Up ahead, Raim could see where the tunnel-like confines of the cavern gave way to the smoothness of the Citadel. Almost out of the place. Almost free! Marise! Marise! Her name filled him with excitement and he turned as he approached the beginning of the corridor, reaching back to take her hand and pull her finally to him. How he longed to hold her against his chest once more!
But it was not to be.
His lovely bride, so close behind him, extended her arms to him, but there was an expression of pain, of sadness, and defeat upon her face. Even as he touched her tiny hands, she began to fade away like frost on an autumn morning.
Marise! The thought burned in his mind as he knew he was losing her. He knew in that instant that he had turned back to her too soon, that she would be gone, and he would never see her again.
Her image was replaced by the looming figure in the dark robes, and the transformation plunged Raim into a moment of madness. Opening his mouth, he screamed . . . an inarticulated scream which rushed from the pit of his being and echoed through the empty steel corridors. He turned away from the shadowed thing and lost his balance. The planes and angles of the walls spun wildly across his vision, more and more rapidly, until he passed out. . . .
On that same evening, after having retired to his room, and wondering only briefly where his companion might have wandered, old Stoor reclined on his bed, contemplating the possibilities of escaping from the place where they had so blithely entered. It was not the first time he’d been held prisoner—in a life as full as his, he could not actually recall the exact number of times—but it was easily the most mystifying. The first rule in effecting an escape was to fully understand and truly know your captor. Stoor had no such knowledge, and it frustrated him. But he would not give up until he discovered what made the odd Guardian tick; he would know his captor. He was consumed with recurring thoughts such as this, and he passed the sleepless hours by smoking his pipe and waiting for Raim.
Reclining in his bed, he was shocked to see something moving near the far wall. Standing quickly, he reached for his weapon and watched as the shimmering in the air took shape. It was a man dressed in crude armor and an odd-looking battle helmet. He carried a large spear.
“By Krell! Don’t move or you’re a dead man!”
The intruder laughed and eased his spear to the ground, its business end pointing to the ceiling. “I am neither dead nor alive, and your weapons would have no effect on me. I am here to make you an interesting proposition. . . .”
“Here? How you’d get here’s what I want to know.”
“I could not explain it simply enough so that you would ever understand. It would be better if you would just accept the fact that I am indeed here.”
Stoor shook his head. “Sorry, can’t do that. I’ve been too stubborn and too old for too long. Now what’s goin’ on? I locked that door myself. You another one of them robots?”
The man laughed. “Hardly. I am Zeus.”
“Who?” Stoor looked dumbly at the man, although there was something about the name which ached in his memory. Something familiar.
“I have been called by other names, but Zeus is my preference. If you must know, I walked through your wall.”
“Through it, huh? Some kind of ghost, I suppose. Well, I’m afraid I don’t believe in ghosts. You see I know somethin’ about science and magic, and I’m not as ignorant as I might look. I’m no sandgrubber who’s gonna think you’re hot shit ‘cause you got a cigarette lighter or a flashlight in your pocket.”
The man laughed again. “Well, that’s good to know.
I didn’t feel like bothering with such gimmickery anyway.”
“What you want in here?”
“I’m getting to that. Let’s say that I have something that you want very much, all right?”
“Like what?”
“Like your freedom. . . .”
The word seemed to strike a chord within Stoor’s soul. He stood immobile for a moment, and his jaw dropped slightly open.
“My freedom?”
“Precisely.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“Let’s just say that I mean what I say, and that I have some influence around here.”
“You’re the Guardian, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Nothin’ goes on here without that machine knowin’ it! You must think I’m awful stupid!”
“Nevertheless, I am not Guardian. But I can get you out.”
“What about the others?”
“Their freedom is also guaranteed, except one.”
“What’re you talking about? Which one. Who?”
“It’s fairly well obvious that you will have to fight your way out of here. . . . You have considered that?” Zeus paced easily about the five-sided room.
“The thought’s occurred to me.”
“Good. Now let’s say that I am prepared to warrant your safety and effect your escape. Even though you don’t believe me, let’s just say so for argument’s sake. All right?”
“Go on.”
“But there is one catch. You see, as Zeus, I am entitled to my idiosyncrasies. . . .”
“Like what?”
“Like I am very fond of sacrifices.”
“Of what?”
“You know, I like something, or preferably someone, offered up to me as a show of . . . say, good faith.”
“Offered up? You sound like those primitives in the Baadghizi, the Hurrun! Do you like stone altars too?!”
Zeus shrugged. “They’re not bad, but I really do require a sacrificial victim.”
Stoor looked at the man and saw that despite his cavalier attitude and demeanor, his eyes were cold and hard as steel. The man was serious.
“And who did you have in mind? Anybody in particular?”
“Of course.”
“Who, then?”
Zeus smiled.
