"Sit and watch," Korm said shortly. "Cover us with your weapons."
* * * * *
Then he and Frong were in the open, walking steadily down the gentle
slope, ropes coiled in their left hands, the spears couched in their
right. And even as they began their march, a yellow rope sailed out
of the trees across the enclosure, settled about the neck of a robot,
tightened with a whiplike snap. The robot spun halfway about, then
toppled with a metallic clatter.
"Ready?" Lura whispered.
Neela nodded, dark eyes worried and intent as she watched her husband
and two companions pulling with all their strength upon the far rope.
Four robots had whirled at the clattering, were speeding to the aid of
their companion. Cable fingers caught at the black concussors at their
waists, were lifting them for lethal shots.
"Now!" Korm's voice came winging back.
He and Frong threw with gigantic strength, the spears speeding aloft,
hovering, dropping just past the coppery strands of electrified wire.
Sparks danced a drunken saraband along the fence, grounded through
the spears. Then the connecting ropes were pulling taut, the hooks
catching firmly. The two giants braced heavy legs, muscles rippling,
and swelling along massive shoulders. The ropes tightened, grew solid,
and the fence began to lean toward them. Posts snapped with brittle
reports--and then the fence was ruptured, broken wires leaping and
sparking with white-hot violence.
"Ho, Barbs!" Korm bellowed. "Run for freedom. Dodge the wires and
follow me."
Then the action was almost too swift to follow. The four robots turned
as one, lifting their concussors to focus on the blond giant. Kimball
Trent fired in one swift move, levering the rifle for explosive
needles, the racking bellow of the concussions bounding through the
churning air. One robot blew to pieces, and the explosion knocked down
the second. The third fired, but the shot went wild, for a second rope
whirled from nowhere, jerked him off balance. The shot exploded fifty
feet over Trent's head, blasted him face down in the dirt.
He scrambled to his knees, fired at the fourth robot, blew it to
pieces, then whirled to watch the enclosure again. He saw the two
Gharrians standing in the doorway of the tower, blasted two shots their
way, saw them rock from the explosions.
Men and women were running for the breach in the fence. Some died,
touched by the vicious sparks that flicked from the whipping wires;
others scrambled through to safety. They made no sound, but came in an
instinctive rush, coming directly toward the great blond and red giants
who had torn down the fence with insulated ropes of soft plastic.
"Good!" Neela said quietly, straightened to her full height.
"Broks!" Lura cried desperately, and terror was in the single word, a
terror more horrible than the word could express.
* * * * *
They came gliding from a side door, one after the other, until fully a
dozen stood before the tower. Then they turned and came in a murderous
wave of death up the slope, going straight toward the rescuers,
ignoring the escaping prisoners. Saliva dropped from gaping fangs, and
their six legs threw them forward with an incredible speed. They mewled
like gigantic cats, then hissed their hate.
Korm and Frong turned and ran before the group of prisoners, knives
glittering in their hands as they watched the beasts come in a circling
attack. There was no fear in their features, only a calm determination
that didn't alter.
Kimball Trent came to his feet, braced heavy thigh muscles against the
concussion shocks that were coming, then set the rifle for continuous
fire. He swayed the muzzle like a fire hose, spraying death into the
broks, blowing them to bloody scraps of bone and flesh, cursing, as
some of them escaped the blasting fire.
The rifle clicked empty, and he caught at the flame gun. Korm and Frong
were at his side then, knives bared, and he waved them on.
"Run, you fools," he snarled. "Get the prisoners to safety. I can kill
them all with the flame gun."
He fired as he spoke, and the orange flames gushed in a hellish
holocaust that roasted two of the fanged monsters to death in midleap.
Three others whipped to one side, split forces, came whirling in from
different directions.
The last of the prisoners were by him now, except for a few who had
dropped from concussion shock. He tried to scream a warning at Lura,
who had darted out and was helping a woman to her feet; but he had no
time, for the three snake-scaled broks came snarling in.
Full power he had the gun, and full power he needed. The first brok
charged directly into the flame, vanished in a greasy puff of smoke.
The second was barely caught by the swinging flame, screamed in agony,
bounded to safety. The third drove squarely in, evading the flame for
a second, then died, the vortex of surging energy slashing away the
forepart of its body with magical speed.
Kimball Trent whirled, sent a spear of flame after the fleeing brok,
caught it a hundred yards away, dropped it in its tracks. Then,
breathing deeply, sickened by the odor of burning flesh, he raced to
aid Lura. She had half-lifted the woman to her feet, and he bent to
lift her to his shoulders. It was then he saw the terror in Lura's
violet eyes. He tried to whirl, managed only to get part of the way
about.
He saw the single eye of the Gharrian, cursed himself for lulling
himself into thinking that the alien monsters moved but slowly. He
reached for his gun, knowing the weapon was useless, hoping only to
give Lura a chance at escape.
Then the first arm of the Gharrian lashed out, coiled about him like an
octopus tentacle, drew him close, and a second sledged with a brutal
scientific precision. He felt the hurt spreading in a racing wave over
his body, tried to fight away the blanket of darkness. He heard Lura's
scream, saw dimly that the Gharrian had caught her with his other arms.
Then the blackness became opaque and he could see nothing. He felt a
second blow, and he was sinking into a funnel of darkness that had no
bottom. He heard a faint echo of Lura's scream; then he knew no more.
* * * * *
He was on a boat, water slapping his face each time the boat rocked in
the troughs of the spilling waves. He tried to sit, but nausea cramped
his belly, and he felt the blackness knotting his mind again. He heard
his name called again and again, but he did not have the strength to
answer.
Then the curtain began lifting from his memory, and thoughts came
flooding to his mind. He blinked dazedly, focusing his eyes grimly, saw
that Lura was bent over him, a wet cloth in her hand.
"Some fight!" he tried to joke, and the pain of his head took all of
the jolliness from his tone.
"You'll be all right," Laura said.
He leaned back against the pressure of her arm, saw that he had been
lying on a crude bunk against the wall of an unfurnished room. He swung
his legs to the floor, braced his head with both hands, gently explored
the swelling bruise-knots that marked his skull.
"Never again," he said grimly. "Next time, I run."
Lura smiled gamely, worry shadows fleeing back into the depths of her
violet eyes. She brushed back a stray lock of red-gold hair from her
cheek, allowed her gaze to wander about the room.
"The Master brought us here and left a metal man on guard. You have
been unconscious for hours."
Kimball Trent came groggily to his feet, bracing himself with one hand
on the wall. Then he circled the room, stopping at the slit window,
trying to see into the velvet night, going on to peer through the
barred grille in the door at the expressionless inhuman face of the
robot that stood at motionless guard across the hallway. Farther down
the hall, on either side, he could see more doors with grilled openings.
"Are we in the tower?" he asked.
"Yes," Lura answered from where she sat. "The Master brought us
directly here."
"Did the others escape?"
"I do not know. I did not see them when we were brought in, and none
have been brought here since." Her self control gave slightly. "Kim,
what are we going to do?"
Kimball Trent grinned, forcing back the futility that beat at his
thoughts. "We're going to get out of here, one way or the other," he
said reassuringly.
"How?"
Trent shrugged, wished the ache in his head would stop bouncing about.
"I don't know," he said equably. "But I've got a hunch we're in for a
little quiz session with the Gharrians."
"Quiz session?"
"Sure. Questions and answers; they question and we answer."
Lura's face was white beneath her tan, but she smiled at Trent. "I hope
they hurry with whatever they've got planned; I'm beginning to feel
hungry."
They laughed then, laughed with the brightness and hope of youth,
amused by the incongruity of worrying about a meal when their
lives were probably forfeit for the events that had taken place.
They laughed, and the robot moved to the grille, stared with blank
telephotic eyes.
"Curious little devil, isn't he?" Trent said, walked toward the bunk.
He watched the grille for a moment, thoughts whirling in his mind,
trying to form some plan of escape that could be based on the reactions
of the robot to anything out of the ordinary that happened among the
prisoners he was set to guard.
* * * * *
The minutes walked by on leaden feet, neither of them speaking, each
intent on silent thoughts. There were no sounds, inside or out, and a
chill came to the room from the night air.
Then there came the heavy sound of metallic footsteps from the
corridor, echoed by the shuffling of bare feet. Hands fumbled at the
door, and it swung open, an Earthman entering, the doorway blocked by a
single robot.
"I've some questions to ask," the intruder said fearfully.
"Traitor!" Lura spat, turned to Trent. "He gave himself up to the
Masters weeks ago, fleeing from a Connet colony he betrayed."
The man drew himself up, glancing at the robot at his back, then
turning to face the prisoners. Fear was in his eyes, but brutality
masked his face.
"I can order you killed," he said. "Don't drive me far." He glanced at
the rifle and flame gun he carried. "Where did you get these weapons?"
he asked Trent.
"_Are_ they weapons?" Kimball Trent asked mockingly.
"I don--the Master says they are."
"Then they can talk?" Incredulity was in Trent's voice. "I thought they
had no speech."
"They do not speak, not the way we do; but they make themselves
understood." Perspiration slid in greasy drops down the man's face.
"Where did you get these weapons?" he asked again.
The robot came into the room, staring glassily, tentacular arms swaying
gently at its sides. Lura stiffened, pressed closer to Trent. He
grinned, nodded at the metal man.
"Your dog?" he asked.
"_Dog?_" the man said puzzledly, turned his head.
And Kimball Trent flowed into action, leaping with the grace and
darting agility of a panther.
His left hand reached out, caught the arm of the man, and his right
hand chopped down in a vicious rabbit punch at the base of the other's
neck. Bones snapped from the brutal power, and the man went utterly
limp.
The robot came driving forward with an incredible speed, tentacles of
whipping steel lashing for Trent's throat. But even as the robot came
swinging in, Trent whirled, spinning the rifle as a club, smashed the
automaton squarely across the eyes.
Glass popped and shattered, tiny shards flying through the air. Light
flared intensely white in each eye socket, then died to red and
vanished into blackness.
Then the robot was but an eyeless machine methodically smashing its
way about the room. It was a legged juggernaut, a ton of destruction
that crushed the bunk to splinters with a double sweep of its heavy
tentacles.
Trent bent low, avoiding death by a fraction of an inch, saw that Lura
had flowed into action almost as quickly as he. She stood at the door
now, flame gun in hand, waiting for him. He dodged to her side, caught
the door, slammed it shut, then locked it with a turn of the switch.
He dropped the shattered rifle, caught the flame gun in his right hand.
"This is it," he said briefly, led the way at a run down the corridor.
They ducked about the corner of the hall, heard the battering sounds
disappearing behind. Their breaths were hot in their throats, and the
utter soullessness of the tower was a dank mantle that shrouded them.
"Which way?" Lura said at the double door facing them at the end of the
corridor.
"This," Trent said shortly, pushed through a swing door.
The second hall was lighted by radi-lights in ceiling brackets, and a
current of air came strong against their faces from the far end. Light
shone through the bottom crack of a doorway, and they went toward it on
cat-feet, making no sound, stifling their very breathing for fear of
discovery.
Strangely, there was no sound of alarm above, nor did they hear sounds
of pursuit. They glanced instinctively at each other, then drifted
forward, the single weapon their only defense against attack.
* * * * *
Kimball Trent almost smiled when he remembered the wish that had been
Korm's that day. He would have given ten years of his life to exchange
places with Lura and Trent, to have had this opportunity of wreaking
his vengeance upon the Masters in their fortress.
Then the thought was gone, and they stood before the door of the room
from which light came. Trent laid his finger across his lips, nodded
for Lura to wait. She shook her head impatiently, started to speak.
It was the natural thing to do to keep her quiet. He bent his head to
hers, and her lips were soft and sweet and fragrant against his mouth.
He came close to her, savoring her warmth and pliancy, feeling the urge
that lay in them both. Then he backed away, smiled from deep in his
heart.
"Wait for me," he whispered, and was gone through the doorway.
His gun was out in front of him, finger trembling on the stud. He saw
the Gharrian standing to one side, and hell raved from his flame pistol
as he fired instinctively. The cone of ravening energy twisted its
deadly way over the entire body--yet the alien monster made no move to
flee or to attack.
Heat grew and built and swelled, drove him back a full step--and still
the blue-grey monster made no move. Red rage pulsed in Trent's mind,
and he whispered, "Damn! Damn! Damn!" over again as the last charge in
the flame began to die away.
And at last, the gun empty and cooling in his hand, he stood facing
the Gharrian, blinking against the heat, smelling the odor of charred
plastic where the flame had touched the wall. Then he gasped, bent
forward in excitement.
For the Gharrian had no head.
Kimball Trent took two cautious steps forward, standing on tiptoe,
staring at the cavity where the eye-head had been. And what he saw
chilled the blood in his body.
For the Gharrian was a robot, a tiny control board deep in the
aperture, a curved hood dropping on hinges to the back.
Kimball Trent whirled then and began to stalk the room. He didn't know
exactly what he sought, but there was a singing in his mind, and the
knowledge he had just gained was the answer to many things that had
never been solved.
He saw the flickering movement at the corner of the room, took two long
strides that way, snatched with bare hands at the monstrosity that
squirmed with miniature strength against the grip of his lean fingers.
He almost vomited at sight of the weird creature that fought to free
itself. It was like a pink convoluted brain, with spider legs like
wormy tentacles coiling and uncoiling in mad rage. Two tiny eyes glared
lidlessly at Trent, and a hole like a sucker mouth gaped, showing blue
toothless gums.
Trent increased the pressure of his fingers, and the tiny eyes popped
in agony, the tentacles wrapping about his fingers, trying to pry them
free. And in the midst of the struggle, a thought pried its way into
Trent's consciousness.
"Do not slay me, Earthman. Let me live."
* * * * *
Kimball Trent went to the side table where small machines and tools
were scattered haphazardly. He emptied out a deep plastic jar, set it
upright, then dropped the pink monstrosity into its depths. His skin
crawled, and he heard Lura's gasp, as the Gharrian righted itself,
trying frantically to climb the glasslike walls of the prison.
"Laura, bolt the door," Trent said without turning his head, then spoke
directly at the squirming blob of flesh. "Do you understand what I am
saying?" he asked.
"Faintly," the answer came welling into his mind. "Our minds are not
enough alike to catch all thoughts."
"So you are one of the Masters!" Trent sighed contemptuously, glancing
at the monster robot that all Earth had thought to be a creature that
lived.
"I am one," the Gharrian thought.
Lura came to Trent's side. "Put a cover on the jar," she said,
shuddering, "and we shall take him along with us."
Mental laughter shook their minds, a dry ironical humor all the more
terrible because there was no sound. They stared in horror at the
brain-beast, while its thoughts raced through their consciousness.
"You cannot escape; all doors are guarded."
"Maybe!" Trent said aloud, lifting a sharp tool from the table,
balancing it idly in one hand. Then he reached over, probed delicately
at the scrambling pink beast in the jar, watched critically as green
ichor oozed from a tiny cut the tool had inflicted.
"See us safely out, or you die," he said unemotionally.
The thought came hurtling back, utterly savage and unafraid. "Destroy
me, and you surely die." There was an interval in which no message
came. Then: "I shall bargain with you. Tell me where those ancient
weapons were found, make yourself my prisoner, and the girl, as you
call her, shall go free."
Trent carefully dropped the razor-sharp tool, heard the soundless
shriek of agony that welled high as a tentacular leg was sheared
completely away.
"I make no bargains," he said coldly.
He turned about, studying the single window that studded the far wall
of the room, catching up several tools from the bench, he crossed the
plastic floor, studied the incredibly hard plastic that served as a
pane through which the outer world could be seen.
He searched for a catch, realized there would be none, for this was a
ground floor, and the Gharrians would leave no openings through which
an attack could be made. Calmly, he beat at the pane with his pistol
butt, bruising his hand, making absolutely no impression.
"Will it break?" Lura called softly.
"No. But it may cut." Trent chose the sharpest of the tools, bore down
with all his weight.
The squeal of metal on plastic keened high, setting his teeth on edge;
and then the sound had passed too high for him to hear. He finished
the stroke, bent close, then straightened in defeat. There was not the
slightest of scratches on the plastic window.
"Kim!" Lura cried, and he raced to her side.
Even as he reached her, the Gharrian began to putrefy. It had died
during the few moments Trent had tried to break the window; and its
monstrosity of a body was already beginning to rot in upon itself like
a blighted spider caught in a flame.
"Damn!" Trent swore softly. "I probably squeezed too hard. Come."
He led the way toward the door through which they had come, lifted the
single bar. He smiled tiredly, gamely, was warmed by the unquenchable
courage that flamed in her bearing.
"Ready?" he asked, threw open the door at her wordless nod.
Facing them from ten feet away, single eyes emotionlessly watching,
were three of the robot-Gharrians.