Norton, Andre - Dipple 02

by Night Of Masks (v5. 0)

  No sound. Nik longed to shout for Vandy. Whether the boy would either pause or listen, or whether the noise might bring the other lurkers out of the burrows to him, he could not tell, but both risks were too great. He was trotting now, the bundle of supplies swinging and bumping against his hip, intent on beating time itself.

  The corridor made an angled turn, and Nik found his opening to the outside, a break in the wall there where part of the cliff face must long ago have given way. But it was no door; the drop from the cut was a sheer one, past any descending.

  Nik edged past that point and caught his first sign of the fugitive, a boot print in the soil the wind had drifted in the cut. Vandy had been this way, but how long ago? No other marks except that. If he had been the quarry in some chase, the pursuers had left no traces of their own passing.

  It seemed to Nik that the walls were less bright, that their glow was fading. And then there was an abrupt change from light to dark, as if whatever principle kept up the age-old illumination of the refuge had here failed or shorted.

  There—that sensation of watchful waiting just beyond! Nik paused. He was so very sure he was not alone that he wet his lips preparatory to calling Vandy.

  What kept him silent was perhaps some instinct for preservation he was not aware of possessing.

  Light again—about chest high in the middle of the passage—stationary. No off-world torch, nothing he could understand. It did not spread to illuminate the walls, the floor, the roof above it—it simply was a patch of light seemingly born of the air without power to throw its beam.

  Nik studied it with growing uneasiness. For a long moment, it was there, a bright dot in the dark. Then it began to move, not toward him, not in retreat, but up and down, side to side, in a series of sharply defined swings.

  A lure—a Disian lure!

  He backed away toward the lighted part of the passage and the break in the wall. If they were going to rush him, he wanted light for the battle. But the lure did not follow. He stopped again.

  If it was a trap, it was one he had to dare. Vandy had taken this road. In order to find Vandy, he would have to travel it, too. The trap and the lure—with a blaster he could have burned the road open, but Leeds had the blaster. The rayer—could light save him here?

  Nik slipped up the goggles, bringing the world about him into deep dusk. Instantly he realized he had made the right choice. There was a second glow ahead beside the lure—which he saw now only as if it were a tiny spark at the end of a long tunnel. This was an aura outlining something that squatted low beneath the lure, supplying the bait and perhaps the trap in one.

  Once more he began to advance with the rayer in his hand. He aimed. The lure danced in a wilder swing, and Nik fired.

  Sixteen

  What must have been an eye-searing burst to goggled eyes was bearable to Nik's naked sight. There was a shrill, thin screeching, which hurt his ears and his head as had the throb whistles of the Disians. That blotch of creature on the floor reared, throwing up and out long jointed legs, to crack and contract, until it toppled over and lay on its back kicking.

  The light lingered as if the ray had ignited particles in the air. And now by its aid, Nik saw the other—one of the naked humanoids crouched behind its hound, if the jointed thing could be so termed. The Disian writhed, hands over his eyes.

  Nik ran forward. This was his only chance, and he had to take advantage of it. The wriggling thing on the ground had stopped kicking, one of its clawed feet remaining straight up in the air. But there was space to pass that recumbent form.

  He made that passage in a leap. The upright leg swung and struck Nik across the upper arm with such force that he staggered, but forward and not against the wall. The thing was scrabbling wildly, striving to turn over on its feet once again, squealing loudly as it struggled, to be answered with one of those whistles from its humanoid companion.

  Nik faced around. The fiery light was dying. While the kicker still lay supine, the Disian was on his feet, shading his eyes but fronting the off-worlder. He had the stance of one ready to carry on the fight.

  For the second time, Nik fired the rayer and then turned and ran, his heart pounding, the bundle of supplies knocking painfully against him at every step. He snapped down the goggles again, and instantly the glare behind him was a warning of the force he had loosed to pin his enemies fast. He might have been able to blind, to immobilize them for a space, but he had not gagged them, and the din behind was now a torment in his head, a mingling of the squealing and the whistle. Nik had no doubt that help was being summoned and he might meet it on its way.

  The dark walls continued, and he held to the hope that any Disians answering that summons would betray themselves by their body glow, as had those who had set up the ambush without. He had to slow his pace. He could not keep running in the thick air of this burrow. His breaths were sobs that raised and racked his ribs and set a knife thrust of pain in his side.

  Behind him, a little of the glare still existed. Perhaps a second dose had effectively removed the clawed thing from the field. It had taken the full force of the first raying and had been unprotected at the second. At least its squeal sounded more faintly, and Nik believed it had not stirred from the place where it fell. The Disian was another matter—the whistling had quieted. Did that mean that whatever message the native had striven to give was at an end? Or had he fallen silent because he was stalking Nik?

  Twice the off-worlder paused to look back. There was the glow, but against it he could sight no moving thing. Only he could not be sure on such slight evidence that he was not trailed.

  Light ahead again, another section where the walls still held their radiance. The small portion of dark before that was a logical place for an ambush. Nik studied the walls, the floor—not a glimmer of body glow. He had a feeling that if he could reach the lighted portion, he would be safe for the present.

  Once more he forced his body to a trot, his hand pressed tight against his side. The effort exhausted him so much that he was frightened. That booster drink Barketh had given him back at the refuge—were the effects of it now wearing off? Would the need for rest and nourishment lead to his defeat? There was no place here where he would dare to stop for either.

  Nik was tottering when he came into the light and had to lean against the wall, his shoulders flat on its surface, as he looked up and down the passage. Far back in the dark, there was still a shimmer of glow, the residue of the ray. Ahead, not too far away, the corridor made another turn, masking its length beyond. Nik tired to control his gusty breathing and to listen. The squealing had stopped; there was no more whistling. He could hear nothing from behind or beyond.

  He edged along the wall, watching both ways as best he could. Had Vandy fallen into just such a trap as had faced Nik—and was he now in the hands of the Disians?

  Nik reached the turn in the corridor, got around it, and saw before him a wide space giving opening to a score of passages, another terminal such as they had seen in the refuge. He sagged back hopelessly against the wall. To explore every one of those was beyond his strength or ability now. Only a guess could guide him. Vandy, if he had reached this point, would have been moved only by chance.

  He also knew that he was almost at the end of whatever strength the booster had supplied. How long had it been since he had left the refuge in the company of the Patrol squad? More than a full Disian day, Nik was sure—perhaps even two. He squatted down, his back to the wall, at a point from which he could view at a glance all those empty tunnel mouths, and tried to think. The bundle of supply containers was under his hand, and he ached with the need for food. Just one of those—He had to have its contents inside him or he might never be able to drag on past this halt.

  Reluctantly Nik took out a container and triggered its heat and open button. He ate the contents slowly, making each mouthful last as long as he could. As with all emergency supplies, this had a portion of sustainer included. The warmth and savor of the concentrated food
settled into him, and he relaxed in spite of the need for vigilance. Food—rest—he dared the former but not the latter!

  Five doorways before him, five chances of finding Vandy, and he had hardly time to take one—one—one—

  It was dark and he was running through the dark, while behind him padded a hunting pack, the furred creatures from the ruins, the bare-skinned Disians and their insectival hounds—after him—after him!

  Nik gave a stifled cry and strove to throw himself forward, out from under the grasping hands, the claws, the bared fangs—

  His head, it hurt—He opened his eyes—into dark!

  Dark! His hands went to his goggles, but there were no goggles! Frantically he felt for the cord at his neck—he must have fallen asleep and scraped them off somehow. But they were not there, hanging on his chest! He felt about him in the dark—carefully at first and then more wildly—but they were totally gone.

  "I have them!"

  Nik stiffened. "Vandy?" he asked, though he had to wet his lips to make them frame that name. "Vandy?" he repeated with rising inflection when there came no answer. He had thought a measure of subdued light might linger here as it had in the chamber where he had left Leeds, but perhaps this glow was different, for without the goggles he was in a dusk so thick that he might as well have been blind. He thought he could hear hurried breathing to his right.

  "Vandy!" That was a demand for an answer.

  "You aren't Hacon. There never was a real Hacon—"

  Nik tried to think clearly. Hacon—what had that to do with the here and now? No, this was not one of Vandy's heroic adventures; this was very real and dangerous.

  "You aren't real," that voice out of the dark continued. "You're one of them!" That was accusation rather than identification.

  It was so hard to think. Nik must have been asleep when Vandy found him and took the goggles. How was he going to argue with the boy? He still felt dazed from that sudden awakening.

  What had Leeds said back there? That the change in his face had already begun. No wonder, when he had taken the goggles, that Vandy had decided Nik was not Hacon. Nik's hand went to his face in the old masking gesture.

  "You're one of them," Vandy repeated. "I can just leave you here in the dark. Like that captain—he was one of them, too!"

  "One of whom, Vandy?" Somehow Nik was able to ask that.

  "One of those who want my father to give up the stronghold. I'm going now—"

  "Vandy!" All Nik's panic was in that. He fought back to a measure of self-control and asked, "Where are you going?"

  "Out. I know that the Patrol are here. They'll find me—I can call them. Now I have supplies and blasters and goggles—" His voice was growing fainter. Nik caught a scrape of boot on rock—to the left this time.

  His control broke. "Vandy!" He threw himself after the sound of those withdrawing footsteps and crashed against a wall. There was the patter of running. Vandy must have entered one of the tunnels. Nik sucked in his breath, steadied himself, and fought a terrible battle with insane panic. He was alone, without goggles, and Vandy had taken the supply bundle also—

  He had two choices—to go back, to try and reach the chamber where he had left Leeds, which meant passing through the section where the Disian had laid the trap, or to trace Vandy on through the maze where he was a blind man. Which?

  Nik was certain that Vandy had taken the passage farthest to his left. Trying to recall the terminal as he had seen it last, he believed he could find that opening. And the boy could not run far in this humid air. Sooner or later he would have to rest. Nik must follow him. To return through the Disian trap was more than he could force himself to try. He stretched out his arms and began to feel his way along the wall against which he had crashed. Seconds later, his right hand went into open space, and he knew he had found his doorway.

  The weapon against fear was concentration, concentration upon what he was doing, upon sounds. Nik's senses of hearing and touch had to serve him now in place of sight. Fingers running along the rock surface to his left were his guides, leaving his right hand free for the rayer. And he tried to make his own footfalls as quiet as possible, so that he could listen with all his might.

  Footfalls, far less cautious than his own, were ahead! Nik knew a sudden rush of excitement, so that he had to will himself to keep his own cautious rate of advance. He had been right. The run that had taken Vandy away from him had slowed quickly to a walk, which was hardly faster than his own creep. But—the boy could see! Let Vandy turn his head and he would sight Nik, and he had the blasters! An alarm could make Vandy use one of those almost as a reflex action. So much depended upon chance now—the chance that Vandy would not look behind him—the greater chance that Nik must take in trying to reason with the scared boy.

  Vandy had thrown aside Hacon and the fantasy that had let him accept Nik, and he was conditioned against strangers. This meant that conditioning would now act against Nik and any contact he might try to make.

  But every inch Nik covered with those footfalls still steady before him strengthened his belief in himself, stilled his first panic. It almost sounded as if Vandy knew where he was going and had some clue as to what lay ahead—not that that could be true!

  Then the footfalls ceased. Nik backed against the wall. He was a small target in that position but one that could not escape blaster fire. He waited as weakness flooded through his body. Not to be able to see—

  No sound, no sound at all. Vandy must be watching him—getting ready to fire? Nik ached with the effort to make his ears serve him as eyes.

  Perhaps it was that very intensity of effort that sharpened Nik's thinking. He had been wrong in his handling of Vandy back there; he was certain of that now. At least he could try to repair the damage.

  "Vandy!" He made that into a demand for attention, not an appeal. "Have the Fannards taken you over?"

  Again he strained to hear. Because he had known that he was not Hacon, he had tamely accepted Vandy's recognition of that fact. But he had been thinking then as himself, Nik Kolherne, and not as Vandy. To Vandy, the fantasy world that had been Hacon's had been so real that he had accepted the appearance of its major inhabitant in the flesh as a perfectly normal happening. He could doubt Hacon's identity now, but there should be some residue of belief to make him doubt that doubt in turn. And if Nik could push him back into the fantasy, even for a short space, he could reestablish contact.

  "Have they, Vandy?" He raised his voice and heard the faint echo of it. His face—had it been the change in his face that had set Vandy off? Again his searching fingers advised him of a slight roughness, but not the spongy softness he had feared to touch—not yet.

  "There're no Fannards here." The reply was sullen, suspicious.

  "How do you know, Vandy?" Nik pressed that slight advantage. At least the boy had answered him. "They can't be seen, even with goggles—you know that."

  The Fannards—those invisible entities Vandy had produced for menace in one of the Hacon adventures. In this place, one could believe in them. Nik could—

  He heard the click of boot plates, not away this time but toward him. Once more that sound stopped, but he was sure Vandy stood not too far away watching him. Nik spoke again.

  "There are hunters here." He kept his voice casual, as much what Hacon's should be as he could. Hacon was Vandy's superman. Nik must reproduce a Hacon now or complete the boy's disillusionment and probably doom the both of them. "They set a trap back there, but I got through—"

  "There aren't any Fannards!" Vandy proclaimed loudly. "You aren't Hacon either!"

  "Are you sure, Vandy?" Nik made himself keep calm and held his voice level. He was sure of only one thing. Vandy had come closer; he had not withdrawn yet. "We are being hunted, Vandy. And I am Hacon!" In a way he was—perhaps not the superman Vandy had created, but he was a companion in danger, devoted now to bring the boy out of that same danger. And so he was Hacon, no matter what his ravaged face might argue.

  "No Fannar
ds—" Vandy repeated stubbornly. But again the boot plates tapped out an encouraging message for Nik's ears. "This isn't the Gorge of Tath either!"

  "No these are the Burrows of Dis, but still we are hunted. Vandy, do you know the way out of here?"

  There was a long moment of silence, and then the boy answered in a low voice.

  "No."

  "Neither do I," Nik told him. "But we have to find one—before we're found. And the hunt is up behind—"

  "I know." But Vandy came no closer. Nik did not know how much acceptance he had won, but he plunged.

  "Why did you take this passage?"

  "It was the nearest. Two of the others just end in rooms—no way out."

  "What about it—do we go together?"

  "Here—" Something flipped through the dark, struck against Nik's chest, and was gone before he could raise his hand to grasp it.

  "On the floor, by your right foot." Vandy's direction came with cool assurance.

  It was difficult to remember that what was dark to him was light for the begoggled boy. Nik went down on one knee and groped until his fingers closed about a piece of stuff that could have been a dried root or vine.

  "What—" he began when Vandy interrupted him.

  "I say the Fannards have taken you over. You're Hacon, but it's my story—always my story—and we are in it."

  Nik felt the cord tighten; Vandy held the other end. Should he give that tie a jerk, try to get the boy within reach? But such an aggression on his part would break the thin bond of trust. He was impressed by the shrewdness of Vandy's reasoning. If Nik had endeavored to push them back into the fantasy, then Vandy would play—by the original rules. The adventures of Hacon had been created by Vandy and would continue so. That the boy had made the switch was the surprising part. His flight from Leeds might have been triggered by his conditioning and suspicion, but his ability to get this far, to remain reasonably steady in the whole wild Disian adventure, would have been more believable had he continued to think himself in some Hacon-Vandy adventure. Instead, he knew this was real and yet had not yielded to fright or panic. This suggested he was tough-fibered and determined.