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vital about the humans. It is something which makes the war senseless. You
must lis-ten. The humans  But before he could continue, the psychological
condi-tioning dreams began . . .He was standing on a dark plain. There were no
boundaries to either side, nor any ahead or behind him. He was the highest
point for a thousand miles. He stood upon a cushion of vines that tangled in
upon one another, concealing the real floor of the land.We are in an unknown
place, the conditioning chanter whispered. This is not the home of naoli . .
.He realized, for the first time, that there were animals in the spaces
between the vines, hiding beneath the sur-face. He could hear them rustling,
scampering about. He thought they must have long claws and sharp teeth, small
red eyes, poisonous venom. Though he did not see any evidence to support this
conception and did not know why he imagined them as beasts.Because they are
beasts, the chanter said.He felt their fingers at his feet, trying to topple
him. He knew that, if his face came close enough, they would shred it, go for
his vulnerable, green eyes.They are clever . . .He thought he felt one coming
out of the vines and starting up his leg. He kicked, tossed it free. He began
to run, though he found that when he moved his feet tended to slip between the
vines, down into the holes where the things waited . . .He fell, rolled,
gained his feet. There was blood run-ning down his face from where the claws
of a beast had struck in the split moment he had been down.There is no
running. They are everywhere. The naoli had to realize this. There could be no
running, for the beasts came wherever the naoli went.Slowly, he began to
realize that the beasts in the vines were really humans. The Phasersystem
increased his fear tenfold, fed him a host of anxiety patterns.The only thing
to be done was exterminate the beasts. Exterminate them or be murdered
ourselves . . .He found himself with a flamegun in his hands. He trained it on
the vines.Yellow-crimson fire leapt forward, flushed into the growth.The
beasts squealed below.They leaped into the open, Burning.They died.The vines
did not burn: a naoli only destroyed that which had to be destroyed.The beasts
did death dances on flaming toes, tongues lit, eyes turned to coals and then
gray ashes . . .And Hulann enjoyed it. He was grinning. Laughing now . . .. .
. and suddenly gagging.He choked, felt his stomachs contracting. The
condi-tioning dream had not been strong enough to counteract the truth he had
learned. The humans weren't vicious en-emies. They were basically as peaceful
as naoli. What should have been done was this: the Hunters should have been
pitted against the spacers. And the normal citizens of both races should have
been left to their gentle lives.The dreams were your last chance, Docanil said
through the Phasersystem. I did not agree to the flan. But others thought you
could be reached.Hulann said nothing. He opened the door and vomited on the
sand. When both stomachs were empty, he be-came aware of Docanil the Hunter
still speaking on the Phasersystem link.I am coming, Hulann. Please  I know
where you are. I come.Hulann broke his Phasersystem contact. He felt seven
hundred years old, in the last of his days. He was hollow, a blown glass
figurine, nothing more.The boy returned to the car, got in.  Well? Hulann
shook his head.He started the engine.The shuttlecraft moved forward, down the
rise into the great desert, on toward the Haven somewhere in the mountains of
the west . . .Half an hour later, Docanil the Hunter brought his copter down
on the same knoll where Hulann had stopped to contact him. He looked out
across the plain of sand and stone and cactus, grinning. A very, wide grin.
Some minutes later, he looked away, took out the maps, and looked them over.
Banalog watched him trace a route for a moment, then said,  Aren't we
following them?  No, Docanil said. But why?  There is no need.  You think the
desert will kill them?  No.  What then?  The naoli have some expensive and
effective weapons systems, the Hunter said.  But none more expensive or more
effective than the Region Isolator. Banalog felt the scales of his scalp
tighten painfully. The next two hundred miles was at the beginning of the war,
a major nuclear weapons stockpile for the hu-mans. An Isolator was dropped to
effectively cut the hu-mans off from the greatest number of their warheads. It
has not yet been dismantled. It will seek out any human life with its sensors,
engineer a weapon, and destroy that target. The boy, if he is not dead
already, will perish be-fore nightfall. Banalog felt ill. Then, what will
Hulann do? the Hunter mused.  I can hardly imagine. If they planned on going
to the Haven, that will be impossible. He could not get in with-out the boy's
aid. We will fly around the region affected by the Isolator. There is only one
highway exit. We will wait there to see if Hulann continues his journey. He
was grinning quite widely for a Hunter.
Chapter FifteenIn a glass bubble laced through with fire, the gnome danced,
its feet snarled in filaments of spun milk, millions of puppet strings
stretching away from it into invisibility. The creature was no larger than a
man's hand, but fired with the energy of multitudes. It spun and waltzed and
jigged with itself, flailing its tiny arms about, leaping and frolicking this
way and that until the transparent walls of its prison made it turn and twirl
in a new path. As it ca-vorted, it cackled and gibbered, laughed at its own
gems of humor, spoken in a tongue of nonsense and folly.The glass ball spun
slowly, slowly, as if the gnome were upon a revolving stage.He danced more
furiously than ever to a music that did not exist. He laughed and cackled and
whooped ex-plosively, stomping his tiny feet hard against the inside of his
prison. He began to whirl, standing on his toes like a ballet dancer, faster
and faster, his feet stamping smartly in a tight circle. His face flushed, and
perspiration rolled out of his flesh, beaded on his miniature forehead,
trickled down his doll's face. Still, he moved at an in-creasing pace until he
was all but a whirl.Then his flesh began to grow soft. His facial features
melted and ran together. He no longer had a nose or mouth. His eyes flashed
and dribbled down his face . . .He did not slow his pace. From deep within
him, the sound of his manic laughter continued though the lack of a mouth
denied the sound full egress. He bobbled, bounced, weaved, his smooth whirl
becoming more er-ratic as his feet and legs began to fuse and obliterate the
ankles.The glass sphere filled with licking green flames to re-place the warm
orange tongues that had been there.His arm fused with his side and ceased to
exist, except for a thumb which stuck out just below his last rib. A moment
later, the second arm disappeared as well.The emerald fire became
all-consuming: the gnome was reduced to a thick pudding within the glass, a
semi-living jell that gurgled and sloshed against the sides of the small
sphere and was, at last, silent . . .The Isolator regarded the glass ball,
juggling it on fingers of pure force. It began to shape the jell into an-other [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]