And then the counterblow.
It caught Harrell unawares and sent him spinning back a dozen feet, to land in a tangled heap beneath a dangling nest of vines. His head rocked, seemed ready to split apart. He sensed the alien readying a second offensive drive, and set up counterscreens.
This time he was ready. He diverted the attack easily, and shook his head to clear it. The score was even: one stunning blow apiece. But he had recovered, and so had the alien.
Harrell aimed another blow, and felt the alien sweep it aside. Back came the answering barrage of mental force; Harrell blocked it.
Stalemate again, the alien said.
We’re evenly matched, Harrell replied. But I’ll beat you. He looked up at the far-off castle on the mountainside. I’ll beat you yet.
That remains to be proven, troublesome Earthman.
Harrell tramped on through the jungle of the alien’s mind for a while, and then, realizing he was getting no closer to the all-important castle on the hill, stopped by a brook to wipe away his perspiration. It was hot on this accursed world—hot, muggy, dank.
He kneeled over the water’s surface. It looked pure, cool. A sudden thought struck him, and he peeled a strip from his shirt and dipped it in the water.
The plasticloth blackened and charred. He let it drop, and the “water” quickly finished the job. Pool? No; he thought. Concentrated sulphuric acid, or something else as destructive.
Grinning grimly at his narrow escape, he wiped his perspiration with another strip torn from his sleeve, and kept going. Several hours, at least, had passed since he had entered the strange world within the alien’s mind.
That meant one of two things: either the time-scale in here was different, somehow, from that outside, or that his half-hour limit had elapsed in the outer world and Dr. Phelps was unsuccessful in bringing him back.
That was a nice thought. Suppose he was stuck here indefinitely, inside the mind of an alien being, in this muggy jungle full of sulphuric-acid brooks? A nice fate that was.
Well, he thought, I asked for it.
The stalemate couldn’t continue indefinitely. If he had swallowed some of the acid he thought was water, that would have ended the contest without doubt; he wouldn’t have had time to cope with the searing fluid.
The answer lay there—surprise. Both he and the alien were mental entities who could do battle as they pleased—but in this conflict, it was necessary to take the opponent by surprise, before he could counterthrust or vanish.
He began to see a solution.
Up ahead lay the castle—unreachable, through some trick of the alien’s. Very well. Harrell’s brows drew together in concentration for a moment; his mind formed a strategy—and formed men to carry it out.
There were six of him, suddenly.
Six identical Harrells—identical in size, shape, form, purpose. They would attack the Dimellian simultaneously. Or, at least, five of them would, creating a diversionary action while the sixth—Harrell-original—made a frontal assault on the castle.
Harrell-original faced his five duplicates and briefly instructed each in his job. They were like puppets.
“Harrell-one, you’ re to attack in conjunction with Harrell-two, on the mental level. Take turns heaving mental bolts at the alien. While one of you is recharging, the other is to unload. That won’t give him time to get any sort of defense organized, and certainly no counter-attack.
“Harrell-three and Harrell-four, you’re to attack physically, one armed with sword and one with blaster, from opposite sides at once. That ought to keep him busy, while he’s fighting off the rest of you.
“Harrell-five, your job is to serve as frontrunner—to find the Dimellian and engage him in conversation while the other four are getting ready to attack. Make him angry; get him concerned about what you’re saying. And the second his defenses drop an inch, the other four of you jump in. All of you got that?”
They nodded in unison.
“Good. Meantime I’ll make an assault on the castle, and maybe I can get through with you five running interference for me.”
He dismissed them, and they set out in different directions. He didn’t want the Dimellian to find out what was up; if the alien saw the strategy and had time to create duplicates of its own, the conflict would end in stalemate almost certainly.
Harrell waited, while his five duplicates went into action.
Through the mental link with Harrell-five, he listened as his duplicate said, “The time has come to finish you off, alien. I’m glad I found you. That acid trick almost got me, but not quite.”
“A pity,” the alien replied. “I was hoping the ruse would finish you. It’s becoming quite irritating, having you in here. You’re starting to bore me.”
“Just you wait, you overstuffed wart-hog. I’ll have those tentacles of yours clipped soon enough.”
“Empty words, Earthman. You’ve run out of strategies; your best course is to get out of my mind and forget this entire silly affair.”
“Oh, no. I’ll have those secrets pried out of you quicker than you think.”
“How?”
“I’m not giving away my secrets, alien. I’m here after yours.”
Harrell readied himself. He gave the signaclass="underline" now.
Harrell-one and Harrell-three appeared. Harrell-one loosed a bombardment of mental force that shook the alien; Harrell-three dashed forward, wielding a machete.
Harrell-two and Harrell-four went into action, Harrell-two following up with a second mental bolt, Harrell-four firing a blaster. The bedeviled alien looked from side to side, not knowing where to defend himself first.
The scenery began to rock. The alien was going down.
Harrell took to the air.
Levitating easily above the jungle, he found the castle and zeroed in on it. As he dropped downward, it changed—from a vaulting proud collection of spires and battlements to a blocky square building, and from that into an armored box with a padlock.
The Dimellian stood before it, struggling with the five duplicate Harrells.
Harrell stepped past—through—the writhing group. The Dimellian’s defenses were down. The secrets were unguarded.
He wrenched the padlock off with a contemptuous twist of his hand. The box sprang open. Inside lay documents, neatly typed, ready for his eye.
The alien uttered a mighty howl. The forest dissolved; the universe swirled around Harrell’s head. The last thing he heard was the terrible shrieking of the alien.
He woke. It seemed to be months later.
Dr. Phelps stood by his side, staring at him solicitously. The alien, still bound, sat slumped over, heavy head lolling against one shoulder.
Harrell took two or three deep breaths, clearing his head. He grinned. “I’ve got them,” he said. “Information on troop movements, plan of battle, even the line of journey across space. This was a top-flight officer we captured—and a rugged battler.”
“Good work,” the psychman said. “I was worried at first. You had some expressions of real terror on your face when you put the helmet on. But then the alien let out an awful scream and slumped over.”
“Dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Harrell grinned weakly. “I guess I was just too many for him. The shock of having the core of his mind penetrated—” Tiredly he said, “Doc, how come you didn’t get me out at the half-hour mark?”
“Eh?”