Troy snapped the stunner, aiming for the difficult point of that bony yellow wrist. A head target would have been best—but even as he blacked out under the bolt, Zul could still have triggered his blaster. Now the numbing beam struck the curled fingers with better success than Troy had dared to hope for. Zul cried out with the shock and surprise, his voice thinned by rocky echoes. The blaster spun from his deadened fingers. Grabbing for it with his other hand, he lost his hold on the tube.
When Troy thumbed for a second stunner shot, the release light did not spark. Charge exhausted! He sprang into the open, running for the blaster. Zul was down on his knees, his numbed hand folded up against his chest, the other within fingertip reach of the blaster grip. Troy swung a boot toe forward, kicked the blaster away from Zul but out of his own path also.
Zul was well-versed in rough-and-tumble. The hand that had been straining for the blaster grip struck out at Troy’s ankle, fingers raked across his boot, sending him enough off balance to stagger a step or two beyond the smaller man. Horan brought up against one of the rock pillars with force enough to awaken the pain in his old bruises, and clawed about breathlessly just in time to face death.
Erupting from his half crouch, the blade of a knife glinting in the sun, Zul came at him. Troy knew his attack would end in the vicious up-cut that would finish the fight and him in one skilled stroke if he could not counter it. He was no knife fighter and Zul was.
But Zul’s right hand was numbed and perhaps he was awkward with the left. There was only that one small chance. Troy swerved and struck for Zul’s head with the barrel of the stunner. The jar of that blow getting home was followed by a thud against his own ribs, so sharp and painful as to bring a yelp of agony out of him.
Zul staggered against the rock, recoiled, and slumped to the ground. Troy, hands pressed to his side, needed the support of the pillar or he would have joined him. He looked down, expecting to see the hilt of the blade projecting from his flesh. But on the ground at his feet lay the knife snapped in two pieces, and there was a line of welling red on his arm above and below the strange wristlet he had brought out of Ruhkarv. Dazed, he watched the blood gather and drip, realizing tardily that a super-steel blade meeting that red band had been broken like a stick of dead wood and that, thanks to the bracelet, he was still alive.
Holding his arm pressed tightly to his side to slow the flow of blood, Troy stooped over Zul. The yellow man lay limply on the ground but he was still breathing.
“Behind you—“
Troy tried to turn, tripped on Zul’s outflung arm, and went to his knees, so saving his life, for he towered just beyond the searing edge of a blaster beam. He coughed in the ozone stench of the discharge. Then, obeying the instinct of self-preservation, he rolled across the ground, sick with the torment of his side and arm, gaining cover behind another rock pillar. So Zul had at least one companion. And disarmed and wounded, Troy would now be hunted down, with all the advantages on the side of the hunter.
In his desire to hide, Troy knew of only one place—the depths of Ruhkarv. Its evil reputation might slow up pursuit, give him a breathing space. If he could only have reached the blaster he had stunned out of Zul’s hand! But there was no chance to hunt for that now—not with a sniper ready to fry him if he ventured into the open.
“The depths,” he thought fuzzily, trying to contact the animals, sure that they had scattered into hiding when he had broken Zul’s spell-binding with the tube.
The tube! With that in Zula’s or another’s hands the fugitives had no chance at all. Troy looked about him a little widlly. There it lay—one end projecting beyond a stone. To leave that intact meant disaster. Horan hunted for a weapon—any kind of weapon.
He chose a stone block detached from a nearby dome, of a size to fit his hand. And he hurled it—to strike hard and true. Under its impact the tube cracked, the end shattered, past any repair, he trusted. Their luck had held—this far.
Then, his throbbing arm tight against his chest, Troy scuttled away, expecting every moment to see the flash of another blaster beam or feel his flesh crisp under the beam he did not see.
Somehow he made it, falling rather than running into the open mouth of the ramp up which they had come hours before with such hope. And that beam he had been anticipating struck as he fell and rolled down the inside slope. He saw the brilliant, eye- searing flash and heard the crackle as it lapped stone. Then he was beyond its reach, only aware that somehow he was still alive, if badly battered.
Would his tracker come boldly on? Troy tried to listen. He could not see well; his eyes were still dazzled by the last shot. What he did hear was the return of the flitter, or else another flyer. And that might have provided a signal of sorts, for dark shapes flowed over the edge of the ramp above, visible only for a second or two against the circle of the daylight. The animals were on their way to join him.
Together they retired to the first level of corridors and there paused. There was no sound from above. Had the rangers’ scout seen the activity in the ruins and landed to investigate? Troy knew that he had left Zul partially stunned but still able to join the chase. If he only had the blaster that the other had dropped in their first encounter—
“It is here.”
Sahiba! Troy dared for an instant to snap on the atom torch. The gray-blue cat, her splinted leg held at an awkward angle, was half lying, half sitting, close to him, and next to her was her mate. And in front of Simba rested the weapon Troy had longed for. He caught it up, feeling the dampness of the cat’s mouth- carry on the slender barrel, checking the charge. That was less than a third expended. Now he could defend them.
“They come.” That was Sargon.
“How many?” Troy demanded.
“One—there are others—still above—“
One. Zul, or the unseen with the blaster? Troy eyed the corridors issuing from the ramp, then flashed off his torch. To venture blindly along any of those might be to lose oneself entirely. Better the dangers he knew than a new host, especially with the hunt behind, for Troy was certain that Zul was not going to give up. And he tried to plan ahead. Perhaps in that tangled jungle below he could find the means of turning tables on the other.
There was the problem of water and food. His bag of supplies had been abandoned in the open. But there was water below, and perhaps food, if he was not dainty. He knew that the animals had found edible prey in the fungoid cavern.
“Down!” He picked up Sahiba, unsealing the front of his tunic and settling the cat into an improvised carrying bag, which left his good arm free. The cuts on his left forearm had stopped bleeding, but he feared to use it freely lest they begin to -ooze again.
Though no sounds save his own breathing, the faint scurrying that marked the going of the animals, and the thin click of his boots reached his ears, Troy’s scouts assured him that the pursuit was still in progress as they retreated to the level of the next set of corridors and on back to the haunted wilderness cavern. He went without the torch, feeling his way, and now the pallid seep of light below marked their goal.
When he dropped from the foot of the ramp, Troy discovered the weird daylight was again in effect. Perhaps it was true sunlight beamed through some unknown process of Ruhkarv’s builders into this hollow. There was a line of clouds discharging their burden of rain, and Troy dodged to a dry space beyond. He came against the rock wall where a filament of gray- white stuff clung, and his shoulder brushed against it—to adhere so that he had to jerk to free himself.
That was one of the web cords—strung all the way from the opening—which had made a fatal trap for Fauklow’s man.
With the glimmering of an idea, Troy examined the length carefully. He discovered that it was not plastered to the stone surface along its entire side, as he had first feared, but attached at intervals by thicker portions. Thrusting his blaster into his belt, he pried between two of those buttons and, either because the cord was old or because it had never been meant to grip too tightly except at those points, he freed a loop.