Consciousness returned to Burke with dragging steps.
Perhaps that was because the place in which he now lay was so dark. It
stayed that way even when his bruised jaw and aching head told him for
certain that this was reality, not delusion. No matter how he strained
his eyes, he could see absolutely nothing.
Not that it mattered. Because he knew where he was, beyond mistaking.
His nose told him, picking up the acrid scent that had been so
all-pervasive in the Shrine of Oracles.
Only here, it was worse. Here, it rose sharp and biting as the very
smell of death.
And that meant he could be nowhere but in the Labyrinth itself!
The thought knotted Burke's stomach. Yet when he strove to move, his
bonds held him, unyielding.
Theseus had done this job well, Burke decided. With no trouble at all,
it could spell doom for him.
Which brought up another question: what time was it?
By the very fact that he remained alive, he assumed it still wasn't
midnight; that Knossos hadn't been destroyed.
But even if he'd blacked out only for two or three minutes, the fatal
moment couldn't be far off ... not more than half an hour, at most.
It was the kind of thought to put a man upon his mettle. Floundering,
Burke tried to break his bonds.
It was useless. The cords wouldn't give a fraction.
That meant he had to find some other way out.
Twisting, he made an effort to check his pockets' contents.
Small change, a comb, two keys, his lighter.
_His lighter--!_
Involuntarily, Burke breathed faster. Squirming, writhing, he strained
to bring his bound hands to where one could reach into the proper
pocket, instead of just feeling what was there through fabric.
Now tingling fingers told him the cords had cut off circulation. Let
his hands get too numb, and he wouldn't even be able to hold the
lighter.
A final effort. One thumb slipped into the pocket. Burke hooked it into
the opening and heaved.
A seam ripped, noisy in the stillness. The pocket's contents rattled on
the stone floor.
Rolling over again, Burke groped till his trembling fingers found the
lighter. Flicking back the lid, he spun the wheel.
Flame licked at the palm of his other hand. For a moment it was all he
could do to keep from crying out, dropping the lighter.
But he gritted his teeth instead and, sweat streaming down his face,
forced himself to lower the lighter carefully so that it stood upright
on the floor.
Now, once again, speed became the issue. It went without saying that
the lighter's fluid must be almost exhausted.
If it burned out too soon--!
Burke bit down harder. Heedless of the pain and sweat and knotting
muscles, he forced himself to thrust his wrists down so the flame could
play upon the cords.
In seconds, the stench of searing flesh and burned cloth blotted out
the chamber's odor. Eyes squeezed tight shut as if to shut out the
agony, cursing beneath his breath, Burke strained to keep his bonds
taut and in the right position.
Then, when it seemed that he could stand the pain no longer, a cord
snapped like a clipped wire. Another followed.
The next instant, Burke's wrists were free.
Sobbing soundlessly, he batted out the lighter, to save what fuel
remained.
After that, the job became routine--a matter of stripping loose ends
of cord from his wrists; working his fingers till circulation was
restored; untying his ankles.
The burns still hurt; and, he knew the pain would be even worse later
on. What to do about it, though--that was something else again.
In any case, he needed light.
Rising, once more he flicked on the lighter.
Mostly, it revealed emptiness and shadow. But there was a lamp-stand
over to one side, so Burke made his way to it and lighted the lamp.
Now, for the first time, he checked his watch.
Eleven thirty five. Less than half an hour till Knossos met its doom.
It raised a new problem: what was his own best course now? To stay
here? To go seek out the Minotaur as first planned? Or to drop back
through the open manhole he now spotted over in one corner, and put his
trust in flight?
That last idea--it had much to commend it. For one thing, almost any
manhole where he might come up, save only this one, would put him in a
position to keep a whole skin and escape the palace, even without the
thread of Daedalus to guide him.
For another, any attempt on his part now to slay the Minotaur was
doomed to failure in advance. Obviously. Theseus had made off with the
Smith & Wesson. Without it, or equivalent, no one could hope to meet
the monster and live.
* * * * *
Lamp in hand, Burke went over to the manhole and sat down on the edge,
legs dangling, in preparation for the drop into the drainage tunnel
below.
Only then, as he momentarily hesitated there, bracing himself, his mind
turned to the one subject he most wished to avoid.
Ariadne.
It had to come, of course. He'd known it all along. You couldn't ignore
a woman in a moment of crisis such as this one--not when she meant as
much to you as Ariadne did to him.
So, what would happen to her, if he dropped down through this manhole
into the sewer?
Answer: she'd die. In less than half an hour she'd die, without note,
in the destruction of this strange, gleaming palace men called Knossos.
And nothing he, Dion Burke, or anyone else, could do would save her,
so long as the Minotaur lived.
Now the question became, did he care about escaping, living, if he had
to do it alone, without his lovely Ariadne?
Burke forced himself to hesitate on that one. He didn't want to react
to it hastily, or casually, or emotionally, or without due thought and
consideration.
The only difficulty was, a man's feelings weren't something he could
put on or take off at will, like a suit of clothes. They were part of
him, incorporated into every cell of meat and blood and bone and tissue.
And there was the answer to his basic question: win or lose, live or
die, he'd leave Knossos only with Ariadne at his side.
Beside, hadn't the legends said that Theseus slew the Minotaur with his
bare fists? Maybe a proxy could do likewise!
Swinging his legs up out of the manhole, Burke scrambled to his feet,
somewhat heavily. The burns on his wrists were hurting worse now, and
he hardly felt in the best of shape to do battle with a monster.
But it seemed he had little choice. So, lamp in hand, he moved along
the wall looking for an exit.
It wasn't till he'd worked his way through half-a-dozen pitch-black
chambers that two things dawned on him:
First, the solution to the problem of his scorched, seared wrists was
oil; and such was available in the jars that flanked almost every
lamp-stand.
Second, the quickest way to the Minotaur was to follow his nose. Once
he'd located the source of the strange, acrid smell, odds were he'd
also have found the monster.
Doused liberally with oil, Burke's wrists felt better. And it was no
feat at all to choose his path by odor.
Yet time still seeped away ... he had a bare fifteen minutes left now,
if his watch and calculations proved right.
How big could this cursed maze be?
Too big, apparently.
Then, just when despair was about to overtake him, a thin line of light
gleamed far ahead.
A sheen of cold sweat came to Burke's palms. He moved forward more
warily, more silently, than ever.
The light, it developed, shone from the crack beneath a door.
Like a shadow, Burke crept close; laid his ear against the panel,
listening.
No sound.
Ever so gently, he laid the fingers of his left hand against the
portal; pressed slowly.
New light appeared, washing through the crack along the jamb.
A moment of taut waiting. Then Burke put his eye to the opening and
peered through, into a large, sumptuously-furnished room. The room of a
noble, perhaps, or even a king.
The only thing strange about it that Burke could see was that what
appeared to be a large tank occupied the center of the room ... a tank
of shimmering, blue-white metal, utterly unlike the bronze of the
Minoans; precisely the same as the material of which the great ship in
the cave was made.
The hair along the back of Burke's neck prickled. Moving first to one
side and then the other, he checked as large a portion of the room
beyond the door as possible.
No occupants, so far as he could see.
With a quick push, he sent the door all the way back, swinging wide,
while he poised rigid in the shadows.
Still no reaction.
Silently, Burke crossed the threshold.
Here the acrid smell was almost overpowering; and though the room
itself was unoccupied, a strange, pulsating aura of evil seemed to flow
through it in great waves.
Burke tip-toed to the shining, blue-white tank; peered down into it.
It held clear liquid only. But the stink of the stuff made Burke choke
and gasp. His eyes burned. He stumbled backward, fighting for breath.
In the same instant, cloth rustled behind him.
Burke whirled.
* * * * *
A tapestry had been flung back, revealing a previously-hidden door.
Framed in it, well over seven feet tall, stood a creature Burke
couldn't believe even now, as he stared at it.
The thing was a man, at first glance--a giant of a man, mightily
muscled. He wore nothing save the traditional Minoan loin-band.
But it was the creature's head that held Burke; froze him.
For instead of a human head, to match a human body, this monster had
the head of a gigantic bull, with monstrous horns and great glaring
eyes and nostrils that flared and quivered.
Burke's hand shook so his lamp almost slopped over. A slow step at a
time, he tried to back away.
But now, with a great bull-roar, the monster's head came down. It
lunged at him.
Burke hurled the lamp at it.
Incredibly fast, the thing dodged. The lamp struck the wall. Flame
leaped along the tapestry.
But the Minotaur paid the fire no heed. Again it lunged at Burke,
spearing in at him with one of the great bull horns.
Barely in time, Burke dived aside. Desperately, he scrambled past the
central tank, searching vainly for some weapon. When he stumbled over
a low stool, he snatched it up, glad for anything that he could use to
strike a blow.
Another bellow. The monster launched a new charge.
Burke swung the stool.
But even as the blow descended, the Minotaur brought up huge hands to
stop it. Catching the stool by the legs, the creature jerked it up,
trying to wrestle it away from Burke.
For an instant, then, they struggled, toe to toe, fighting for
possession of the stool.
But only for an instant, for Burke knew without question what the
outcome would be; must be. No ordinary man could stand against this
hideous freak of nature. It simply was too much to hope for.
Yet unless he won, what would happen to Ariadne?
Fiercely, he threw all his weight onto the stool, swinging by it,
completely clear of the floor.
Then, savagely, he slashed a foot down, so that the edge of his shoe
raked his opponent's shin from knee to ankle before it hit the instep
with smashing force.
The Minotaur half doubled over. A hoarse gust of pain burst from its
throat.
Burke let go the stool. With all his might, he struck straight upward,
between the monster's outstretched arms to the great bull-jaw.
New sounds of anguish--almost human, this time. The creature lurched
forward flat-footed, off balance.
Burke leaped back. Catching the huge horns, he gave them a tremendous
wrench, with all his weight behind it, the way he'd seen bull-doggers
handle steers at rodeos.
Something cracked, so loud Burke could hear it even through the tumult.
He wrenched again, harder.
A tearing sound, this time.
The next instant, Burke tumbled to the floor.
And that didn't make sense, because he still gripped the Minotaur's
great horns.
Spasmodically, he threw himself to one side and over.
Across the room, the whole length of the tapestry was in flames now,
blazing and crackling. Eddies of fire danced along the cypress beam
above it, and the door-frame.
In front of it stood the Minotaur.
Only now, the Minotaur had no head.
At least, not the great bull's head. That was gone, torn away, left
to lie like a hideous mask on the floor midway between Burke and the
creature.
Where the bull's head had been, atop the monster's mighty shoulders
was now, instead, a human head ... the tiny, distorted skull of a
microcephalic imbecile.
And on top of that head--eyes glittering balefully; tentacles hugging
it tight to its host's skull--squatted what appeared to be a jet-black
octopus slightly less than the size of a bowling ball.
Yet it was no octopus sprung from Earth's own waters. Burke knew
that the instant he saw it; knew it by the way the creature's eyes
fixed on him; knew it in the chill that shook him as the thing's evil
intelligence lanced forth to lock in mortal combat with him in his own
brain.
And in a way, all that was good. At least, it relieved him of
uncertainty; demonstrated once and for all that he'd been right when
he refused to believe offspring could come from the mating of bull and
woman.
No, that was only fable; a Bronze Age fantasy.
The fact, quite probably, was that Pasiphae had given birth to an
imbecile who also happened by some strange quirk to be a physical giant.
What better host for an alien telepath, a creature not adapted to
Earth as a planet or to dry-land living?
Then, to conceal the truth, hide alien and microcephalic skull alike
beneath a great bull's head mask, and build a labyrinthine domicile
where only its victims would ever meet it face to face.
All of which was interesting as conjecture, but hardly of practical use
to a man faced with an alien-guided, seven-foot giant as of this very
moment.
Such thoughts--! In spite of his plight, Burke couldn't help but smile
wryly. With a strong effort of will, he forced the alien's probing
tentacles of thought out of his brain; rose slowly, warily, holding the
octopod's glittering eyes with his own.
* * * * *
He was on his feet now; and, once up, he became distinctly,
unpleasantly aware of the room's heat ... the billows of smoke, the
roaring of the flames that leaped along the roof-beams.
It was time for him to leave. Definitely.
For the fraction of a second, he let his eyes flicker towards the door.
Like a flash, his giant foe lunged for him. Before he could duck or
dodge, he was jammed back against the wall. Great hands shoved at his
chest, pinning him.
Desperately, Burke tried to strike back.
His reach was too short. He couldn't land a blow.
Now a vacuous smirk wreathed the microcephalic's loose-lipped face. The
tiny eyes shone with delight.
There was no change in the octopod's baleful glare.
Now the giant pushed harder ... harder....
Burke felt his ribs begin to give. He swung his arms wildly, clutching
in a frenzy for something--anything--
His hand touched an oil-jar. He clawed it to him.
But the Minotaur merely shifted, blocking him so he couldn't strike a
blow.
Death was very close now. Burke knew it. Another moment, and his ribs
would snap and pierce his heart, his lungs.
A convulsive tremor shook him. Oil spilled from the jar.
Oil--!
With his last ounce of strength, he brought the jar up sharply, knowing
even as he did it that his foe would block the blow.
But the oil would keep on going, maybe....
It hit the alien full in the face.
Burke could feel the thing lose control of its host. Even in his own
brain, it was as if a crushing weight had suddenly been lifted.
Simultaneously, the human giant's arms dropped.
Burke ducked and threw himself bodily at the other's knees.
The imbecile fell.
And now, alien abandoned host, racing across the floor on its tentacles
towards the shimmering, blue-white tank.
Burke snatched up a second oil-jar; hurled its contents.
The oil slapped over the creature in a wave. Fire leaped from the
flaming tapestry to meet it.
The next instant the alien itself was a threshing, blazing ball.
Then a ceiling timber crashed down on it in a shower of sparks.
The threshing stopped.
Burke ran for the nearest door....