Riptide

it's redlined. They were still within safety limits, shielded by the rock and dirt of the Water Pit. But Neidelman was closer now, and soon not even the intervening earth would—

'Hatch!' came the hoarse, ragged voice.

Hatch paused.

'I found Lyle's body.'

Still Hatch said nothing. Could Neidelman know where he was? Or was he merely bluffing?

'Hatch! Don't be coy, it doesn't suit you. I saw your light. I'm coming for you. Do you hear me?'

'Neidelman!' he yelled in return.

There was no answer. He glanced back at the Radmeter. The whitish blob on the screen kept ascending the grid, flickering in and out with the waning power of the battery.

'Captain! Stop! We need to talk.'

'By all means. We'll have a nice little talk.'

'You don't understand!' Hatch cried, inching even closer to the edge. 'The sword is highly radioactive. It's killing you, Captain! Get rid of it, now!'

He waited, straining to hear above the uprushing roar.

'Ah, the endlessly inventive Hatch,' came Neidelman's voice, faint and unnaturally calm. 'You planned this disaster very well.'

'Captain, for Chrissakes, drop the sword!'

'Drop it?' came the answer. 'You set this trap, wreck the Water Pit, kill my crew, deprive me of my treasure. And now you want me to drop the sword? I don't think so.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Don't be diffident. Take credit for your fine work. A few well-placed explosives did the trick, right?'

Hatch rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, searching for options. 'You're a sick man, Captain,' he called out. 'If you don't believe me, ask your own body. The sword is a powerful emitter of fast neutron radiation. It's already stopped all cell mitosis and DNA synthesis in your body. Soon you'll be suffering from cerebral syndrome. The most severe form of radiation poisoning.'

He listened. Except for the roar of the great gulf beneath, the only sound he heard was the dying chirp of the Radmeter. He took a deep breath.

'You're already in the prodromal period!' he called out. 'First, you'll begin to feel nauseated. You probably do already, don't you? Next will come confusion, as inflammatory foci sprout up in your brain. Then tremors, ataxia, convulsions, and death.'

There was no answer.

'For God's sake, Neidelman, listen to me!' he cried. 'You're going to kill us all with that sword!'

'No,' came the voice from below. 'No, I think I'll use my gun.'

Hatch sat up fast. The voice was closer now, very close: no more than fifteen feet away. He retreated down the tunnel to the others.

'What is happening?' Bonterre cried.

'He'll be here in a few seconds,' Hatch replied. 'He's not going to stop.' As he spoke, he realized with grim finality that there was nothing they could do. They had no escape route. Another moment or two, and Neidelman would appear over the lip of the tunnel, sword in hand. And they would all be dead.

'Is there no way to stop him?' Bonterre cried.

Before Hatch could answer, Clay spoke. 'Yes,' he said, in a strong, clear voice. 'Yes, there is.'

Hatch turned. The look on Clay's cadaverous face was not only triumphant—it was ecstatic, beatific, otherworldly.

'What—?' Hatch began, but Clay had already brushed past him, light in hand. In a flash, Hatch understood.

'Don't do it!' he cried, grabbing for Clay's sleeve. 'It's suicide! The sword will kill you!'

'Not until I've done what I came to do.' Clay jerked his arm free and raced to the lip of the tunnel. Then— skirting Rankin's body—he leaped across the metal bridge to the array and descended quickly out of view.

Chapter 61

Clinging to the rings of the array, Clay climbed down a few feet, then paused to steady himself. A great roar was coming from the depths of the Pit: the sounds of collapsing caverns and thunderous water, of violent chaos churning in the unguessable depths. An uprush of damp air tugged and worried at the collar of his shirt.

He angled his flashlight downward. The ventilation system had shut down when the emergency power failed, and the air was heavy. The shaking spars were dripping with condensation, striped with clots of falling dirt. The beam licked through the fog, settling at last on the form of Neidelman, perhaps ten feet below.

The Captain was toiling painfully up the ladder, grasping each rung in the crook of his arm before hauling himself up to the next, his face contorted with effort. With every shudder of the ladder he paused, hugging the rungs in both hands. Tucked into Neidelman's back harness, Clay saw the flash of a jeweled hilt.

'Well, well,' croaked Neidelman, staring up toward the flashlight. 'Et lux in tenebris lucet. The light does shine in the darkness, indeed. Why am I not surprised to find the good reverend part of this conspiracy?' His voice dissolved into a hacking cough and he clung to the ladder with both hands through another nasty shudder.