“It’s a little confusing at first,” Yum’s voice came clear in Retief’s ears. “But you’ll get used to it.”
Retief looked around. The undulating surface of the weed mass stretched away into deep gloom, studded with waving fronds, stiff-branched trees of red-violet, orange and chartreuse coral, feathery banks of leafy undergrowth set with multi-colored flowers as big as dinner plates, among which moving lights sparkled and played.
“I’ll pace you, off to the left,” Yum said. “Move along with big, leaping strides. Anything your size except another Strider will give you a wide berth. If you see one, hit him fast. Aim for the mid-section. Now, if we pick up an Angel, you’ll notice the shadow first. Just keep moving; I’ll get under him and hit him where it hurts. When he turns, give it to him near the big red spot on his back. Got it?”
“How many rounds in this rifle?”
“Five in the magazine, and a spare magazine on your left shoulder.”
“How do we know there aren’t other hunters around? I’d hate to spear a friend of yours by mistake.”
“You’ll get a recognition tone in your phones if anybody gets within fifteen yards—maybe. That’s part of the game. I got a nice barb cut out of my left leg last year—some joker wanted a Big Mouth for cut bait.” Yum waved and flicked away. Retief picked an open avenue between towering corals and started off. Walking was not too difficult after the first few steps; rather like tramping the dusty surface of an asteroid, he reflected—except that the diving gear was considerably less bulky than a space suit.
There was a movement to Retief’s right. A tall biped stalked into view ten yards distant, barely visible in the glow of phosphorescence. Retief halted, brought the gun around. The newcomer moved on in great floating leaps. Retief turned to follow.
“Never mind the Strider,” Yum said. “He didn’t see you; must have just fed. We’ll work off to the right here and let him have this territory.”
Retief watched as the biped bounded off into the gloom, then moved on. Ahead, the darkness seemed deeper; a cow-sized creature with warts and glowing rings around wide eyes blundered past, rocking him with a surge of water. Tiny fish flashed past. The gloom deepened.
“Action!” Yum’s voice came, tense in the earphones. “Keep going; we’ve got a big one coming up to take a look . . .”
Retief twisted to look toward the depths, like a black sky in which a dark cloud moved. He went on.
“That’s the stuff, act like you don’t notice him; otherwise he’ll let fly with his musk, and we’ll be working in the dark . . .”
The shadow moved, spreading. All around, the scene darkened. A last sluggish sea-creature humped past, raising a trail of mud-fog.
“Hey,” Yum’s voice came. “He’s by-passing us, moving on . . .”
“Maybe he’s just not hungry tonight—”
“It’s that Strider we saw; he’s after him. Let’s go!”
Retief turned, saw a swirl of phosphorescence, jetted after it. The surface of the weed sloped, an inverted hill. Retief moved up beside Yum, following the immense shadow that fled across the rolling surface. The Strider came into view, leaping back toward the two hunters.
“Take him!” Yum barked. “I’ll get under the big boy . . .” He swirled away. Retief brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed—
A brilliant light flashed from the Strider’s chest. The creature reached, grabbing at its back . . .
“Hold it!” Yum’s voice snapped. “That’s no Strider . . . !”
The long greenish beam of the searchlight swung, flashing from coral trees, glowing through drifting mud-clouds.
“The damned fool! He’d better douse that light . . . !”
The Death Angel closed, like a hundred-foot blanket of black jelly settling in; the stranger backed, worked frantically to fit a magazine to his rifle, bringing it up—
The Angel struck; for a moment it hugged the surface of the weed, rippling its edges—then it heaved, recoiling violently—
“Good-O!” Yum yelled. “I planted one fair and square! Move in and hit the hot-spot, Retief, and we’ll be up half the night counting gold over a bottle of hundred-year yiquil!”
Retief hurled himself forward, kicked clear of the weed-bed, centered his sights on a foot-wide patch of luminous red at the center of the vast writhing shape, and fired, fired again, then went tumbling as the turbulence caught him and bowled him over.
* * *
Retief and Yum crouched by the prone body of the Angel’s victim.
“He’s a Terry, all right, Retief. I wonder what he was doing Underside—alone?”
“Probably a tourist, out to see the sights—though I hadn’t heard of any travelers registered with the consulate.”
“You may be right. We’re not far from the Tap Root; he was headed that way, and he seemed to know where he was going.”
Retief checked the man’s equipment, noted his pulse and respiration.
“He seems to be all right.”
“Sure. He just took a good jolt of current. We didn’t give the Big Boy a chance to get his shredding hooks into him.”
“We’d better take him up.”
“Sure—soon as we stone out our Angel, before the Big Mouths get him. There’s a Public Entry Well not far away; probably the one he used. We’ll just tow him along with us. He’ll be OK.”
The vast bulk of the Angel drifted fifty yards from the crowns of the coral trees. They swam to it, shooed off an inquisitive scavenger, moved around to the red spot on the expanse of black hide. A short spear stood, half its length buried dead center in the target. A second spear protruded a foot away.
Yum whistled. “You work close, Retief. Nice shooting.” He unclipped a slim-bladed knife, made an incision, plunged an arm into the rubbery body, brought out a lumpy organ the size of a grapefruit. He whistled again.
“This must be the beachmaster of all Angels! Look at the size of that pouch!” He slit the leathery bag carefully, dipped in two fingers and extracted a black sphere as big as a large grape.
“Retief, we make a great team! Look at those stones!”
“What do you use them for?”
“We grind them up and sprinkle them on our food. A great delicacy.”
“Yum, what’s this Tap Root you mentioned?”
“Eh? Why, its—well, it’s the root that supplies the Mat.”
“Just one—for all this weed?”
“Sure; it’s all one plant—the whole Mat.”
“I’d like to take a look at it. I can’t picture a Terry swimming around down here at the height of a storm, just to rubberneck—not unless it’s a pretty spectacular sight.”
“It doesn’t look like much; just a big, tough cable, running down into the Big Deep.” Yum tucked the pearls into a pouch clipped to his belt and led the way along the sloping weed surface, indicated a dark mass ahead.
“That’s it—back in that tangle of rootlets there. The Tap’s a hundred feet in diameter and over a mile long. It anchors the Mat, and feeds it, too.”
“Let’s take a closer look.”
Retief moved in among the waving rootlets.
“Say—what’s that?” Yum’s voice came over the earphones. Ahead, a large dark shape nestled among the entwining roots. Retief swam up alongside.
“It’s a scout boat—Terry design . . .” He swam to the entry port, found it locked. “Let’s reconnoiter a little, Yum.”
The two moved over the waving mass of rootlets, cruising beside the moss-grown, barnacled wall of the immense root. Retief caught a glimpse of a white object, fluttering in the dark water. He headed for it. It was a plastic tag, wired to a spike driven into the husk of the root. Below it hung a small box, metal covered, with an insulated cable projecting from one side.
“What is it? Who’d come here and tamper with the Root?” Yum asked, puzzled.
“It’s a detonator,” Retief said. “The cable is designed to plug into a packaged explosive charge—”
“Explosive! Here, by the Root?”
“How long would the weed last with the root cut?”
“Last? It wouldn’t last a day. You can cut a sprig of the weed, it crumbles in a matter of minutes. Oh, the fruit, leaves, husks, are tough enough—but the main mass would disintegrate like a sugar lump in a mug of hot roca.”
“Somewhere there’s a bomb to go with the detonator, Yum,” Retief said. “Probably aboard the boat. Our swimmer was on the way to get it, I’d guess. Let’s check him for keys.”
Yum fumbled over the limp body. “He’s clean, Retief. He must have lost them in the fight.”
“All right; let’s get him to the surface and see what he has to say . . .”
* * *
In the damp-smelling cavern of the Public Entry Well, Retief stood over the unconscious man. Water dripped from him, puddled on the heavy-duty rattan ramp that sloped up from the water. The attendant on duty came forward, clucked at the sight of the inert body.