The witch children stood quietly beside him in their concealing shapes, glancing about with wary caution. Then came a softly hissed whisper: “Starkle!”
The head of the great black warrior figure against the right wall turned slowly until the sullen face seemed to stare at them. The arm holding the gun lifted , swung the weapon around, and pointed it in their direction. Then the figure was still again; but there was no question that the weapon was a real weapon, the warrior a piece of destructive machinery perhaps as dangerous as the Sheem Robot. Nor was it alone in covering them. Across from it, beside the black Lyrd-Hyrier image, a figure which seemed part beaked and long-necked bird, part many-legged insect, had moved at the same time, drawing back its head and turning the spear-tip of the beak towards them, a second weapon swiveled into position to bear on Moander’s uninvited visitors.
“Starkle!” muttered the grik-dog. “Double starkle!”
The Leewit didn’t mean the warrior and the birdthing with that because the grik-dog was staring straight ahead at the bronze monkey-figure which sat cross-legged on the black table. At first the captain could see no change there; then he realized the monkey’s mouth had begun to move and that faint sounds were coming from it … Double-starkle? Perhaps something familiar about those sounds….
Yes, he thought suddenly, that was Moander’s voice the monkey was producing-a miniaturized version of the brazen shouting which had followed the force-globe through the stronghold, the robot issuing its multilingual commands to the submachines…
“I am Moander!” a giant voice said slowly above them.
They looked up together. The voice had come from the direction of the head of the big idol shape. As they stared at it, the eye disks in the idol head turned red.
“I am Moander!” stated a shape at the far end of the row along the wall on the right.
“I am Moander!” said the shape beside it.
“ I am Moander … I am Moander … I am Moander …,” each of the shapes along the wall declared in turn, the phrase continuing to the end of the room, then shifting to the left wall and returning along it until it wound up with the shape which stood nearest the enthroned idol on that side. Then the monkey-shape, which had sat silent while this went on, turned its eyeless head around to the captain.
“I am Moander and the voice of Moander!” the tiny voice told him and the witch sisters, and the blind head swung back towards the bundle of pipes the shape held in one hand.
“Yes,” said the big idol voice. “I am Moander, and each of these is Moander. But things are not as they seem, witch people! Look up-straight up!”
They looked. A section of Manaret’s surface showed in the great screen on the ceiling again, and on it, seen at an angle from here, stood Moander’s stronghold. Even at such a distance it looked huge and massively heavy, the sloping sides giving the impression that it was an outcropping of the shipplanet’s hull.
“The abode of Moander the God. A holy place,” said the idol’s voice. “Deep within it lies Moander. About you are Moander’s thoughts, Moander’s voice, the god shapes which Moander in his time will place on a thousand worlds so that a thousand mortal breeds may show respect to a shape of Moander… But Moander is not here.
“Do not move. Do not speak. Do not force me to destroy you. I know what you are. I sensed the alien klatha evil you carry when you came out of time. I sensed your appearance was not your shape. I sensed your minds blocked against me, and by that alone I would know you, witch people!
“I listened to your story. If you were the innocent mortals you pretended to be, you would not have been taken here. You would have gone to the breeding vats in Manaret to feed my faithful Nuris, who always hunger for more mortal flesh.
“My enemies are taken here. Many have stood where you stand before the shape of Moander. Some attempted resistance, as you are attempting it. But in the end they yielded and all was well. Their selves became part of the greatness of Moander, and what they knew I now know…”
The voice checked abruptly. The monkey-shape on the black table, which again had been sitting silently and unmoving while the idol spoke, at once resumed its tiny chatter. And now it was clear that the device in its hand was a transmitter through which Moander’s instructions were sent to the stronghold, to be amplified there into the ringing verbal commands which controlled the stronghold’s machinery. The small shape went on for perhaps forty seconds, then stopped, and the voice which came from the great idol figure resumed in turn,
“But I cannot spare you my full attention now. In their folly and disrespect, your witch kind is attacking Tark Nembi in force. I believe you were sent through time to distract me. I will not be distracted. My Nuris need my guidance in accomplishing the destruction of the world I have cursed. Their messages press on me. “
It checked again. The small shape spoke rapidly again, paused.
“… press on me,” the idol’s voice continued. “My control units need my guidance or all would lapse into confusion. The barriers must be maintained. Manaret’s energies must be fed the Nuris to hold high the attack on Karres the Accursed.
“I cannot give you much attention, witch people. You are not significant enough. Open your minds to me now and your selves will be absorbed into Moander and share Moander’s glory. Refuse and you die quickly and terribly-“
For the third time it broke off. The monkey-shape instantly piped Moander’s all-units signal, “Grazeem! Grazeem! Grazeem!, “ at the device it held and rattled on. Holding his breath, the captain darted a sideways glance at his witches, found them staring intently at him. The Sprite nodded, very slightly. The grik-dog crouched. The captain reached for it as it sprang up at him, noticed it dissolved back into the Leewit as he caught it. He didn’t notice much else because he was sprinting headlong towards the black table and the talkative monkey-shape with the Leewit by then. But there were metallic crashings to right and left, along with explosive noises…
The monkey had stopped talking before he reached the table, sat there cross-legged and motionless. Its metal jaw hung down, twisted sideways; the arm which held the transmission device had come away from the rest of it and dropped to the table top. There was renewed crashing farther down the room, Goth was still at work. The captain swung the Leewit up on the table, grasped the detached metal arm and held the transmitter before her. She clamped both hands about it and sucked in her breath.
It wasn’t exactly a sound then. It was more like, having an ice-cold dagger plunge slowly in through each eardrum. The pair of daggers met in the captain’s brain and stayed there, trilling. The trilling grew and grew.
Until there was a noise nearby like smashing glass. The hideous sensation in his head stopped. The Leewit, sitting on the table beside the frozen, slackjawed monkey-shape, scowled at the shattered halves of the transmitting instrument in her hands.
“Knew it!” she exclaimed.
The captain glanced around dizzily as Goth came trotting up, in her own shape. The rows of figures along the wall were in considerable disarray; machines simply weren’t much good after a few small but essential parts had suddenly vanished from them. The black warrior’s face stared sternly from a pile of the figure’s other components. The birdinsect’s head dangled beak down from a limp neck section, liquid fire trickling slowly like tears along the beak and splashing off the floor. The big idol’s eye disks had disappeared and smoke poured out through the holes they’d left and wreathed about the thing’s head.
The ceiling screen wasn’t showing Moander’s stronghold at the moment, but a section of Manaret’s surface was sliding past. The structure should soon be in view. The captain looked at the Leewit. She must have held that horrid whistle of hers for a good ten seconds before the transmitting device gave up! For ten seconds, gigantically amplified, destructive non-sound had poured through every section of the stronghold below.
And every single simple-minded machine unit down there had been tuned in and listening-
“There it comes! “ murmured Goth, pointing.
Faces turned up, they watched the stronghold edge into sight on the screen. A stronghold no longer, jagged cracks marked its surface, and puffs of flaming substance were flying out of the cracks. Farther down, its outlines seemed shifting, flowing, disintegrating. Slowly, undramatically, as it moved through the screen, the titanic construction was crumbling down to a mountainous pile of rubble.
The Leewit giggled. “Sure messed up his holy place!” Then her head tilted to the side; her small nostrils wrinkled fastidiously.