Masters of the Maze

by Avram Davidson

  And now it was the turn of Nathaniel Gordon.

  He had barely had the taste of honey in his mouth, and now he was bound to depart again. The new-gained ability, the new-found knowledge, the enlightenment and calm, all, all, would depart from him with his leaving the Center — some abruptly, some gradually. He who had learned levitation must now walk again. For a while he had been almost one with and among the greatest. Now he was once more just Nate Gordon. Certain ironic aspects of this passed through his mind.

  “Communist Chulpex Ate My Wife,” he muttered.

  “Farewell, my fellow.”

  “Farewell …”

  Life is a dream and the dream is but a dream itself. All doth pass. All doth pass.

  “Everything flows …”

  The Center flowed away from him, he flowed away from the Center. Configurations and permutations perplexed and passed his eyes. He did not leave as he had entered and the scenes he saw were new and strange to him, but yet familiar in that they were unfamiliar and old by virtue of their continual newness. He was obliged to tarry awhile among the nonhuman but kindly Theriowol whilst, with tears of grief and great cries of helpless anguish, they burnt to the ground the city in which they dwelt as the bicentennial and blazing horde of meteors passing overhead informed them that the time for this had come; then they turned and toiled off into the wilderness to seek another site. Six days he dwelt amongst the Lost Tribes by the shores of the Sambatyon until, on the seventh, the river ceased to flow, and he walked across its bed in the Sabbath calm and quiet. He was caught up a while in a procession of dancing, jerking, twitching, moaning sufferers en route to seek relief at the great shrine of St. Vitus; some said that their sufferings were caused by demons, some, that the bite of a spider had caused it; others muttered that it was a poison created by the rust upon the rye which made their bread: all, however, attributed Nate’s odd manner and speech and his haste in getting on, to the madness — whatever its cause — and so, kindly but firmly, helpful participants in the pilgrimage seized his arms and danced him along, two and one, one and two, St. Vitus, pray for us, St. Vitus, intercede for us, one and two and two and one …

  He came to the caves of ice at last and in time, not pausing to look closely at the things frozen there, but wondering if he were perhaps destined to be frozen there himself; but at last he managed to open a hatchway in a huge door on the lowest slope of the lowermost cave. It was by no means warm in there, but it was perceptibly less cold. It smelt worse, though. Much worse. And it continued to go on smelling worse — rank and dank and acrid and clammy and … and something else, something which had been briefly familiar to him. He descended level after level, like someone in a bad dream or in a (bad, ex officio) novel or story by Merrit or Lovecraft. The latter, at least, he recalled, had been obsessed with unpleasant odors. And with cold. The former had merely cultivated a large, country garden consisting entirely of poisonous plants. And Lovecraft had also been obsessed with the theme of humans lending themselves or selling themselves to the service of alien creatures. Like Major Flint. In fact, Nate reflected, Lovecraft might have gotten along quite well with Major Flint. Their social views had much in common.

  It was a superior war-Na who recognized Nate immediately from having seen him fleeing across the velvet plain where the great scarlet birds were tended by the dwarfs. He hesitated. The ‘Murriste-Sire should be informed at once, of course. On the other hand, it would be great, high-nest identity-assertion were he himself to bring this creature before the ‘Murriste-Sire. It had been bad, quite bad, returning and having to tell the Sire that, though the pursuing war-Nas had indeed found the Gate through which the sought-for alien had vanished once again into the Many-Pathed Way, they had been unable to find his trail again after that. Great was the Sire’s wrath, and, indeed, the superior war-Na had at that time expected nothing more than that his Sire would then and there claim an occasion for justifiable anger-outlet.

  He seized a work-Na who was, like at least half of those present, pointing and waving his arms and chattering astonishment — the other half were running busily about, often in opposite directions, doing nothing — and said to him, “Convey word to the Sire that the war-Na 102 ‘Murriste 634 has found the chulpechoid that escaped us before. At once, the work-Na!”

  “At once, thus, the war-Na!”

  If this message were to be, and in view of this confusion it might well be, the first intelligence of the matter to reach the Sire, this would be good for the war-Na. It could not in any case, be bad for him. Unless — and he stood stock-still and almost shrilled his sudden fear — unless the message reached the Sire and the chulpechoid vanished again! In such a case the war-Na might regard himself fortunate if he were merely directed to cease to take food.

  What the correct manner of approaching the chulpechoid at the present place and under the present circumstances might be, the superior war-Na did not know. The instructions at the previous occasion had been, very simply, “Capture and return.” But there were none but war-Nas there, highly disciplined. This was an encounter at a crossing-level of the upper ramps, all sorts and classes were present, there was no unity. To pause and search out war-Nas, to convince of the correctness of yielding to his, the war-Na 102’s, orders — this meant time, time, precious time.

  Thinking, acting quickly, the war-Na 102 approached the chulpechoid according to the ancient and prescribed rule of peacefully approaching the war-Na of another Sire-swarm: all four arms held away from the body, palms down. He did not, of course, know the vivipar’s language; fortunately he had been spared training in the disgusting ways of the vivipar. The concept of bearing one’s young alive was revolting in the extreme. A war-Na, however, is trained to repress his own natural emotions. Arms out, palms down, 102 ‘Murriste 634 approached the chulpechoid, neither slowly nor hastily.

  It was true: the creature was intelligent. It had been walking rather aimlessly, but on perceiving the approach of the superior war-Na, it halted. The object in its hands (deformed, stunted life-form, having only two), it slowly placed between its legs to secure it; then it, too, held its arms out, palms down.

  “This is well, the vivipar,” the war-Na observed.

  “Take me to your — ah, the Hell with that,” said Nate. “We’ll just play it cool, as befits the ex-Superior Man.”

  “Proceed ahead of me, the vivipar. Thus, as I indicate with my upper hands, thus. Do you not understand — the object? It appears to indicate no danger. You may take it up as before. Thus, thus.”

  Arristemurriste received the message impassively. That the chulpechoid vivipar had appeared where he had, indicating that an entrance to and exit from the Many-Pathed Way lay above, was a matter to be stored up for future consideration. Either the knowledge of this Gate had been forgotten as the race moved in toward the cooling center of the planet, or else it had opened up subsequently. What the purpose of the creature was in coming here, Arristemurriste could not know. He was the second, but the first, occupying the designation … the Sire could not be bothered with recalling the syllables of gibberish … this first creature had said that the other was dangerous and treacherous. It might be so. It might be that the converse was so. Arristemurriste reserved judgment; meanwhile he had sent for the Na 32 ‘Gorretta 502. The latter was assisted into his presence.

  “Ordinarily,” the ‘Murriste-Sire reminded him, “Nas which return without having fulfilled their directives are assumed to be in possession of defective qualities which would result in their future failure as well. Therefore they have always been directed to cease to take food.”

  “Thus, the Sire.”

  “But in your case it has seemed that the fault lay rather with that aberrant body, the Na 14 ‘Parranto 600. Therefore the Sires are in agreement that you should for the present continue to live. Furthermore, you have been instructed in one of the vivpar languages. You were in contact with the second vivipar, who has unaccountably appeared among us. What is your impression concerning it?” />
  “The Na recalls that this creature seemed somewhat amenable to reason. The Na was of course unspeakably shocked when this creature attempted to destroy the fry that the Na 14 had taken away in eggs — but on further reflection it has seemed to the Na that, knowing about the Chulpex, this creature associated the fry only with the Na 14, and on hearing that the Na 14 attempted to take my life — ”

  “Thus. So. The Sire follows your train of reasoning. It may be. Here comes the vivipar now. It will require your services as translator for us to understand it. Direct it to speak concerning its relationship with the other.”

  It came as merely another shock to Nate, and by no means the biggest (not after seeing even what could only have been the tiniest of glimpses of the swarming, swarming Chulpex-life), to hear the translucent, six-limbed thing supported between two other translucent six-armed things speak to him in the suddenly well-remembered voice of “Jackson.”

  “Previously,” he said, cautiously replying to the question, “I was hostile to Major Flint. But I am so no longer. My reason,” he anticipated the next question, “is that I realize that the victory of the Chulpex is certain and Major Flint has promised me a position of power in return for my aid.”

  Arristemurriste pondered. The answer was so logical as to require no further interrogation. But the answer conveyed another question inside of it, and this the Sire proceeded at once to ask. “What form is this aid of yours to take?”

  Nate looked up at the huge figure, and despite himself swallowed hard. Then he said, “I am to show the Chulpex a route whereby they may circumvent all obstructions and enter into swift conquest of all.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Major Flint decided, abruptly, unalterably, that he had had enough of chasing Nate Gordon through the nine Earths, the nine Heavens, and the nine Hells. “Let’s get back where we belong and get to work,” he said to Jack Pace.

  Who was so relieved that it felt like waves of cold water were flowing down his legs. Back where they belonged! Away forever from weird walls and weird halls, weird worlds and weird things! Home! To clean their weapons and organize their forces, drill their troops. Of course the regular army and navy was bound to come over to their side as soon as the issue was made clear; Major Flint had said that all along. Jack’s eyes flickered as he thought of the quick, clean job of putting down the mobs which would follow. And then — and then, boy! Time to cut the turkey and pass out the pie!

  Cars. Women. Girls. Cars. God!

  Get started right away. Head back home. Now.

  Only —

  “What about the bug?” he asked, in a casual tone of voice, not moving his eyes.

  “Too useful to lose. It’s not in it with the other bugs. Don’t know exactly what its game is or if it’s got much of a following, but — sound old principle: Divide and rule. We’ll see. We’ll see.”

  The bug itself was digesting the last of the venison. Exercises had given them all an appetite, particularly, it seemed, the Na 14. Rather than part with more of the canned pemmican, Major Flint had told Jack to shoot the next buck they saw. It was white, as they were all, in this place, wherever it was; and showed no fear. It was easy as jacklighting. The bug hadn’t shown any interest in the weapon, though you might have thought it would. All it seemed to be thinking about was food; it had lapped up the blood, even. Made Jack sick to his stomach to think of it now. So there it was, like a python gorged with a goat, making slobby noises. They had to wait until it was ready, or able, to get onto its feet again before they could move on. Major Flint explained that they were going back. It didn’t say anything.

  It may have been something in the sunlight of the next place they were passing through. It reminded Jack of the effect of the ultra-violet lamp he’d seen once or twice in the new barbershop someone had opened down in Groatsville — before the novelty wore off and everyone went back to patronizing the old barbershop with the permanent card game in the dirty back room. Or, again, it may have had nothing to do with it. Jack hadn’t had much time to think about it.

  The three of them were just coming out from a grove of trees which were altogether the wrong color and which cast shadows that made him uneasy, when Jack heard Major Flint give a cry of such short, startled horror as to be almost a squawk. He whirled around and he screamed.

  The goblin seemed to have doubled in size. Its chitinous exterior was cracked and riven and a serous matter oozed from the rifts. It made little noises of pain. Then it said something about “Protein” and something about “Sire.” Or it might have been, “Desire.” Then, with a sudden, swift movement, it swooped down on Major Flint and seized him up with its four arms and bit into him and bit out of him and began to eat.

  Jack Pace shot it and shot it again and shot it again and again. It fell down, not far from where Flint lay, flopping and bleeding and making noises that no one could listen to. Jack never stopped screaming, not even after he threw down his carbine and ran and ran and stumbled and fell and got up and ran again.

  Major Flint and the Na 14 lay under the unnatural light of the sun that was so alien to both of them, and they watched each other die.

  • • •

  Nate’s proposal was so close to an absolute congruity with Arristemurriste’s needs and desires that it would have required the most difficult of efforts not to agree with it. True, the other Sires had conceded that the breakthrough program must be accelerated. True, the breakthrough program had been accelerated. But the program had gone on at much the same pace for so long a period that neither the psychology nor the facilities of the Chulpex were capable of a very great increase. Such an increase as was accomplished was capable of somewhat of a considerable spur when Flint first appeared. And the fact that a detachment of war-Nas had been sent in search of Nate Gordon now fit in quite well, curiously enough, with Nate Gordon’s plan as described to the ‘Murriste-Sire.

  “A mass breakthrough is the only answer.”

  Thus! If a mere few hundreds of thousands could safely go in search of Nate Gordon and safely return (even if without him) — if it were possible for them to pass despite those who watch and those who fight — then it followed surely that an unlimited number had nothing to fear in the way of failure.

  “All the Chulpex must advance, without exception.”

  Thus! Rigid, diligent, slow to imagine, loath to change, the Chulpex found great difficulty (which, for the most part, they did not even recognize as difficulty) in affecting a change of a few degrees in any area involving individual effort. Told, however, to arise or to descend, to advance or to retreat, they responded instantly … automatically … so mindlessly, in fact, as to make the term willingly almost inapplicable.

  “In this way they will overcome not only opposition but the possibility of opposition by their sheer weight of numbers.”

  Thus! Doubtless the vivipar, through inherent inferiority of mind, thinking mainly of what he expected would be his own interests, overlooked the almost certain likelihood that there must of necessity be a measure of opposition. No matter. Assuredly, numbers of Chulpex would be killed. Again, no matter. What mattered was not that this Na or that Ma should live one cycle more or one cycle less. What mattered was the assurance of life-through-life: the continued existence of the Chulpex race. Indeed, even if — theoretically, of course — any considerable portion of the Chulpex swarms should lose their lives in attaining a victorious breakthrough, even this was of no major or long-term significance. But let the Many-Pathed Way come altogether within their grasp, and the Chulpex would repopulate until their former (that is, their present) numbers were restored. And more! And more! And more!

  No more crawling further and further into this burrow of a dying planet in search of warmth! An end to stagnation, once and for all! The shameful memories of such aberrations as Arrantoparranto, who had refused to breed and who had wanted a percentage of the egg-clusters destroyed, and of the Na 14 (Parranto 600!) who had vilely stolen eggs in the hopes of becoming an independent S
ire!

  “It is well, the vivipar,” declared Arristemurriste. “Whither do you intend to lead us?”

  “First to our own world. From there a multitude of Gates and arms of the Maze extend.”

  Two thoughts occurred to the ‘Murriste-Sire, so closely together that he could not tell which had come first. He pushed his massy bulk up from his dais and glared. His Nas trembled. Nate took a half-step backward. “Let there be no tricks!” warned Arristemurriste. “Do not think to lead us into a trap! You will go, not first, not last, from either position you might think to escape; the midst would not do if you are to give directions … So. Thus. You will go in the second phalanx. From there it will be easy to send directions to the front, but therefrom you cannot escape. Does the vivipar understand?”

  “It is understood.”

  The great body settled down a trifle. The great mouth posed the second question. “What is the width of the path or arm along which we are to travel? This information is necessary in order to calculate how long it will take the entire Chulpex race to make the traversal.”

  Nate reminded him that ordinary considerations of dimensional mensuration did not apply, including the temporal. “But one thing should be mentioned. The Maze, too, has its systole and its diastole, though this process does not occur with any resembling frequency in metabolic time. Nor is it uniform on all arms. In fact, little may be said about it, other than that it does occur — and that it is about to occur on the arm which we will make use of for the traversal. During the period of diastole this arm will thus be much ‘wider’ and this of course will enable the traversal to be accomplished in an incomparably shorter period of metabolic time.”

  “Enough, the vivipar, for now. You may take food, but do not leave this chamber even to rest. The Sire will have you informed at the time he next requires you. Go — ”