"I am the last of my kind," said the Tweedles. "All the others died in warfare or of disease or old age. I alone have survived, for I alone have learned how to release my doppelganger, and by freeing him I have freed all the powers that lay dormant within myself and every other member of my race. Together there is nothing we cannot do. Does the terrain hurt your tender feet? Then behold."
The Tweedles moved their left arms in a theatrical gesture, and suddenly the ground between the fortress and the ship was totally flat.
"Do you peer in the darkness with dilated pupils?" continued the Tweedles.
Suddenly the area was bathed in light, so bright that the humans had to squint to adjust to it.
"Perhaps you shiver with the cold."
Another gesture, and suddenly the temperature was a pleasant 22 degrees Celsius.
"We would change the gravity and the atmosphere, but it would deleteriously affect you after the various medications that we see you have taken into your body." They smiled at him. "Do you still wish to match your strength and skills against ours?"
"All I've seen are some parlor tricks," said Silvermane, trying his best to sound unimpressed. "You could have rigged them all before we arrived. But if you will produce the woman and turn her over to me, and promise never to bother her or her planet again, I will leave in peace."
"Is he crazy?" whispered Virgil to Dante.
"He's bluffing," answered the poet just as softly.
"You can't bluff these two," said Moby Dick, who had just joined them seconds ago. The albino was panting heavily from his exertions.
"You are a very courageous being. But we have killed courageous beings before."
"You've never faced Joshua Silvermane before," said the tall man.
"Moby Dick was right," muttered Dante. "He'll never be Santiago."
"Makes no difference," whispered Virgil. "They're going to kill him no matter what name he gives them."
Silvermane aimed the imploder at the being on his left. The weapon hummed with power, but had no effect.
He instantly dropped the imploder, drew his pistols and began emptying them, one into each of the Tweedles.
The bullets didn't pass through them, for the Tweedles weren't transparent images with no substance. The bullets entered them, left discernable entry holes, but had no more effect that the imploder. Their bodies simply absorbed whatever he threw at them.
Then each of the being slowly raised an arm. Nothing more than that. But Silvermane dropped to his knees, obviously in agony. The pistols dropped from his hands and clattered noisily on the rocky ground.
The one on the left made a sudden gesture, and blood began pouring out of Silvermane's ears. He staggered to his feet to face his attackers. The one on the right slowly closed his hand into a fist, and Silvermane clawed at his chest, as if the alien were squeezing his heart.
Finally, with one last effort that took all his remaining strength, Silvermane pulled a knife out of his boot and hurled himself at the creature on his right—and froze in mid-air, his body suspended four feet above the ground, his knife hand extended, his perfect face filled with hatred. The two creatures made one final gesture in unison, and Joshua Silvermane fell to the ground, headless. His head wasn't severed; it simply vanished. His body twitched once or twice, then lay still as bright red blood gushed out of it.
"Jesus!" muttered Dante. "Did you ever see anything like that?"
"Only during bad trips," answered Virgil, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene.
Moby Dick stepped forward. "I tried to warn him," said the albino.
"That is because you are a rational being, and hence a coward. It stands to reason that you could not dissuade this Silvermane, who was a brave and hence irrational being, from confronting us."
"That's not quite the way I would have worded it," said Moby Dick.
"How you would have worded it is of no interest to us." The creatures turned toward Dante and Virgil. "Who are you, and why are you here?"
"I am a friend of September Morn," said Dante. "I want to be sure that she is in good health, and is being well-treated."
"I'm with him," added Virgil.
"She is healthy."
"May I see her?"
"No. We will permit you to gather your companion's body and leave Kabal III with it. You may not return."
"Before we do, I have a question," said Virgil.
All eyes turned to him.
"Which of you is Tweedledee and which is Tweedledum, and how can I tell you apart?"
"We did not choose those names."
"I'd like to know anyway, just out of curiosity."
"Your curiosity is of no concern to us."
And, as quickly and easily as they had split in two, they now joined in a fraction of a second and became simply the Tweedle once more.
"What do you propose to do with September Morn?" persisted Dante.
"We will give Hadrian II 20 Galactic Standard days to ransom her for five billion credits."
"That's a lot of money," said Dante. "What if they can't come up with it?" "Then we shall kill her."
40.
He felt the call to serve his God,
His indiscretions quickly ceased.
Now sinners all are threatened by
Deuteronomy Priest.
"Do you get the feeling we're back where we started?" asked Virgil, as he sat in the Fat Chance with Dante and Moby Dick, sipping a drink and watching a trio of Canphorites squabbling over the result of a nearby jabob game. "We don't have a Santiago, we don't have September Morn, Dimitrios is dead, and who the hell knows where Matilda is? Maybe we should have anointed Tyrannosaur Bailey and let it go at that. Look at the time we could have saved."
"Shut up," said Dante.
"Every time I've opened my mouth since we got here you've told me to shut up," complained Virgil.
"I'm thinking."
"Leave him alone," said Moby Dick. "Your friend's at his best when he's thinking."
"I don't notice that thinking's done us any good," said Virgil.
"That's because you're a fool," said the albino.
"Could be," agreed Virgil. "But what gives you the right to say so?"
"You've still got an organization. You've got millions of credits. You've got a couple of hundred operatives. And from what I can tell, you've eliminated two unsuccessful candidates for the top job. That's not bad for six or eight months, or however long the poet's been out here."
"We're not in the business of eliminating Santiagos," said Virgil. "We're trying like all hell to find one."