“And if I refuse?” Wolff said. “It is almost certain death for me with the water-dragons in the moat.”
“It will be certain death for you if you don’t.”
Wolff considered. He was the logical choice, he had to admit. The quality and relationship of the Yidshe was unknown to the gworl, so they could not let him go after the horn; he might fail to return. Kickaha was a prize second only to the horn. Besides, he was wounded, and the blood from the wound would attract the water-monsters. Wolff, if he cared for Kickaha, would return. They could not, of course, be sure of the depth of his feelings for Kickaha. That was a chance they would have to take.
One thing was certain. No gworl was about to venture into such deep water if he had someone else to do it for him.
“Very well,” Wolff said. “Let me loose, and I will go after the horn. But at least give me a knife to defend myself against the dragons.”
“No,” Ghaghrill said.
Wolff shrugged. After he was cut loose of the web-net, he removed all of his clothes except his shirt. This covered the cord wound around his waist.
“Don’t do it, Bob,” Kickaha said. “You can’t trust a gworl any more than his master. They will take the horn from you and then do to us what they wish. And laugh at us for being their tools.”
“I don’t have any choice,” Wolff said. “If I find the horn, I’ll be back. If I don’t return, you’ll know I died trying.”
“You’ll die anyway,” Kickaha replied. There was a smack of a fist against flesh. Kickaha cursed but did so softly.
“Speak any more, Kickaha,” Ghaghrill said, “and I will cut out your tongue. The Lord did not forbid that.”
XIV
WOLFF LOOKED up at the window, from which a torchlight still shone. He walked into the water, which was chilly but not cold. His feet sank into thick gluey mud which evoked images of the many corpses whose rotting flesh must form part of this mud. And he could not keep from thinking of the saurians swimming out there. If he was lucky, they would not be in the immediate neighborhood. If they had dragged off the bodies of Smeel and Diskibibol… Better quit dwelling on them and start swimming.
The moat was at least two hundred yards wide at this point. He even stopped at the midway point to tread water and turn around to look at the shore. From this distance he could see nothing of the group.
On the other hand, they could not see him either. And Ghaghrill had given him no time limit to return. However, he knew that if he were not back before dawn, he would not find them there.
At a spot immediately below the light from the window, he dived. Down he went, the water becoming colder almost with every stroke. His ears began to ache, then to hurt intensely. He blew some bubbles of air out to relieve the pressure, but he was not helped much by this. Just as it seemed that he could go no deeper without his ears bursting, his hand
plunged into soft mud. Restraining the desire to turn at once and swim upwards for the blessed relief from pressure and the absolutely needed air, he groped around on the floor of the moat. He found nothing but mud and, once, a bone. He drove himself until he knew he had to have air.
Twice he rose to the surface and then dived again. By now, he knew that even if the horn were lying on the bottom, he might not ever find it. Blind in the murky waters, he could pass within an inch of the horn and never know it. Moreover, it was possible that Smeel had thrown the horn far away from him when he had fallen. Or a water-dragon could have carried it off with Smeel’s corpse, even swallowed the horn.
The third time, he swam a few strokes to the right from his previous dives before plunging under. He dived down at what he hoped was a ninety-degree angle from the bottom. In the blackness, he had no way of determining direction. His hand plowed into the mud; he settled close to it to feel around, and his fingers closed upon cold metal. A quick slide of them along the object passed over seven little buttons.