halt, then backed off a bit. It was defiant, but it was still frightened. It did not quite know what had been done to it, but it had unpleasant memories of being attacked by a granch-grusher, which had produced very similar sensations.
‘Leave us,’ said Codlugarthia in Janjuladoola.
‘No,’ said the dorgi.
‘Leave,’ said Codlugarthia. Then: ‘I do not wish to have to repeat myself. Nor do I wish to have to raise my voice.’
In answer, the dorgi trained the snouts of its zulzer upon the heroic Ashdan. Then it fired. Belatedly, the dorgi remembered: it was out of ammunition. It did not hesitate: it charged.
Codlugarthia’s fingers flickered.
The floor of the corridor ruptured.
A torn and jagged split gashed the floor of the corridor. Limitless depths yawned below. And the dorgi, assaulting forward at a furious pace, had no way to save itself. It tumbled into the pit and it fell, crashing through unseen metallic obstacles far below. There was a siren-pitched scream from deep, deep below. A sullen explosion. A rumbling thunder-roar.
And then…
Nothing.
‘Let us,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘be going.’
They had to make a detour to get past the ruined section of corridor. Even so, they soon came upon the therapist. The first thing they saw was Chegory Guy and Ivan Pokrov. Both were hanging from their heels some distance above the ground, but appeared to be alive and physically intact.
‘Greetings,’ said the therapist in fluent Janjuladoola.
‘And to you, greetings,’ said Codlugarthia.
‘Have you brought the Ashdan to me as a plaything?’ said the therapist.
‘I am not your plaything,’ said Codlugarthia, gazing upon the monstrous device. ‘You are mine. Unleash your prisoners.’
The therapist laughed at this stern command, and reached for Codlugarthia with half a dozen tentacles. Codlugarthia gestured curtly. The tentacles snapped and crackled, and recoiled as if from fire. The therapist screamed with rage.
‘Now,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘Release your prisoners. Or I will have to do you some serious harm.’
The therapist knew when it was beaten. It promptly lowered Chegory and Pokrov to the ground. And released them. Both tried to get up — and immediately fainted. Olivia rushed forward, and, in moments, was cradling her dearest Chegory in her arms and trying to revive him with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. This strategy soon brought him round, and shortly he was smiling weakly in her embrace.
‘Very well,’ said Justina crisply. ‘Now kill this thing.’ ‘Why?’ said Codlugarthia.
‘The thing is a menace,’ said Justina. ‘It lives to kill and torture.’
‘Very well,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘I will destroy it.’
‘But you mustn’t!’ shrieked the therapist. ‘You mustn’t destroy me!’
‘Why not?’ asked Codlugarthia coolly.
‘Because, if you kill me you’ll — you’ll never know. The secrets! The secrets! I have the secrets!’
Ivan Pokrov, though he had not had the benefits of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, managed to raise his head and say:
‘Kill it.’
‘Yes,’ said Juliet Idaho, who had long been of the opinion that far too few people were getting killed these days. ‘Kill it. It’s high time we saw something killed.’
‘No!’ screeched the therapist. ‘You mustn’t! Because I can tell you, I can tell you all about it, worlds upon worlds, that’s the secret. Gates to another cosmos. Not one, a series. From universe to universe. The chasm gates. The secrets, I have them, I know, I know. How to get there, how to go, how to travel. Worlds upon worlds. All yours.’
‘It’s lying,’ said Pokrov.
Codlugarthia hesitated.
‘Listen,’ said the therapist. ‘You’re a Power. I know that. I’ve never felt your match, and I’ve felt much in my time. I guess you immortal. If you’re not, we can soon fix that. Given immortality combined with power…’
The therapist paused to see how the Ashdan warrior was taking this.
‘Speak on,’ said Codlugarthia.
‘Kill the thing,’ said Justina impatiently.
‘When I have sufficient data,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘Stranger,’ said
Ivan Pokrov, ‘you must kill this thing. You must! You don’t know what it is. What it can do.’ ‘Ah,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘but I will learn. S peak, thing. Have you a name?’
‘I have,’ said the therapist with dignity. ‘Schoptomov, that’s my name. But that is the least important thing I have to tell you. I can tell you the secret of the chasm gates. How to build them, how to use them. That way, you can get from one cosmos to another. Otherwise, you’re stuck here. Stuck in this one grubby universe, for ever.’
‘What possible advantage could there be,’ said Codlugarthia, ‘in going from one universe to another?’
‘The Nexus, that’s what,’ said the therapist, gabbling its words as panic began to get the better of composure. Then it steadied itself and said: ‘The Nexus. A coalition of empires. People by the million billion. Things you’ve never dreamed of. Suns, cities, seas of green and crimson, women smoother than silk, wines brighter than silver. Music to set dead bones to weeping, to set the very rocks to dancing.’
‘It’s bluffing,’ said Pokrov. ‘It doesn’t know how to rebuild the chasm gates.’
‘All right,’ said the therapist. ‘So I don’t know. But you know!’
‘I don’t,’ said Pokrov. ‘It would take me a million years.’
‘You admit it!’
‘A million years, that’s what I said.’
‘A million years,’ said Codlugarthia slowly. ‘Well. I have a million years.’
‘But you can’t be serious!’ said Pokrov. ‘You may have a million years, but I don’t.’
‘You are an immortal, are you not?’ sid Codlugarthia. ‘Who told you that?’ said Pokrov accusingly.
‘Friend, I know you better than you think,’ said Codlugarthia. ‘Long have I sat on Jod, for I am the one you have known till now as the Hermit Crab. I have seen you passing yourself off as a mortal man to one generation after another. I know your potential.’
‘I see,’ said Pokrov. The designer of the Analytical Engine paused, then said: ‘But whether I’m immortal or not, I’m not staying here to help you build chasm gates, or anything else for that matter.’
‘I don’t think you have any choice in the matter,’ said Codlugarthia.
‘We’d starve!’ said Pokrov. ‘Or thirst to death. Unless your powers extend to the creation of three-course meals thrice a day.’
‘That,’ admitted Codlugarthia, ‘might be a little difficult. Not impossible, but…’
‘Nutrition is no problem,’ said the therapist. ‘I can make all you need on the spot. Why, sometimes I’ve kept prisoners alive for decades.’
‘Yes,’ said Chegory, sitting up. ‘The therapist thing’s been telling us about some of those therapists. It’s evil! You can’t trust it! It’ll get you, that’s what, when you sleep, it’ll take you and kill you, it’ll make you a prisoner and torture you for ever.’
Codlugarthia paused in thought.
Then spread his arms.
Then Spoke.
The therapist screamed in agony.
Doors and panels ruptured.
Arms flailed and snapped.
Sparks crackled.
White fire ran along pipes and tubes.
Deep in the workings of the hideous device, something broke. And out from a secret storeroom there slithered a great gushing outpouring of bloody eyes, ears, noses, tongues and testicles — the souvenirs of centuries
