Then the brief rest was over. The blood-red Sirian detached itself from the others and soared back up to the balcony, hovering just overhead. A sparkling sting jolted some of the kobolds to attention. "Here are your orders," the Sirian rasped. "You indicated ones will proceed up this corridor until you encounter living beings or their corpses. Survivors will then return to report. Move outl"
There seemed nothing threatening in the long, narrow corridor they moved through. Away from the cataclysmic environment of the great machine chamber, with its winking lights and scuttling, glassy crabs, the present tunnel seemed almost peaceful, and some of the other Purchased People began to speak almost normally among themselves. Tupaia disregarded them as a king-warrior should. He took the position at the front of the line as by right. No one argued. When he came to a gallery whose end disappeared in dimness, with branching corridors all along, he made the decision. "We will split up," he announced. "One of you go into each of these tunnels. I will proceed along the main passage."
There was a grumble from the other kobolds, but Tupaia paid no attention to that, either; except that when he had advanced a few score meters along the gallery he glanced covertly over his shoulder and was pleased to see that the others were no longer in sight. Perhaps they had followed his orders. Perhaps they had gone in a cluster into the first tunnel they saw, or even returned to the great cavern; it did not matter, what mattered was that Te'ehala Tupaia was alone and unsupervised.
How often he had dreamed of a chance like this!
But, now that he had it, was it real? Was there anywhere to escape to? And even if there was, how could he escape from the hideous shape these enemies had forced on him?
For almost the first time in his life, Te'ehala Tupaia, paramount king-warrior, began to doubt his destiny.
He slowed down, almost idling, glancing into each of the side tunnels as he passed, but there was no evident hope in any of them. The gallery was bare and empty, apart from Tupaia himself and a single insect—or, more likely, a Boaty-Bit from the swarm he had left behind him—that danced above and around before him like a silent sentry. Which perhaps it was, Tupaia thought gloomily; perhaps here too his freedom was only an illusion.
He stopped, aware that the Boaty-Bit's dancing had become agitated, and aware of something new. It was not a sight or a sound. It was an odor, of such choking foulness that his armored nostrils tried to close to keep it out.
He knew that stench, with the queer new knowledge that had been grafted into him in the editing; and he ran forward to peer into the next tunnel.
A Watcher! The name flashed into his mind, and with it the sudden internal warning: Beware. But the warning was too late; the creature rose up to confront him.
Tupaia had never imagined anything as repellent. It was crouching over a half-eaten corpse, he saw with disgust—a human corpse? At first flash he thought so, for it wore the rags of clothes; but it was too small to be an adult human being, too incongruously proportioned, with long, skinny arms—no. With only one long, skinny arm; because the Watcher was crunching the marrow from the severed other, which still retained rags of a once-gay scarlet and green jacket.
The creature fastened its great eyes on Te'ehala Tupaia and dropped the arm. With a hoarse, hooting roar, as powerful as the whistle of a tour liner at the docks of Papeete, it plunged toward him, black enormous ears cupped in his direction, bulging multiple eyes glaring horridly. Blood was dripping from its hideous beak.
The creature was incredibly fast. There was no time to react, and he was weaponless. Tupaia could see that the beak was powerful enough to crush even the leathery chitin that was now his skin, that the coarse, reptilian wings ended in strong talons, that in one of the writhing pink tendrils which served it for arms it held a huge-bladed knife. Any of those weapons would have been enough to kill him; but he could not move away.
What saved him was a sudden bass bellow—"Drop to the ground!" It came from an unseen tunnel to his side; and a great, bronzed figure leaped out. It carried a crude spear, lunging at the Watcher. The beast, disconcerted by the sudden attack, veered away, soared past Tupaia, and blundered on down the gallery.
But Tupaia did not even turn to look. Two things had driven his danger out of his mind. The first was that the shout had been in Polynesian.
The other was that the man who had driven off the Watcher, the golden-skinned giant who leaped out to save him, was himself. Scarred, limping, with a bloodied rag wrapped around one arm—nevertheless, the savior of Te'ehala Tupaia was Te'ehala Tupaia.
For Tupaia—for both Tupaias—the unexpected meeting was shocking in ways that went beyond even the terrible shocks instrinsic to the place and circumstances. The one saw himself hideously caricatured—squashed, wrinkled, hands like claws, armored eyes. The other saw the same powerful frame and flesh his mirror had always shown, but terribly torn.
The flesh Tupaia took a step forward, opened his mouth to speak—then grimaced and clutched his side. "You're hurt!" cried the kobold Tupaia, and his elder twin smiled faintly.
"Worse than hurt," he gasped. "That thing got me in the side, and the bleeding's started again. But what—how— why do you look the way you do?"
"Whiteskin treachery," the kobold said bitterly. "That's all I know." He glanced up sharply as the distant mad hooting of the Watcher sounded. "Is that thing likely to come back?"
His twin shrugged, then grimaced with the pain. "He'll be back when he gets hungry again, that is sure," he said grimly. "There are no other survivors." He swatted irritably at a silver-blue mote in the air, which turned and darted away. "Unless you count the Boaty-Bits, but the gods know what they're up to. They're no use even to the Watcher—he couldn't get a square meal out of them!"
The kobold Tupaia bent to his self s side, probing the wound while they exchanged stories; when he looked up his gnarled face was grim. "Don't say it, my brother," the flesh-and-blood one said softly.
"I don't know what you mean!" the kobold flared. "Come on! I'll help you down to where the others are. We'll get you medical attention—"
The flesh one laughed gently. "How hard it is to lie to yourself," he said. "We both know, Te'ehala Tupaia, that this Ce'ehala Tupaia at least has not long to live."
"We don't know that unless we don't try!"
"We do know it. But, yes, we will go to where the others are, because there is no better choice. I could not find my way back to the surface—and they, at least, have a tachyon transporter. So perhaps one of us, at least, can both die and live." He cocked an ear to the hooting that sounded again. "Help me!" he commanded, and they limped back toward the larger gallery.
The kobold glanced once at the maimed body of the dead chimpanzee, then resolutely looked away. Even though the flesh Tupaia was grievously wounded, it was not hard to travel in that gentle gravity. They were through the gallery, and the sounds of machinery from the great, hot cavern were growing louder, when the kobold felt his wounded brother stiffen. He pulled away and tried to level the spear.
A figure stepped out of a tunnel to confront them. It was a tinier version of the kobold Tupaia's own armored shape, staring fearfully at them out of startlingly bright green eyes. "Please, mister," it begged, "don't hurt me! Put down that spear. I'm lost! My name is David Doy Gentry, and I don't know what's happened to me!"
The kobold Tupaia growled, "What the devil are you doing here?" But his other self put a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't you see the boy is terrified? Answer him, boy."