I shot the dinosaur instead. So what? You’re not going to do the male ego trip on me Iike Phineas does.”

“It’s my responsibility to look after you,” he muttered.

She walked around and faced him, hands on hips. “Listen, Ian. We look out for each other here. That’s the way we survive. I’m not exactly as strong as you are, and maybe I don’t have all the training you do, but I can do my share.”

“Obviously.”

“And because you didn’t get to blow the beast away, your precious ego is stung.”

“No. Maybe that’s part of it, Becky. But there’s more than that. I’m not like Kemp. I promise.”

Her voice softened. “Can you walk all right, Ian?”

“Sure. It feels better already.”

“Well, we’ll never make that city before dark now.”

Ian said, “We’ll have to work our way across the plateau using whatever cover’s available. And find a place to rest tonight. L don’t suppose there are aspirin in our survival packs?”

She grinned. “I brought some Midol.”

“Not exactly issued medication, but it will do. I wish I had a shot of Scotch to take them with.”

“Just think. If we can stay alive, you can have all the Scotch you want.”

Ian pursed his lips thoughtfully . “You know, finally I’ve found something to live for!”

She laughed and took his hand and helped him out of the rocks.

* * *

Ian Coopersmith thumped down wearily beside Becky, who lay prone at the edge of the clear purling stream that flowed swiftly down the slope. His chest still smarted, but it was obvious that nothing had broken. There were bruises there, but that was all. It was his ankle that gave him the most trouble, slowing down their progress quite a bit. If they ever had to run . . . He moved his hands to his forehead as though to push away the remainder of his headache. Becky’s tablets had been surprisingly helpful. However, some of the pain still remained.

His jumpsuit top
squished
with his movement.

The thing was sopping with perspiration. He had long since become accustomed to the sting of sweat leaking into his eyes, to say nothing of the aroma that clung to him with the tenacity of the mist that would curl up steadily from the ground after the illuminator began its twelve-hour shift of brilliance. God, how he stank! Growing up with a self-respecting lower-middle class family in the East Acton section of Greater London had drilled into Ian Coopersmith layers upon layers of Western living discipline, to say nothing of English manners. Although in the tidy household by Wormwood Scrubs cleanliness was never next to Godliness—that had a whole upper strata to itself—it was close enough to merit threats of hellfire and perdition if not attained. Even now, should he suddenly be miraculously transported to the bosom of his dear family, his mother would wince and his father would take the familiar pipe from his mouth and point it imperiously toward the spotless bathroom, wordlessly demanding an immediate ablution of his formerly missing flesh-and-blood before hugs and kisses were extended.

Dammit bloody all! he had thought with consternation when his clothes had started to smear with soil and sweat and gritty dirt had begun to swath the bottoms of his trousers. How could a man keep his dignity when filthy and smelly? He would have immediately worried about offending Becky if she weren’t having the same difficulty. Still, she had never affected a flossed-up hairdo, nor had she worn any make-up before, so the change in her appearance had not been as devastating as it would have been in some artificially attractive women he knew. No, if anything, her present state—hair straggly and mud-matted, jumpsuit dirty as his—gave her a rather appealing look. “Earthy!” he had pronounced once when she’d asked him if she looked as perfectly awful as she felt, and she’d smacked him playfully, chuckling. Then down they went for one of the many urgent, fearful, and passionate embraces that had occurred during the time before their desperate human
need
for one another had finally broken through their reserve and they’d stayed awake half the night, with sex as company.

“I take it you’ve decided that the water is not poisonous,” he said, mixing his words with a prolonged sigh.

Becky stopped slurping. She canted her head to look at him. Water dripped down her face and hair, back into the stream.

“Oh. So that’s what I am, huh? Your wine taster.”

“Dear Rebecca,” he said in his best stentorian baritone, “I’m glad you’ve found your rightful place in life. Pray tell, how
is
this bountiful vat, vintage 150,000,000 B.C.?”

“Here,” she replied. “Try some yourself, oh mighty king!” Cupping her hands she splashed up a good pint’s worth of water straight into Coopersmith’s face. The shock of the cool refreshing stuff left him spluttering comically. Then it reminded him of how very thirsty he was, and how some chill liquid running down his throat might take him away for a while from this dreadful humidity.

He knelt down and drank.

When he rose, quenched, Becky was sitting, legs and feet dangling in the gurgling stream. “Oh, Ian. I could linger here for days.”