"Bad fortune," said Murga-muggai. She laughed, an oily, sticky sound.
"Why, cousin?" said Wyungare. "Why do you do any of this?"
"Silly boy," said Murga-muggai, "you've lost hold of tradition. It will be the death of you, if not the death of our people. You are so wrong. I must remedy this."
Apparently in no hurry to eat, she slowly closed the distance between them. Her legs continued to strobe. It was dizzying to watch. "My appetite for Europeans is growing," she said. "I will enjoy today's varied feast."
"I will have only one chance," Wyungare said in a. low voice. "If it doesn't work-"
"It will," said Cordelia. She stepped even with him and touched his arm. "Laissez les bon temps rouler." Wyungare glanced at her.
"Let the good times roll. My daddy's favorite line." Murga-muggai leapt.
The spider-creature descended over them like a windtorn umbrella with spare, bent struts flexing.
Wyungare jammed the butt of the -spear into the unyielding sandstone and lifted the fire-hardened head toward the body of the monster. Murga-muggai cried out in rage and triumph.
The spear-head glanced off one mandible and broke. The supple shaft of the spear at first bent, then cracked into splinters like the shattering of a spine. The spider-creature was so close, Cordelia could see the abdomen pulse. She could smell a dark, acrid odor.
Now we're in trouble, she thought.
Both Wyungare and she scrambled backward, attempting to avoid the seeking legs and clashing mandibles. The nullanulla skittered across the sandstone.
Cordelia scooped up the flint knife. It was suddenly like watching everything in slow motion. One of Murga-muggai's hairy forelegs lashed out toward Wyungare. The tip fell across the man's chest, just below his heart. The force of the blow hurled him backward. Wyungare's body tumbled across the stone clearing like one of the limp rag dolls Cordelia had played with as a girl.
And just as lifeless.
"No!" Cordelia screamed. She ran to Wyungare, knelt beside him, felt for the pulse in his throat. Nothing. He was not breathing. His eyes stared blindly toward the empty sky.
She cradled the man's body for just a moment, realizing that the spider-creature was patiently regarding them from twenty yards away. "You are next, imperfect cousin," came the ground-out words. "You are brave, but I don't think you can help the cause of my people any more than the Wombat." Murga-muggai started forward.
Cordelia realized she was still clinging to the gun. She aimed the H and K mini at the spider-creature and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. She clicked the safety on, then off again. Pulled the trigger. -Nothing. Damn. It was finally empty.
Focus, she thought. She stared at Murga-muggai's eyes and willed the creature to die. The power was still there within her. She could feel it. She strained. But nothing happened. She was helpless. Murga-muggai was not even slowed.
Evidently the reptile-level had nothing to say to spiders. The spider-thing rushed toward her like a graceful, eight-legged express train.
Cordelia knew there was nothing left to do. Except the one thing she dreaded most.
She wondered if the image in her mind would be the last thing she would ever know. It was the memory of an old cartoon showing Fay Wray in the fist of King Kong on the side of the Empire State Building. A man in a biplane was calling out to the woman, "Trip, him, Fay! Trip him!" Cordelia summoned all the hysterical strength left within her and hurled the empty H and K at Murga-muggai's head. The weapon hit one faceted eye and the monster shied slightly. She leapt forward, wrapping arms and legs around one of the pistoning spider-creature's forelegs.
The monster stumbled, started to recover, but then Cordelia jammed the flint knife into a leg joint. The extremity folded and momentum took over. The spider-thing was a ball of flailing legs rolling along with Cordelia clinging to one hairy limb.
The woman had a chaotic glimpse of the desert floor looming ahead and below her. She let go, hit the stone, rolled, grabbed an outcropping and stopped.
Murga-muggai was propelled out into open space. To Cordelia the monster seemed to hang there for a moment, suspended like the coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons. Then the spider-creature plummeted.
Cordelia watched the flailing, struggling thing diminish. A screech like nails on chalkboard trailed after.
Finally all she could see was what looked like a black stain at the foot of Uluru. She could imagine only too well the shattered remains with the legs splayed out. "You deserved it!" she said aloud. "Bitch."
Wyungare! She turned and limped back to his body. He was still dead.
For a moment Cordelia allowed herself the luxury of angry tears. Then she realized she had her own magic. "It's only been a minute," she said, as if praying. "Not longer. Not long at all. Only a minute."
She bent close to Wyungare and concentrated. She felt the power draining out of her mind and floating down around the man, insulating the cold flesh. The thought had been a revelation. In the past she had tried only to shut autonomic nervous systems down. She had never tried to start one up. It had never occurred to her.
Jack's words seemed to echo from eight thousand miles away: "You can use it for life too."
The energy flowed. The slightest heartbeat. The faintest breath. Another.
Wyungare began to breathe. He groaned.
Thank God, thought Cordelia. Or Baiame. She glanced around self-consciously at the top of Uluru.
Wyungare opened his eyes. "Thank you," he said faintly but distinctly.
The riot swirled past them. Police clubs swung. Aboriginal heads cracked. "Bloody hell," said Wyungare. "You'd think this was bloody Queensland." He seemed restrained from joining the fray only by Cordelia's presence.
Cordelia reeled back against the alley wall. "You've brought me back to Alice?"
Wyungare nodded.
"This is the same night?"
"All the distances are different in the Dreamtime," said Wyungare. "Time as well as space."
"I'm grateful." The noise of angry shouts, screams, sirens, was deafening.
"Now what?" said the young man.
"A night's sleep. In the morning I'll rent a Land-Rover. Then I'll drive to Madhi Gap." She pondered a question. "Will you stay with me?"
"Tonight?" Wyungare hesitated as well. "Yes, I'll stay with you. You're not as bad as the preacher-from-the-sky, but I must find a way to talk you out of what you want to do with the satellite station."
Cordelia started to relax just a little.
"Of course," said Wyungare, glancing around, "you'll have to sneak me into your room."
Cordelia shook her head. It's like high school again, she thought. She put her arm around the man beside her. There were so many things she needed to tell people. The road south to Madhi Gap stretched ahead. She still hadn't decided whether she was going to call New York first. "There is one thing," said Wyungare.
She glanced at him questioningly.
"It has always been the custom," he said slowly, "for European men to use their aboriginal mistresses and then abandon them."
Cordelia looked him in the eye. "I am not a European man," she said.
Wyungare smiled.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND
MARCH 14/HONG KONG:
I have been feeling better of late, I'm pleased to say. Perhaps it was our brief sojourn in Australia and New Zealand. Coming close upon the heels of Singapore and Jakarta, Sydney seemed almost like home, and I was strangely taken with Auckland and the comparative prosperity and cleanliness of its little toy jokertown. Aside from a distressing tendency to call themselves "uglies," an even more offensive term than "joker," my Kiwi brethren seem to live as decently as any jokers anywhere. I was even able to purchase a week-old copy of the Jokertown Cry at my hotel. It did my soul good to read the news of home, even though too many of the headlines seem to be concerned with a gang war being fought in our streets.