Dirk tried to swallow that one, but it stuck in his throat. He swiveled his head forward and strode down the gully in silence. DeCade was companionably silent, too, for a time; then, he stopped abruptly and pointed to a shadow in the wall of the gorge. “There it lies.”
Dirk came out of his brown study and looked, but all he saw was brush and grass. “Where?”
But DeCade was already climbing the slope, and Dirk had to hurry to keep up with him.
Finally DeCade stopped and lashed out at the grass with the tip of his staff, ripping out greenery and uncovering a heap of humus. He wielded the staff like a great broom, and peat and mulch went flying, till Dirk saw a round cave-mouth, just large enough for a man of normal height. DeCade turned, gesturing to the outlaws; a laser pistol sizzled, its ruby beam slicing the darkness to kindle a pine knot. Torchlight flared and the laser beam winked out. DeCade nodded, turned, and stepped into the tunnel, stooping. Dirk nodded to the outlaws and followed. The light came behind him, wavering on the wall.
“Has it occured to you,” he said carefully to DeCade, “that there might be booby traps in here?”
DeCade came to a half and stared down at him. “What manner of traps?”
“Well,” Dirk said slowly, “from the tale you tell me, the first Kind built this place; and that means he was an, ah, immigrant, from Terra. He’d have been very up-to-date on the latest burglar-proofing technology, and paranoid enough to use it.”
“And just what kinds of machines are these?”
Dirk shrugged. “Oh, I expect you know them as well as I do—or part of you, at least. Hidden lasers, sonic beams to jelly your brains, that sort of thing.”
DeCade’s mouth was tight with amusement. “And how are these pleasant toys triggered?”
“Oh, the usual—pressure-sensitive plates in the floor, ultra-violet electric eyes, sonar, infrared detectors, brainwave analyzers… like that. So if you can manage to weigh nothing, keep from walking through any light beams you can’t see, not reflect any sound waves, stop thinking, and cool your body down to eighty-five degrees, you won’t have a thing to worry about.”
“None at all,” DeCade agreed. “Thank you for the timely warning; I’ll bear it in mind.” And he turned away to start up the tunnel again.
Dirk stared at him.
Then he jumped to catch up with him. “After all that, you’re just going to march ahead? What are you, a walking death-wish?”
“A nice hypothesis, now that you mention it. Still, I don’t plan to die till the Lords are dead.” DeCade gestured ahead. “Look there.”
Dirk looked ahead, frowning, trying to pierce the darkness beyond the circle of torchlight. Then he saw it—a shimmer, filling the tunnel from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, like a heat haze, although the tunnel was dank and cold. He glanced at DeCade’s face, saw the tension, the telltale look of pain—but very slight, now; he was adapting to it—and a chill went down Dirk’s spine. Apparently Gar had some abilities Dirk hadn’t known about. “What is it—a force field?”
DeCade smiled through the headache. “You shall see quickly enough. These may be an outworlder’s powers, but I think they are beyond most outworlders’ ken. He has lost none of himself, this one—and I think he has been lonely. Very.”
“ ‘Think?’ ” Dirk frowned. “Don’t you know?” DeCade shook his head. “His most important memories he keeps locked away from me, in a small, dark, hard shell at his core. He is wise. He knows he is alien; he will not try to be otherwise.” “So he loses none of himself?” Dirk shook his head. “That can’t be the only choice a man has—to lose part of himself, or to be lonely.”
DeCade shrugged. “Many men adjust their behavior to those around them and keep their true selves locked away safely, in a small, dark part of their souls. They feel that part in them and cherish it; thus they know who they are and lose nothing of themselves while having all benefits of company—but I think such men always yearn for just one soul who is like them. They die with that yearning. Still, most men seem to have no difficulty at all; they are enough like their fellows so that they need not think about it. You and I, though, who are of our people, but not like to them…” He shrugged. “We may try to become as much like our fellows as we can, to completely change ourselves so that we are like them.”
Dirk shook his head. “That doesn’t work. You can’t change who you are; all you can do is a good job of acting, good enough to fool your fellows and maybe even fool yourself—but that’s all you’d be doing. Fooling. And sooner or later, what you really are would roar out to loom up over you, demanding retribution.”
“Yes.” DeCade said promptly. “That is the trouble with the third way, is it not?”
Dirk thought that one over as they paced ahead through the tunnel. Then he said slowly, “I think I know another way; to search and keep searching, till you find people who are like you.”
DeCade smiled politely. “True, that is possible …”
Dirk didn’t like the emphasis.
“But why do you speak of this, friend Dulain?” DeCade rumbled. “Are you not like other skymen?”
“Yes, of course.” Dirk frowned. “But that’s begging the question. It’s saying that you can stop being a wanderer by becoming a part of a group of wanderers.”
“Yes.” DeCade nodded, with full conviction. “And I think your question has been answered, Dirk Dulain; it—” Suddenly he froze, staring ahead of him.
Dirk came to a halt, frowning up at him; then he turned to look forward…
Ruby light spat out from both walls, gouging holes in the stone three feet in front of them. Dirk could feel his eyes trying to bulge out of their sockets.
The beams cut off, leaving no light but the torch. Behind Dirk, the outlaws muttered fearfully. “Triggered by the force-field we passed through.”
DeCade’s voice cut through the mutters. “It is no matter. They told me it was coming. Follow.” And he stepped forward again.
Dirk frowned up at him. Then, hesitantly, he stepped forward himself. He took the second step a little more surely; with the third step, he felt a gush of fervent faith in DeCade that threatened to overwhelm him. He suppressed it quickly—almost in panic—as he caught up with DeCade. He looked up at the giant, frowning. “Who told you it was coming?”
“The men who built this place.” DeCade licked his lips and swallowed; sweat sheened his forehead. “There was suffering between these walls, Dirk Dulain.”
Of course, Dirk thought, chagrined. If the workmen who put the lasers in had been men of any conscience, they would have been in agony over what the devices they were installing could do to human beings—and, they must have realized, human beings of their own kind; who else would want to sneak into the King’s castle through the back door? Echoes of that guilt would still linger near each installation—for a psychometrist.
Then the other implication hit him. Dirk stared up at DeCade, appalled.
The giant nodded. “Yes, Dirk Dulain. When they killed them, they buried the workmen in the walls.”
“Odd gods, man! You must be in agony!”
“It … is not pleasant,” DeCade admitted.
Dirk peered up at him in the torchlight, looking closely. “Are you sure you’re—”
“I am,” DeCade said curtly. “I can bear it easily, Dulain; there were only a hundred of them.” And he marched ahead.
Dirk followed slowly, mentally revising his estimate of the giant’s strength upward; and it had been high to begin with. Or was it Gar’s strength he was estimating?