It reached the place, moved on, the tendrils sheared from the side of the passage falling to mound in a ball at the foot of the wall. Dumarest ran on.
The curve had grown sharper and he guessed that he was in a spiral, running through a passage curved in on itself. A section of the floor dropped ahead, moving to one side and revealing the gleam of serrated metal teeth far below. From the roof fell a rope. He jumped, caught it, swung himself back and forth over the pit, let go when he had gained momentum enough to reach the far side. The rope fell into the opening, the floor returned, the wall moved relentlessly on.
Dumarest raced ahead of it, gaining time, his brain working with lightning thought. As yet the traps had been simple tests of intelligence, dangerous to a dull intellect but basically easy to avoid. There would have to be others of a different nature. From around the curve came a clang of metal and a deep-throated snarl.
Bars had dropped across the passage. Before them paced a slavering beast. Doglike but with the fangs of a wolf, it glared at Dumarest with savage eyes. Drugged, probably, its natural ferocity enhanced by chemical stimulants, starved and desperate. It crouched, tail lashing, preparing itself to spring. Dumarest was on it before it could leave the ground, his left hand catching the loose skin beneath the snarling jaws, the stiffened blade of his right smashing down through fur, skin, fat and the vertebrae beneath.
Releasing the dead animal, he sprang to the bars blocking the passage. They were an inch thick, close-set and apparently immobile. Turning, he studied the approach of the spiked wall. It seemed to be traveling faster. Swarming up the bars he tested the roof and found it solid. To either side the walls were the same. Dropping he sent his hands over the floor and found a thin crack running to either side. As the spikes of the wall neared his chest the crack widened, the floor swinging down and sending him plummeting into shadows.
He fell ten feet and rose at once, eyes strained against the dimness. He stood in a tiny compartment from which ran two passages. As in the curved one above, they were lit by a dim glow from the roof. He chose the right, running down it until halted by a blank wall. Returning he headed down the other, pausing as it branched, head tilted to catch the slightest sound. From the left came the soft tinkle of water, from the right the gusting sigh of wind. Without hesitation he chose the right-hand passage, running down it past branching openings, turning right again as he reached a junction.
He was in a maze, he realized, a compact labyrinth of blocked passages and blind turns, probably adjustable by remote control and the entire system filled with various dangers.
A labyrinth he had to penetrate in order to save his life.
Chapter Thirteen
Vargas said, "He's following the air currents. See how he wets his finger in order to determine the direction of flow?" He stooped over the screen, his hooked nose and lined features giving him the appearance of an aging bird of prey.
"He's clever," admitted Yendhal. His fingers caressed the controls governing the programming of the labyrinth. "I should like to test him yet further. If we blocked the east passages and released the krell it would drive him into the barbed mesh. To escape he would have to plunge into the water containing the gleese. He is bleeding and they would be attracted by the scent. Unless he manages to either kill them all or to escape in time they will tear him to pieces."
"No."
"But, sire, we could rescue him in time. He need not die. I feel that it is important we test him to the utmost. His survival factor is incredible and much could be learned."
"No," said Vargas again. He glowered as the physician reluctantly lowered his hand from the controls. Already the programming had been altered twice, each time increasing the hazards, the move justified by Yendhal's insistence.
But the limit had been reached. Further dangers would prove nothing other than that Dumarest was a man with all a man's frailty. Flesh and bone could not withstand the metal and plastic, the protoplasmic brain and electronic engineering which had gone into the manufacture of the krell. The gleese, too; what man could withstand the concentrated attack of a score of the voracious flesh-eaters?
Was Yendhal trying to rob him of his prize?
Vargas turned as the door sighed open, face mottling with anger even as his heart pounded with a sudden fear. The fear subsided a little as he recognized the tall figure in the scarlet robe, but the anger remained.
"What are you doing here, cyber? How dare you come uninvited into my presence?"
Ruen crossed the room and looked at the screen.
"My lord, this man must be released from your labyrinth. Immediately."
"You forget yourself, cyber. The Technarch does not take orders!"
"Even so, my lord, he must be released."
"By my order, not yours!" Vargas was adamant. "I rule here, cyber, not you. The man is mine to do with as I please. If it is my whim I shall test him to destruction." He raised his voice and shouted. "Guards! To me! At once!"
"They will not respond, my lord," said Ruen evenly. "There is trouble in the palace and they have been relieved of their duties in order to withstand it."
"Trouble?"
"Yes, my lord."
An insurrection? Vargas felt the tightening of his stomach as he considered the possibility. It was remote. With Brekla taking care of things any opposition would be short-lived. Ruen must be playing on his fears, using his knowledge to gain his own ends. And yet, where were the guards?
"You!" Vargas glared at the cyber. "You have done this. You have worked against me from the beginning. There was no trouble until you came with your lying advice and subtle ways. You and your damned Cyclan! Well, we shall see who is the master of Technos. Yendhal! Test Dumarest to destruction. Release the krell. Now!"
"Hold!" Ruen did not raise his voice and it remained an even monotone devoid of emotion but now it held on iron note of command. "Release him."
The physician hesitated, the point of his tongue wetting his lower lip as he stared from the cyber to the Technarch. Against Vargas the figure in scarlet looked the epitome of calm, his shaven head hooded by his cowl, his eyes direct in the shadowed sockets of his skull. His controlled determination was heightened by his immobility, the hands which he had thrust into the wide sleeves of his robe.
"I advise you to think before you answer, my lord," said Ruen before Vargas could reply. "The man Dumarest means nothing to you, but the aid of the Cyclan does. Deny one and you will lose the other. How long do you think you will continue to rule without a cyber to guide you?"
More threats? Vargas felt suffocated with the accumulating pile of enemies. Did Ruen want Dumarest to act the assassin as that bitch Mada Grist had done? Was that why he wanted him freed? And if he yielded how, where would it end?
"You heard my orders," he snapped at Yendhal. "Obey!"
Ruen took a hand from the sleeve of his robe. From it something spat, singing, the high-pitched whine deepening a little as it struck against the side of Vargas's throat. A quivering mote rested in the center of a spreading circle of disintegration, cell and tissue yielding beneath the sonic destruction.
As the Technarch fell, already dead, Ruen lifted his hand toward the physician.
"The man Dumarest," he said evenly. "Release him."
Yendhal hastened to obey.
* * *
The arrows had come from nowhere, running before him, below lifted partitions and pointing the way at junctions. Dumarest followed them, loping past areas acrid with insect smells, black pits in which things stirred, the surge of turgid waters. He was covered with sweat and blood, staggering a little from numbing fatigue. A spined patch of growth had torn at his bare flesh with vicious thorns.