'No.'
'But you know your Bible?'
'Indeed I do.'
'Then you will recall the tales of Molech, the god fed by souls upon the fire. Citizens of cities where Molech was worshipped would carry their first-born children to furnaces and hurl them alive into the searing depths. All for Molech. The Hellborn do that for Sarento. Though there are no flames. The children are slaughtered and, at first, Sarento would bathe in the blood of victims. Every citizen carried a small Bloodstone — a demon-seed. These are corrupted Sipstrassi Stones, the pure power long used up.
They are fed with blood and thereby acquire a different kind of power. They can no longer heal wounds, or create food. Instead they give great strength and speed to their bearers, while feeding the baser human instincts. An angry man, in possession of a Bloodstone becomes furious and psychopathic. Honest desire becomes lustful need. They are foul creations. Yet with them Sarento can control the people, swelling their lusts and desires, reducing their capacity for compassion and love. He rules a nation founded on hatred and selfishness. Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law. But his need for blood grows daily. Hence the War, where his legions sweep across the land. And before them go the Devourers. He has mutated the Wolvers, making them larger, more ferocious, huge beasts that move with great speed and kill without pity. He no longer needs to bathe in blood, Mr Shannow. Every time a Devourer feeds it swells a Bloodstone embedded in its skull. This transmits power to Sarento, the ultimate Bloodstone.
'Samuel Archer is — at the point you will enter the story — one of the few rebels still alive. But he and his people are trapped in the high country, surrounded. Soon the Devourers will stalk them.'
Shannow stood and stretched his back. 'Last night you and Amaziga spoke of probabilities. Would you explain them to me — in a way that I might understand?'
'I hardly think so, yet I will try. It is a question of mathematics. There are doorways we can use to cross what has been believed to be the thresholds of time. But it is not really time we cross. There are millions of worlds. An infinite number. In the world of the Bloodstone no one yet knows of the Gateways. By opening one, therefore, we increase the mathematical possibilities that our actions will alert the Bloodstone to their existence. You follow?'
'So far.'
'So then, by rescuing Sam Archer we risk the Bloodstone finding other worlds. And that would be a disaster of colossal proportions. Do you know anything about humming-birds, Mr Shannow?'
'They're small,' said the Jerusalem Man.
'Yes,' agreed the machine. They are small, and their metabolism works at an astonishing rate. The smallest weighs less than a tenth of an ounce. They have the highest energy output per body weight of any warm-blooded animal — and to survive they must consume half their body weight in nectar every day.
Sixty meals a day, Mr Shannow, just to survive. The need for a plentiful supply of food makes them extraordinarily aggressive in defending their areas. The Bloodstone is identical. It needs to feed, it lives to feed. Every second of its existence, it suffers enormous pangs of hunger. And it is insatiable, Mr ShSnnow. Insatiable and ultimately unstoppable. Any world it finds it will ultimately devour.'
'You do not think that saving Sam is a risk worth taking,' observed Shannow.
'No, I do not. And neither do you. Amaziga points out that Sarento is a man with high intelligence, and that intelligence is now boosted by corrupted Sipstrassi power. She maintains, perhaps rightly, that he will discover the Gateways regardless of any action on our part. Therefore she is adamant that the quest will continue. But I fear she is guided by emotion, and not by reason. Why are you helping her?'
'She would go without me. It may be arrogance on my part, but I believe she will have a better chance of success with me. When do we set out?'
'As soon as Amaziga returns. Are your pistols fully loaded?'
'Yes.'
'Good. I fear they will need to be.'
The roar of angry lions came from outside and Shannow moved from the chair, his right-hand pistol pointing towards the door. 'It is only Amaziga,' said Lucas, but the Jerusalem Man was already moving out on to the porch. There he saw the bright-red four-wheeled carriage swing from the dirt track to draw up outside the house in a trail of dust and noise. The noise subsided, then died.
Amaziga pushed open a side door and stepped out. 'Help me with these boxes, Shannow!' she called, moving to the rear of the vehicle and opening another door. This one swung out and up, and Shannow watched her lean inside. Roistering the pistol, he walked towards her. A strange and unpleasant smell came from the vehicle, acrid and poisonous. It made his nostrils itch.
Amaziga was pulling a large box towards her and Shannow leaned in to help. 'Be careful. It's heavy,' she said. Shannow lifted it and turned towards the house, happy to be clear of the fumes from the vehicle.
Once inside, he laid the box on the table and waited for the black woman.
The voice of Lucas sounded: 'It may interest you to know, Mr Shannow, that your reflexes are five point seven per cent higher than normal.'
'What?'
'The speed at which you drew the pistol shows that you are faster than the average man,' explained Lucas.
Amaziga entered and heaved a second box alongside the first. 'There's one more,' she told Shannow, who left reluctantly to fetch it. This was lighter and, with no room on the table-top, he set it down alongside the table.
'Did you sleep well?' she asked him. He nodded. She was wearing a soft, long-sleeved shirt with no collar. It was dark blue and a portrait of a leaping black man had been painted on the chest.
'Is that Sam?' he asked.
Amaziga laughed, the sound good-humoured. 'No, it's a basketball player. A sportsman in this world.'
She laughed again. ‘I’ll explain it later,' she said, 'But now let's unpack the shopping.' Glancing at a dial on her wrist, she turned to Lucas. 'Six and a half hours, yes?'
'An adequate approximation,' responded the machine.
Amaziga pulled a small folding knife from her pocket and opened the blade. Swiftly she ran it along the top of the first box, then placed it on the table. Opening the flaps, she lifted clear a squat black weapon, shaped, to Shannow's eyes at least, like the letter T. More weapons followed, two automatic pistols and twelve clips of ammunition. Discarding the empty box she opened the second, drawing from it a short rifle with a pistol grip and two barrels. This is for you, Shannow,' she said. 'I think you'll like it.' Shannow didn't, but he said nothing as she laid boxes of shells alongside the gun.
Leaving her to unpack the other box, he walked to the door and stared out over the landscape. The sun was high, the temperature soaring. Heat shimmers were rising from the front of the vehicle. To the left he saw a movement from within a giant cactus. Narrowing his eyes he stared at the hole in the central stem.
A tiny buff-coloured owl appeared, launched into the air and flew in a tight circle around the cactus, before disappearing back into the hole. Shannow guessed the bird to be around six inches in height, with a wingspan of around fourteen inches. He had never seen an owl so small.
Amaziga moved out alongside him, handing Shannow the ligly rifle with the pistol grip. 'It's a shotgun, and it takes six shells,' she said. 'It is operated by a pump under the barrels. Try it out on that cactus.'