KLAI had been translating this in a murmur to her grandfather, her eyes watchful on Alper’s face. Zatri said irresolutely, “The Gateway you speak of is too dangerous. Too uncertain. I don’t—”
“Klai went through it, didn’t she?” Alper demanded angrily when this was translated to him.
Zatri said, speaking to Sawyer. “I sent Klai after Nethe through the Gateway. It was a terribly dangerous thing, but the only way I knew. I hid her deep down underground, waiting for Nethe to come to a place where I knew she went sometimes to work her—magic.”
“And what happened?” Sawyer asked.
“I wish I knew. I’ve watched Nethe I many times when she didn’t know. I’ve seen her make fire spring out between her fingers and open a—a whirling spiral in the air. I didn’t know about the Firebird then. But I knew she went through the spiral and out of the world. Sometimes she was gone a long time. I thought there might be hope for Klai elsewhere, for I knew there was none here.”
“I remember—a little,” Klai put in. “I remember Grandfather pushing me through, and how fast Nethe went, and how I fell on the ground in a strange, dark place. Then Nethe made fire spring out again in her fingers—that was the Firebird, I know now—and another spiral opened, and—” She shook her head. “I woke in the uranium mine, not knowing anything except my own name.”
She had spoken in English, and Alper said quickly, “I’ve got a hunch that the dark place you mention was the UnderShell. The Goddess told me a good deal, you know. She was desperate to find out all she could about Nethe, and I pumped her. I think the Gateway’s a circular process, which may—”
“How about the Goddess?” Sawyer asked. “If she’s that desperate, couldn’t we do business with her, somehow?”
“No. Why should she bother? I sounded her out on that, and I know. Remember, to the Isier we’re so many uninteresting animals. They’re immortals. But the Firebird is the—the keystone of their immortality. Don’t you know what it must be, Sawyer? I’ll give you a hint. You can buy variations of the Firebird for three for a dime, back on Earth. But—not the Firebird.”
He drew a long breath.
“The Well of the Worlds is miraculous enough,” he said, “and I have no idea how that works, though I’ve guessed a little. It’s a link between Khom’ad and Earth now, bonding the two worlds together—but it was also the channel through which the Isier got their energy from other dimensions, other continua. It’s a—a tube that must be made of a form of matter that isn’t really matter at all. Unstable, dynamic matter. Here at this end, in Khom’ad, it’s Khom’ad matter, but the other end of the Well—that’s Earth-matter, right now. The other end of the Well can flux into whatever type of matter it touches in the non-Khom’ad plenum. It must be simply an absolutely adaptable form of matter, capable of instant adaptation to whatever type of matter exists in whatever other-space Khom’ad drifts through. How else could the contact be made at all and the channel for the energy maintained? That’s half of it, Sawyer—only half, the material half, the oil-bath in an ordinary fluid clutch. But the other half is the matrix of magnetic particles that saturates the oil, the vital other half that makes a fluid clutch work.
“The Well of the Worlds is a perfectly adaptable type of matter. But the Firebird is simply this.
“It is the perfect conductor.
“It must be. What else fits? It gave me energy—life—and that energy had to come from somewhere. And it could have come from anywhere at all, from space itself, from the uranium in the mine, from—anything. What the Firebird does is form perfect conductivity between whatever it touches and whatever energy-source is nearest. That’s how it opens the Gateways between worlds, I suppose. Conductivity—matter to energy—how can I tell? Perhaps it acts as conductor, under certain circumstances, to the wave-motions of Khom’ad when you’re on Earth, so that your physical body—made up of wave-motions—is altered to the Khom’ad wave-motion, and we see that alteration as a Gateway, whereas the metamorphosis is simply in us.
“Perhaps that’s why only an Isier can open the Gateway. The Isier aren’t entirely matter, as we know it, any more than the Well is. Didn’t Nethe say they’d made themselves into isotopes? What they did, of course, was to alter the wave-motion of their physical bodies, so that they changed into a form of matter which could receive energy directly from the Well, as the new dry batteries can use oxygen from the air instead of depending on their own chemicals.
ALPER smiled a little. “Back on Earth, every house wired for electricity uses something like the Firebird. Remember, the Firebird’s built to open and close. It’s a safety fuse. Sawyer. A perfect conductor that’s also a safety fuse. That’s why it was able to shut itself off when Khom’ad drifted in contact with the Earth and the uranium mine. The other end of the Well adapted to Earth-matter, and all the tremendous energies of the uranium would have come pouring through into Khom’ad if the Well had been able to conduct it. But when the Firebird closed, the Well became inert, as far as energy-conductivity went. The physical bond between Khom’ad and Earth still exists, but that’s all. I suppose that’s why the Firebirds don’t appear in Khom’ad, though they’re glimpsed down in the Well sometimes. If they’re energy-forms, how can they pass through a non-conductor?
“But if the Firebird is dropped open into the Well, I don’t know what might happen. It’s a safety fuse, but there’s such a thing as a proximity fuse too. And there are perfectly unimaginable energy-sources all around us now, and perhaps only non-conductivity saves us from—I don’t know what. Even the Isier might be vulnerable to perfect conductivity, if enough energy poured into them. Now they get only the energy they gain from the sacrifices that go down the Well of the Worlds. And it isn’t enough.
“For they disappear, whenever they’ve discharged enough energy. Where do they go? Somehow, somewhere, they regain their lost energy and return, through the ice-hall. Suppose they gained more energy than they could hold? The Goddess is afraid of something, Sawyer. I think there’s a safety factor involved, just as the Firebird’s ability to shut itself off is a safety factor. The Isier may be isotopes of matter, but remember it isn’t a form of matter we know anything about—matter like the Well, for all I know. How can I tell what kind of unknown safety factor might have come into action when the Isier first turned themselves into gods? There must have been one, and when the Firebird was stolen perhaps a different one became necessary. I don’t know what. But I do know the Goddess and Nethe are both afraid of something, and that’s why, if Zatri will only cooperate, we can all get away safe. You tell him that, Sawyer!”
Klai had again been translating the essentials in a quick murmur as Alper spoke. Now Zatri looked at Sawyer with a steady gaze through the eye-holes of the mask.
“Ask this man,” he said, “why he does all this.”
“To get the Firebird, of course,” Alper said impatiently when this was passed on to him. “I want to get to Earth with the Firebird. What more do I need?”
“And what will the Firebird give him?” Zatri asked.
“Immortality,” Alper answered after a pause. He shook his ponderous head. “What else would I want? Youth, strength, immortality. Isn’t it enough?” Klai translated.
Zatri said in a quiet voice, “Why should I loose on your world, your Earth, a new immortal who might begin another Isier race? Your people are like mine. Human, not gods. No, there must be no more immortals! I am an old man too. Tell Alper this—that I know it is right to grow old. To see death coming as a welcome rest. No man who strives like a child after eternal youth is fit for immortality. Oh, no! I’ll not see this Earthman gain the Firebird and grow immortal! I will not guide him to the Temple!”
Sawyer laughed in sudden, relieved delight. “Good for you, Zatri!” he said. “I don’t trust him either! And he can kill me with the transceiver if he wants to—” Here he swung around toward Alper and stared defiantly at him through the mask “—but I won’t help you either! If you want the Firebird, you�
��ll have to take my orders, not—”
Alper swung his arm up with violent impatience.
“That’s enough!” he said. “I expected it. Now take the consequences, and remember, you asked for it!”
While they all stared, Alper lifted his heavy voice and shouted. From just outside the door the deep, belling Isier voices answered. Before anyone in the startled group could stir, the door crashed open, torn from its hinges by the casual sweep of an Isier arm, and in the opening two tremendous robed gods stood, with a third looming behind them, looking in casual contempt at the stable and all inside it.
With one quick snatch Alper tore the mask from Sawyer’s face. The world went back to normal color and scent and sound. It was like a film, Sawyer thought, changing from technicolor to drab black and white. He jumped just too late to get the mask back. Alper clapped it over his face and spoke through it, muffled but distinct. And it seemed that the Isier understood, though their own masks clung to the backs of their godlike heads, not the faces.
“You can arrest the girl,” Alper said calmly. “The Goddess wants her for the sacrifice. This man here and the old man come with us. The rest you can exterminate.” He turned to Sawyer, his eyes gleaming in cold triumph through the smirking mask.
“Now,” he said. “This is your last chance, my boy. I want the Firebird!”
XI
SAWYER’S mind was clicking rapidly, alertly, and so far perfectly futilely. A dozen useless ideas flickered through it as Alper’s demand still hung upon the breathless silence of the stable. From outside the deep booming of a Sselli charge made the walls shake. Humans shouted and there was the heavy, shuddering trample and thump of struggling bodies perilously close outside.
“Quick!” Alper said, slipping his hand toward his pocket. “I hold every card, Sawyer! Don’t be a fool. I can kill you. I can knock you senseless. The Isier can tear you apart. Give me the Firebird and you have everything to win. Refuse, and—”
One of the Isier let out a deep, resonant sigh of impatience and moved forward like a marble angel walking, lifting his great robed arm. He said something in his own language, serene contempt on his face. He stepped around Sawyer, seized Klai by the arm with one tremendous hand and sent her spinning across the stable toward the two gods in the door. They opened to let her pass, and the farther Isier swept her up under his arm and turned away into the darkness.
Sawyer’s futile, unthinking leap after her was halted sharply by the grip of marble the nearer Isier locked about his shoulder. His teeth rattled as the tall god shook him.
“Wait!” Alper shouted. “Isier, wait! Let me handle this. The Goddess bargained with me, remember!”
The Isier sighed again, but let Sawyer regain his footing.
“Sawyer, let’s be sensible,” Alper said impatiently. “Look, now. I did bargain—”
He stopped abruptly, with a glance at the nearest Isier, and then raised his hands to tilt the mask up and away from his face. “I don’t want them to understand what I’m saying—because I told the Goddess I’d get the Firebird for her. She’s got to have it back, and she’s got to keep its theft a secret. I think Nethe took it, not the Goddess. But the main thing is that it’s gone and the Goddess would promise anything to get it back. If I don’t bring it, she’ll kill me. And my life’s important to you, remember. I die—you die. What do you say, Sawyer?”
Sawyer listened to the noise of the fight, so near outside now they had to pitch their voices loud to sound above it. He knew he would have to act fast. The next step would almost certainly be an order from Alper to have him searched, on the off-chance that the Firebird had found its way back into his pocket since Nethe’s search, some hours ago. He had to forestall that, and there was no time to waste. He shot one glance at the alert Zatri, still wearing his mask.
“All right,” Sawyer said. “You win.” He moved his shoulder a little, feeling the warm spot that was the hidden Firebird shift against his side. He said, “It isn’t on me, but I’ll get it. I’ll need a light. Hold everything.”
“Don’t show it,” Alper said quickly. “The Isier mustn’t see—”
At Sawyer’s nod Alper sighed and let go of the tilted mask, so that it dropped back and covered his face again. Sawyer took three steps forward and reached up for the swinging lantern. Every eye was riveted on him, every face tense with expectation. Zatri’s blue eyes blazed through the mask. No one knew what to expect next, but the Khom looked ready for anything.
SAWYER laughed aloud in one reckless burst of grim amusement. With a single strong pitch he sent the lantern straight into the haymow at his shoulder. The Khom who crowded it leaped both ways to give it room, and from a corner of his eye Sawyer was gratified to see someone kick hay helpfully over the flame as he jumped. They could have no idea what he planned, but this much was evident—he wanted a fire.
In the same motion that sent the lantern flying, Sawyer hurtled forward upon Alper, the hand that released the lantern clamping instantly on Alper’s wrist. He snapped the man toward him, locked his other wrist in a bone-breaking grip, and shouted, “Zatri!”
There was no need to shout. Zatri was off the bale and yelling crisp orders before the lantern had more than struck the hay. There was a moment of wildest confusion, in which the two tall Isier, roaring together on a single note of outrage and surprise, surged forward toward the struggling pair. But in a low, dark wave between them the Khom rose up from the floor in one simultaneous surge, hurling themselves doggedly upon the towering gods.
The Isier staggered at the unexpected impact. Then they planted their feet wide and struck angrily at the swarming pack. Every blow that landed snapped bone. And there was no way in which a Khom could hurt a god. But they could hamper them. And desperation made them reckless.
Sawyer needed every ounce of strength in him to control the great bulk and the ponderous weight of the man he held. For the first few moments he thought he was going to fail, and then, quite suddenly, Alper gave up.
Sawyer thought it was a trick, and held his grip desperately. Then he realized the truth. Alper’s first try had been the only try he could afford. He had strength—but limited strength. After he exhausted the Firebird power he would relapse into senile helplessness. He dared not struggle. He would conserve his little store of energy, and wait. Sawyer twisted the old man’s arms behind him and paused, panting, to survey the scene of conflict.
Smoke already veiled it. The fire had caught and was crackling up in the oil-soaked hay with a roar that grew to a deafening burst of sound in a matter of seconds. The stable filled with blinding light and scorching heat, driving Isier and Khom alike toward the broken door.
The ponies, whinnying in shrill, terror, were plunging over the low barrier of their stalls. There was total confusion as the whole swaying, kicking, roaring melee surged outward through the door and into the alley, Sawyer and Alper borne willy-nilly with them out of the burning stable.
FROM the street at the alley’s end sounded the deep-toned booming of a savage, very near and drawing nearer. The fire had served its purpose. Sawyer had never hoped the Khom could control two Isier, no matter how they outnumbered them, but he thought the savages could, if the fire flared up in time.
He set his teeth and without warning chopped Alper across the temple. Alper grunted and went down.
“Zatri!” Sawyer shouted at the top of his voice, looking wildly around. The old man was hanging stubbornly on an Isier wrist, his arms wrapping the long, ice-robed arm. Above him the serene face bent, sweat beading it but no emotion showing on the cold, smiling features. The Isier shook his other arm free of the crowd that pressed him in and lifted a great white fist over Zatri’s head. Sawyer yelled a futile warning. The fist was already sweeping down, and Zatri’s moments seemed numbered.
Then, without the slightest warning, the Isier vanished.
Blinding light and bursting heat marked the space in empty air where he had stood. For an instant a cloud of dispersing molecules seemed t
o hang upon the air. Energy had failed him, and he had whirled helplessly away upon whatever mysterious, vanishing cycle the Isier traveled when the soundless summons called them.
Zatri staggered back, shaking his scorched head with the mask still miraculously clinging to it, so that a dwarfed Isier with white ruffled hair seemed to be still ludicrously clasping a vanished arm.
Sawyer reached down and pulled the mask from Alper’s face. It came unwillingly, clasping the head with a firmness that showed why even the exertion of fighting had not unseated it. Sawyer pressed it over his own face with one hand, seeing the world come suddenly back to technicolor vividness.
Alper was suddenly conscious again, his eyes glaring up at them. His hand went toward his pocket. Sawyer bent, trapped the hand, hove the big man roughly to his feet.
“This way,” Zatri said, breathless but calm. “Come along!” and they set off down the alley toward its blind end, squeezing past the blaze of the stable. Alper was a ponderous weight between them.
A door at the alley’s end gave under Zatri’s expert attention. He shouted across his shoulder to his men, and Sawyer, looking back, saw the single remaining Isier locked in a Laocoon struggle with a dozen sinuous, writhing Sselli, their eyes blazing golden in the reflected firelight.
This was the moment for which Alper must have been hoarding all his remaining strength. For with one enormous, desperate heave he threw all his great bulk into the balance and snapped the hold Sawyer and Zatri had locked upon his arms. He reeled back against the firelit wall, gasping, laughing, triumphant, his hand dropping like a striking snake toward his pocket.
Sawyer, staggering from that mighty thrust which must have used up a dangerous supply of energy, braced himself for the killing shock. But Alper, hand upon the control, could afford to speak first. He jerked his big head toward Zatri and said, still gasping for breath:
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