And the worst part of it was that it was not being done in hate or anger, neither was the unfortunate Four-Arms being divided up that she might be eaten. There was an impersonal quality about the whole business that sickened Wesel — for, by this time, she had gained a certain limited access to the mind of the other.
The Giant paused in his work. Another of his kind had come, and for many heartbeats the two talked together. They examined the multilated carcass of Four-Arms, the crushed body of Little-Head. Together, they peered into the cage where Wesel snarled impotently.
But, in spite of her hysterical fear, part of her mind was deadly cold, was receiving and storing impressions that threw the uninhibited animal part of her into still greater panic. While the Giants talked the impressions were clear — and while their great, ungainly heads hung over her cage, scant handbreadths away, they were almost overpowering in their strength. She knew who she and the People were, what their world was. She had not the ability to put it into words — but she knew. And she saw the doom that the Giants were preparing for the People.
With a few parting words to his fellow the second Giant left. The first one resumed his work of dismembering Four-Arms. At last he was finished. What was left of the body was put into transparent containers.
The Giant picked up Little-Head. For many heartbeats he examined her, turning her over and over in his great hands. Wesel thought that he would bind the body to the flat surface, do with it as he had done with that of Four-Arms. But, at last he put the body to one side. Over his hands he pulled something that looked like a thick, additional skin. Suddenly, the metal bars at one end of the cage fell away, and one of those enormous hands came groping for Wesel.
After the death of Big-Ears, Shrick slept a little. It was the only way in which he could be rid of the sense of loss, of the feeling that he had betrayed his most loyal follower. His dreams were troubled, haunted by ghosts from his past. Big-Ears was in them, and Big-Tusk, and a stranger female with whom he felt a sense of oneness, whom he knew to be Weena, his mother.
And then all these phantasms were gone, leaving only the image of Wesel. It wasn’t the Wesel he had always known, cool, self-assured, ambitious. This was a terrified Wesel — Wesel descending into a black abyss of pain and torture even worse than that which she had, so often, meted out to others. And she wanted him.
Shrick awoke, frightened by his dreams. But he knew that ghosts had never hurt anybody, could not hurt him, Lord of the Outside. He shook himself, whimpering a little, and then tried to compose himself for further sleep.
But the image of Wesel persisted. At last Shrick abandoned his attempts to seek oblivion and, rubbing his eyes, emerged from his cave.
In the dim, half-light of the Place-of-Meeting little knots of the People hung about, talking in low voices. Shrick called to the guards. There was a sullen silence. He called again. At last one answered.
“Where is Wesel?”
“I do not know… lord.” The last word came out grudgingly.
Then one of the others volunteered the information that she had been seen, in company with Four-Arms and Little-Head, proceeding along the tunnels that led to that part of the Outside in the way of the Place-of-Green-Growing-Things.
Shrick hesitated.
He rarely ventured abroad without his personal guards, but then, Big-Ears was always one of them. And Big-Ears was gone.
He looked around him, decided that he could trust none of those at present in the Place-of-Meeting. The People had been shocked and horrified by his necessary actions in the case of those who had eaten of the food-that-kills and regarded him, he knew, as a monster even worse than the Giants. Their memories were short — but until they forgot he would have to walk with caution.
“Wesel is my mate. I will go alone,” he said.
At his words he sensed a change of mood, was tempted to demand an escort. But the instinct that — as much as any mental superiority — maintained him in authority warned him against throwing away his advantage.
“I go alone,” he said.
One Short-Tail, bolder than his fellows, spoke up.
“And if you do not return, Lord of the Outside? Who is to be—?”
“I shall return,” said Shrick firmly, his voice displaying a confidence he did not feel.
In the more populous regions the distinctive scent of Wesel was overlaid by that of many others. In tunnels but rarely frequented it was strong and compelling — but now he had no need to use his olfactory powers. For the terrified little voice in his brain — from outside his brain — was saying hurry, HURRY — and some power beyond his ken was guiding him unerringly to where his mate was in such desperate need of him.
From the door in the Barrier through which Wesel had entered the Inside — it had been left open — streamed a shaft of light. And now Shrick’s natural caution reasserted itself. The voice inside his brain was no less urgent, but the instinct of self-preservation was strong. Almost timorously, he peered through the doorway.
He smelled death. At first he feared that he was too late, then identified the personal odors of Four-Arms and Little-Head. That of Wesel was there too — intermingled with the acrid scent of terror and agony. But she was still alive.
Caution forgotten, he launched himself from the doorway with all the power of his leg muscles. And he found Wesel, stretched supine on a flat surface that was slippery with blood. Most of it was Four-Arms’, but some of it was hers.
“Shrick!” she screamed. “The Giant!”
He looked away from his mate and saw hanging over him, pale and enormous, the face of the Giant. He screamed, but there was more of fury than terror in the sound. He saw, not far from where he clung to Wesel, a huge blade of shining metal. He could see that its edge was keen. The handle had been fashioned for a hand far larger than his, nevertheless he was just able to grasp it. It seemed to be secured. Feet braced against Wesel’s body for purchase, he tugged desperately.
Just as the Giant’s hand, fingers outstretched to seize him, came down the blade pulled free. As Shrick’s legs suddenly and involuntarily straightened he was propelled away from Wesel. The Giant grabbed at the flying form, and howled in agony as Shrick swept the blade around and lopped off a finger.
He heard Wesel’s voice: “You are the Giant Killer!”
Now he was level with the Giant’s head. He swerved, and with his feet caught a fold of the artificial skin covering the huge body. And he hung there, swinging his weapon with both hands, cutting and slashing. Great hands swung wildly and he was bruised and buffeted. But not once did they succeed in finding a grip. Then there was a great and horrid spurting of blood and a wild threshing of mighty limbs. This ceased, but it was only the voice of Wesel that called him from the fury of his slaughter lust.
So he found her again, still stretched out for sacrifice to the Giant’s dark gods, still bound to that surface that was wet with her blood and that of her attendant. But she smiled up at him, and in her eyes was respect that bordered on awe.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, a keen edge of anxiety to his voice.
“Only a little. But Four-Arms was cut in pieces… I should have been had you not come. And,” her voice was a hymn of praise, “you killed the Giant!”
“It was foretold. Besides,” for once he was honest, “it could not have been done without the Giant’s weapon.”
With its edge he was cutting Wesel’s bonds. Slowly she floated away from the place of sacrifice. Then: “I can’t move my legs!” Her voice was terror-stricken. “I can’t move!”