When they were done, the tentacles withdrew.
Fringe sagged against the wall, mouth open, unable to look away from the cavern floor that was stained with fluids, littered with knobs of bloody bone and coils of purple and red, blobs of organs and muscle, parts identifiable and unidentifiable, all reeking warmly, steaming in the chill air of the chamber, all strewn about the boxes, the two sets of boxes that keened a continuous scream of horror as they peered out at Fringe with wholly familiar eyes.
“An ear,” her mind shrieked at her, doing an inventory. “See there, that’s a knee, that’s a thigh. See there, breasts, Fringe, breasts!”
From a pile of discarded clothing across the cavern, the pocket munk raced across the intervening space, up Fringe’s leg and into her pocket, shrieking its own horror and agony to add to hers.
“Aaaah,” she moaned, unable to stop herself, unable to control it. “They’ve made you dinks, you’re dinka-jins, oh, God, Nela, Bertran, you’re …” “… dinks …” cried the munk from Danivon’s pocket in Fringe’s hysterical voice.
“What have they done?” cried Zasper, grabbing at Danivon’s arm so violently that the little flier wobbled and slipped beneath Danivon’s hands.
“Careful,” cried Danivon. “You’ll have us on the ground again. We’re almost there, don’t do anything silly….”
“Dinks. They’ve made the twins into dinks! Did they do it to Fringe?” Zasper asked. “Was it just the twins?”
Danivon’s throat dried at the thought of their having done it to Fringe. But no. Not Fringe. Just the twins. Just the twins. He knew it.
“Bertran will hate it,” he murmured. “Hate it. His dreams were all of sleekness, of swimming like a fish. He told me once. Oh, he’ll hate that, Zasper.”
“Why!” Zasper demanded. “Why in hell!”
“Maybe because they weren’t … portable the way they were,” Danivon said. “If the things wanted to move them. If they were hurt, for instance. And they were hurt, I could smell that….”
He dropped the flier toward the river and began to examine the shoreline.
“Where are we?” asked Zasper.
“Halfway across Beanfields. Vacant country along here. The settlements are all to the south and west.” He turned the flier slightly. “Look for three tall pillars, the middle one highest,” he instructed. “A little south of us.”
“There,” cried Zasper, pointing.
“Right.” Danivon jerked the flier around, flying low above the water. “Now there’s a tall dead tree along here with four branches at the top. When that lines up with the middle pillar, that’s where….”
The faces regarded the boxes with satisfaction. “Better,” said the bad one, the malicious one. “Far better. Now they can concentrate on what we need to know.”
“Why?” cried Fringe, hammering on the floor with her fists. “Why do you need to know now!”
“Now is appropriate,” said a face. “Why not now?”
“Now is necessary,” said another. “God must know the answer to this question. How can we direct our worshipers properly if we do not know their destiny.”
“But we’re only people,” she sobbed. “Ordinary people. Not philosophers. Not ethicists. Not the kind of people to consider questions like that. We’re just ordinary little people. Why do you ask us?”
“You might know,” said a voice.
“Should know,” amended another.
“Since the question pertains to man, man must know. Naive intuition should inform you of your destiny.”
“Enough,” said a gulping voice. “All that is irrelevant. God requires the answer to this question. The question will be answered by man. We are god. You are man. Therefore, you will answer. That’s all you need to know!”
On the floor the boxes howled. The faces seemed not to hear the sound, to disregard it.
“That’s completely arbitrary,” Fringe screamed. “It doesn’t take into consideration that we’re just three people, that maybe it takes all men to answer….”
“Arbitrary doesn’t matter,” said a female voice in an instructive tone. “We have consulted Files. Gods are usually arbitrary.”
“But we can’t….”
“If you can’t, you will die and we will try with someone else, until we find one who will answer….”
Pain flicked across the cavern. Fringe cried out. The boxes went on howling.
And suddenly stopped, as though killed in midscream.
“Who is that?” asked a face.
Was there apprehension in the voice?
“Listen … listen to …” cried one of the other voices. “Listen to up above. Something coming!”
Abruptly the faces were empty, all but one.
“Fringe Owldark!” said the box across from her.
“Bertran?” Fringe asked, shocked into sensibility. It hadn’t sounded like Bertran.
“This assemblage is not Bertran at this moment, no. Fringe Owldark, listen to me. The weapon they took from you. It’s under that small pile of rock to your left. They forgot it. Burn the rock in the cavern. Melt it so they can’t get at you.”
“Who?” she gaped stupidly. “Who are you?” “Someone you don’t know.
Someone caught in this mess with these monsters. Someone trying to help you.”
“Who?” she cried. “Who?”
“Jordel,” it said. “Call me Jordel. Now do as I say!”
“Where’s Bertran? Where’s Nela?” “Here. Safe.”
“Safe!” She broke into hysterical laughter. “Safe!”
“Fringe Owldark! You must be an Enforcer! Cool! Thoughtful! Otherwise you will die, and so will they. You must burn the surfaces of the stone to keep the devices from coming through. Understand me!”
“We’d die of suffocation! It’ll burn up all the air!”
“There’s enough air. Someone has come to help you, up there. And I will help you. But you have to keep them from getting to you. Burn the walls, the floor, so they can’t get through.”
“Do it,” howled the other of the boxes. “Do it, Fringe. Melt it, Fringe. Then melt us.”
She tumbled the pile of stones, scrabbling among them, coming up with her heat beamer, feeling it turn almost of its own volition onto the faces, burning them, melting them.
Something came screaming through the floor at her, something with knives, and she melted it as
