Dante continued walking, afraid to spend too much time examining his surroundings and simultaneously afraid that if he went too fast he could go right past September Morn.
"Virgil here. Still nothing."
"Ditto," said Barnes.
"Damn it!" said Dante. "We've only got seven or eight minutes left."
"I'm going as fast as I can," said Virgil. "It's not exactly a maze, but I still can't find any doors."
"Me neither," said Barnes. Then, suddenly: "Wait a minute! I think I've got something!"
"Where are you?" demanded Dante.
"About eighty feet from the west wall, and ten feet from the north wall. In the open—there doesn't seem to be a roof here."
It took Dante almost a minute to find it. Virgil arrived a few seconds later. Barnes was trying to move a circular slab of rock from where it sat on the ground.
"It's too perfect a circle," grunted Barnes. "Nature never made anything like that on a world like this."
Dante knelt down next to him. The two men strained to no avail, and then Virgil lent his strength, and finally the rock moved a bit, revealing a darkened chamber beneath it.
"Thank God!" said September Morn's voice.
"Hang on!" said Dante. "We'll have you out in a couple of minutes."
"Better make that less than a minute," said Virgil, his face flushed with the effort he was putting forth on the slab. "I've been counting."
The three men finally moved the slab about two feet. Then Virgil, the tallest of the three, lay on his belly and extended his arm down.
"Can you reach my hand?" he asked.
"I can't see," she said. "My eyes haven't adjusted to the light. Let me feel around."
There was a moment of tense total silence.
"Got her!" said the Indian suddenly. He began pulling her up, and suddenly stopped. "Give me a hand. I can't pull her any higher."
"Just don't let her go!" said Dante sharply, as he and Barnes stood over Virgil and slowly pulled his torso up until September Morn's hand was visible. Than Dante grabbed it and pulled her the rest of the way out, and a moment later she was standing next to them, a little weak and wobbly on her feet.
"I didn't think I'd ever see a human again," she said. Suddenly she smiled. "I'm too relieved even to cry."
"Are you strong enough to run?" asked Dante. "We haven't got much time."
"I don't know."
"Then I'll have to carry you." He picked her up. "Barnes, lead the way! Virgil, protect my back in case anything comes after us!"
"Where's the Tweedle?" she asked as Dante began running toward the ship.
"Let's hope he's hundreds of miles away," said Dante, as they raced out of the fortress.
When all four were inside the ship, he ordered the hatch to close, and then took off. He counted to 30 and pressed the yellow button that would lift Deuteronomy Priest's ship off the surface if it still existed.
"How did you manage it?" asked September Morn, still trying to focus her eyes.
"Mostly luck," answered the poet.
"Won't they be coming after us?" she asked.
"Not if things go according to plan," said Dante. "Computer, show us Kabal III on the viewscreen." He turned to her. "Can you see it?"
"Yes. My pupils are finally adjusting. I'd been down there a long time."
"Then keep an eye on the planet," said Dante.
And no sooner had he spoken than the Navy bombarded it with all the terrifying power at its disposal, and suddenly Kabal III was nothing but a spectacular light show. When the Navy left a few minutes later, nothing remained but a cloud of swirling dust.
"Is the Tweedle dead?" she asked.
"He's got to be."
"I wish I could believe that, but I don't know . . ." she said, shuddering at the thought of the creature. "It could be invulnerable to all that. For all we know, it's floating in space, already planning its revenge."
"He's dead," said Dante.
"How can you be so sure?"
"He had nostrils," said Dante. "I don't think any living being could stand up to that pounding, but even if he could, his nostrils means he has to breathe. There's no planet, which means there's no atmosphere. He's dead, all right."
"I never thought of that!" said Virgil.
"Of course not," said September Morn, staring at the poet with open admiration. "You're not Dante Alighieri."
42.
His mother was a cosmic wind,
His sire an ion storm.
His army charges straight from hell,
A filthy obscene swarm.
His shout can level mountains,
His glance can kill a tree,
His step can cause an earthquake,
His breath can boil the sea.
September Morn wrote this verse, because Dante Alighieri was much too busy to work on the poem. She imitated his style and rhymes, which were much more austere than her own lush, rich, metaphor-filled poetry, but she wrote an 8-line stanza to differentiate it from his work.
They had been back on Hadrian II for less than a day when word reached them that Wilson Tchanga, the Rough Rider, had been robbed and killed on his farm on Gingergreen II. Dante immediately sent for Virgil, who showed up in the poet's room a few minutes later.
"What's up?" asked the Indian.
"The Rough Rider's dead—murdered."
"Big deal," said Virgil. "From what I hear, he was over the hill anyway."
"As sensitive as ever," said Dante sardonically.
"I never met him," was Virgil's explanation.
"I don't care," said Dante. "I want you to get your ass out to Gingergreen II."
"What's on Gingergreen II?"
"That's where he lived."
"It's a waste of time," said Virgil. "Whoever killed him is long gone."
"Shut up and listen," said Dante. "I want you to go to Gingergreen and spread the word that Santiago robbed and killed the Rough Rider. I'm going to have Wilbur send you a hundred thousand credits, and I want you to bribe or buy three or four men who will swear they saw Santiago making his getaway from Tchanga's farm."
"What did Santiago look like?" asked Virgil. "Artificial arm or silver hair?"
"One of your men will swear he was tall, thin, and bearded. The second will say he was short, fat, and clean-shaven. And the third will claim he was an alien, eleven feet tall, with orange hair." Dante paused while Virgil assimilated his instructions. "If the locals won't put up a reward, put up one yourself. Make as much noise as you can, and when you're done on Gingergreen, hit every neighboring world with the story and the offer of the reward."
"How much should I offer?"
"It doesn't matter. Nobody's going to claim it."
"I don't understand any of this," complained Virgil.
"You don't have to understand it," sand Dante. "You just have to do it."