“No!” Lilith screeched.
Blade took another step and leaped, sailing over the sill, tucking his legs under him as he plummeted, angling for a safe landing on the Polyperv-littered floor 20 feet below. He glimpsed Sol Diekrick lying to his left as he came down, his muscles braced for the shock. The force of the drop caused him to stagger and pitch onto his knees, and the soles of his feet stung horrendously, but otherwise he was unharmed. He lurched erect, pausing to glance at Diekrick.
The Peer must have dropped onto his head. His crown and forehead were crushed, flattened to a fleshy pulp, and oozing blood in a crimson stream.
“After him!” the Storm Police captain shouted from above.
Blade craned his neck to see the troopers gathered at the window. None of them seemed eager to make the jump. He grinned and dashed into the maze, hunching over, knowing they couldn’t spot him unless he stood.
So far, so good.
Now came the hard part.
He had to find Glisson, evade or dispose of the Terminator squad, locate an exit from the maze, and escape from Atlanta.
Was that all?
Blade reached a junction and crouched, wondering which way to go, when he heard the pad of a stealthy tread. He eased back, placed his palms on the floor, and peeked around the corner.
A Teminerator was rounding a corner on the right, his Fryer sweeping from side to side, alert and cautious.
Damn. The executioner must have seen him jump from the window!
Blade withdrew his head and rose, drawing his right Bowie. The silver suits worn by the Terminators were fireproof, but was the fabric impenetrable?
There was only one way to find out.
He clutched the hilt of the Bowie and counted slowly to ten, trying to gauge the Terminator’s position, hoping the range wouldn’t be too great.
As he girded himself to vault into the open, he received aid from an unexpected source.
The Storm Police had spotted him, and they saw the Terminator approaching the giant’s position.
“Look out!” the captain yelled from the window.
“There! In front of you!” another shouted.
Blade sprang into the passage, his right arm sweeping back.
Distracted by the calls from above, the Terminator was gazing at the Storm Police, the Fryer nozzle held near his knees.
Blade never gave the Terminator the opportunity to bring the Fryer into play. He tossed the Bowie from a distance of three yards, a maneuver he had practiced countless times at the Home on a variety of targets.
Whether he threw the knife by the hilt or the blade, he invariably hit his mark. And now, once again, he demonstrated why his reputation had spread far and wide.
The Bowie streaked through the air and sliced into the Terminator between the eyes, lodging in the narrow strip of fabric separating the tinted eyepieces, sinking to the hilt. A muffled, indistinct cry sounded as the Terminator staggered backwards, waving the Fryer wildly, then collapsed.
Blade reached the body in three strides, stooped, and yanked the Bowie out.
One down, three to go.
But where were they?
He bent over at the waist and jogged into the labyrinth. To reach one of the doors, not to mention finding Glisson, could entail hours of winding through the bewildering maze—unless he came up with a brainstorm. He could try slashing signs in the fireproof fabric covering the walls, but doing so would involve using time he couldn’t afford to spare. The Storm Police might not jump from the smashed window, but they would certainly regroup and descend to the maze chamber by whatever stairway connected the floors.
What to do?
Blade stopped and crouched, studying the walls all around him. They were only six feet in height, enabling him to gaze over them if he rose to his full stature. He could probably spot Glisson and the Terminators, but the doors would not be visible. Nor would the proper sequence of passages he needed to take to exit the maze be readily apparent.
No.
An extra foot wouldn’t make a difference.
But what about seven extra feet?
The insight brought a smile to his lips. Although the maze walls were six feet high, above them was a gap of thirty feet to the ceiling, undoubtedly designed to permit the Peers to view events from their room.
Would it work?
Blade straightened, replaced the right Bowie in its sheath, and climbed onto the rim of the wall. The silvery tops of the Terminators’ helmets were easy to spy. One was 40 yards to his right. The second was two dozen yards straight ahead. And the third was to his left, perhaps 20 feet off and moving away from him.
Glisson wasn’t in view.
What was the tramp doing? Hiding?
Blade cupped his hands to his mouth. “Glisson! Where are you?”
The three Terminators halted, their silver headpieces miniature islands of stark contrast in an ocean of brown walls.
There was no reply.
“Glisson!” Blade shouted. “It’s Blade! Where are you, you numbskull?”
From off to the right came a feeble response. “Blade? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me!” Blade assured the hobo. “Stand up so I can see you!”
Their silvery heads twisting every which way, the Terminators, obviously disconcerted by all the yelling, were attempting to figure out what was going on.
“If I stand up, the Terminators will fry my ass,” Glisson declared.
“If you want my help escaping from this maze, then you’d better stand up!” Blade said. “Right now!”
Glisson’s thatch of dark hair popped up, midway between the Warrior and a Terminator. “Where are you?”
“Never mind,” Blade answered. “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.” He glanced around and spied one of the Terminators, the one to his left, hastening toward him. He decided to act on his idea. Why should he travel through the maze, never knowing when he might bump into a Terminator, his sense of direction all askew, when he could take an alternate route?
On top of the walls!
Blade moved toward the tramp, his boots easily negotiating the six-inch-wide top of each wall, the fireproof material feeling slightly spongy underfoot. The passages seldom ran straight for any span, and he was compelled to follow a circuitous path to Glisson, constantly turning with the sharp angles of the walls.
“Where are you?” Glisson called out.
“Just don’t move,” Blade replied. He spotted a Terminator ahead and skirted wide of the assassin.
“Hey!” exclaimed a muted voice to his left. “The guy who came through the window is on one of the walls!”
Blade paused and scrutinized the maze.
A Terminator was staring at him from 30 feet away.
“Where are you?” Glisson said yet again.
The Warrior hurried, knowing the Terminators would be after him, and hoping they would be impeded by the labyrinth and unable to get within flamethrower range.
“You on the wall!” bellowed one of the Terminators.
“Who the hell is he?” demanded another.
“He must be part of the contest,” assumed the third.
“Should we switch to infrared?” asked the first Terminator.
“What for?” retorted the first. “So long as he stays on the walls, we can see him. And if he drops down, the damn metal in the walls will interfere with our Heat Vision sensors.”
Blade listened to their exchange with interest. Infrared? Their suits must incorporate a heat-tracking mechanism, a means of locking on the body heat generated by their quarry. He turned right, then took a sharp left, drawing ever nearer to Glisson.
The old-timer had finally seen the Warrior. He was gawking at Blade in frank astonishment.
“I’ve got him!” one of the Terminators cried.
Blade glanced to his right, and there was a Terminator running in pursuit, not more than 15 feet off but separated by two walls.