Hell's Gate

bulk of the prober, another beam sizzled into the metal work where his face had been, made little rivulets of molten steel dribble down and harden on the concrete floor. For a moment, he had a nauseatingly crystal picture of his head pocked with holes, each hole dribbling molten flesh. But flesh didn't melt, it burned. He squinted to keep the smoke out of his eyes and concentrated on getting out of there alive. While making sure none of the robot man-forms of the vacii inside enjoyed the same privilege.
        One of the man-forms, without concern for itself, rushed across the floor, trying to get behind the machine for a try at Salsbury. He got the thing just as it moved over him. The impact of the gun's discharge knocked it backwards ten feet where it lay in pieces, humming slightly.
        He thumbed the proper stud on the gun to convert it into a machine pistol a thousand times as deadly as it had been. He got off his knees, crouched, then darted into the room. The robots were clumped relatively close together, for they had been planning on marching single file into Salsbury's probability. He fanned the barrel of the heavy weapon, holding down on the trigger, and watched the gray gas pellets sink silently into them, expand from the friction, and explode from within.
        The effect was not as dramatic on robots as it had been on the living tissue of the vacii, but it was adequate. If one pellet met too tough an area to penetrate far enough, another in that heavy barrage he was putting down, would surely turn the trick. Inside of thirty frantic seconds, the floor was littered with the parts of robot man-forms, some of the tubes still lit
        Then there was quiet. Except for a strange, heavy noise like sandpaper on sandpaper. He looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise, wondering whether it was friendly or hostile. His heart began beating faster when he realized the sound was coming from some place quite close. Then he realized it was the sound of his own breath that he had begun to fear. It came raggedly, heavily into his lungs, burning them.
        “Victor,” the computer said from beyond the portal, from the safety of the basement.
        He walked across the man-form strewn chamber and peered through to where the trunk floated beside Lynda. “Yeah?”
        “The pack.”
        Lynda held out the rucksack that bulged with the things he would require. He took it, startled by the lines in her face, the deep etchings of tension and terror. He could almost summon a hate for those men of the future who had sent him back, had put him and Lynda through all this. Yet, without those same men to create him, he would never have existed to meet the girl. “Be careful,” she said.
        He nodded.
        “Remember,” the 810-40.04 said, “with both beams locked we can keep the portal open forever if we want. But if a vacii technician happens to come into that room over there and sees what has happened, they'll overwhelm us in seconds.”
        “I'll try to handle it as quickly as possible,” he said, feeling as if he were trapped in some fantasy.
        “I have instructed Lynda on the dismantling of a robot and the securing of its vibratube weapon. She will take care of that when you leave and arm herself.”
        It was Salsbury's turn to say, “Be careful.”
        “Don't worry,” she said.
        He slipped the rucksack on, shifted it until it rested easily between his shoulders. It wasn't bad. It only weighed eighteen-thousand pounds. All he had to do was tap some of that marvelous adrenalin-like juice that his special little liver-encased mechanism produced, and he could tote that pack around without a single twitch of a muscle.
        The only thing that kept him going now was the knowledge that his actions to this point must already have had an effect on the future of their probability line.
        He turned and made his way back across the room to the door. He held the gas pistol tightly in his right hand. The 810-40.04 had reminded him, earlier in the night, that he was ambidextrous; in the event he had a hand shot off, the computer wanted him to remember to shift the gun to his other paw. Somehow, such a suggestion had not raised his spirits any. At the door, he sucked in a hot breath, hooked fingers in the handle to slide the thing open.
        “I love you,” Lynda said from the basement.
        He couldn't answer her. If he did, if he turned to