by Unknown
Mary-Mary was ready to die.
She felt a stirring in the room. Faintly, imperceptibly, from the wall vents, a soft current of air probed at her.
Mary-Mary shivered.
The storm had begun.
Logan fought the rage that was consuming him. It required a full exertion of will for him to remain a reasoning, thinking man and not a beast bent on slaughter. He fought against an overwhelming impulse to plunge out of the caverns, Fuser in hand, and blast his way to Gant. I'd never reach him, Logan told himself; they'd burn me down before I was ten steps into the light.
Every Sandman in Crazy Horse envisions me dead under his Gun; that sight lives behind their eyes. Gant's reward for my death must, by now, be very great indeed.
Yet he could not hide like a frightened mole in these caves while Gant destroyed the girl who'd saved his life, who'd brought him Jessica…
The man, not the beast, would go forth.
But go forth he must!
They were on a thick shelf of rock with a clear view of the large, circular structure just ahead. Without Mary-Mary, Logan was dependent on Jessica's limited knowledge of Gant's mountain stronghold.
"And you're certain that's it?"
"Yes," said Jessica. "Gant keeps them all locked up there between work shifts."
"Communications?"
"There's a vidphone connecting the prison area directly to Gant's personal quarters."
"Good," nodded Logan. "Who's in charge of the cells?"
"Steratt. You saw him leave."
"How many Sandmen are usually in there?"
"Three. One just inside the door. One patrolling the cellblock. Another on the vid-deck. There may be more now."
"I doubt that Gant would use extra men here," said Logan. "This is the last place he'd expect me to be." She looked hard into his eyes; her own were glistening. "Just remember that I love you," she said softly.
"You think I'll never come out…That we won't—?"
"I love you," she repeated.
And he kissed her. Boldness was Logan's last hope. No cat-stalking, no stealthy penetration. No time for subtle moves now. Bold action remained to him, and that alone.
He reached the outer door as Jessica melted back into the shadows. With the butt of his Fuser he banged loudly on the metal. A Sandman's sharp voice from inside: "Who is it?"
"Who do you think it is? It's me, Steratt! Open the damn door. My key's with Gant."
Logan held his breath, the Fuser poised in his hand. He had heard Steratt's voice many times from the caverns, and his imitation was convincing. Muffled by the double thickness of the metal door, it might pass.
His heart jumped; the door was opening.
In the flicker of an eye Logan had the guard by the throat. A quick snap—and his head rolled loosely. Logan allowed the body to spill out along the floor as he pulled closed the massive, self-locking door. He quickly stripped the body, putting on the guard's gray uniform. He pulled the cap low over his eyes, walked casually toward the cellblock.
Twenty feet…fifteen feet…ten…
"I thought Steratt was coming with you," said the second guard, peering down at Logan from his station on the block.
"I come alone," said Logan—and fired straight up at the man.
He didn't wait to see him die, he spun like a dancer in the direction of the vid-deck, leveled his weapon at the third Sandman. Logan's voice cracked across the chamber: "Gun on the deck! Quick!" Logan could hear the murmur of excited voices from the cells lining the block.
"What's happened?"
"I don't know!"
"Guard's been killed!"
"Who? Who did it?"
"Must be Logan!"
"Logan's here!"
The name ran the cells like a chant: Logan…Logan…Logan…
He was on the vid-deck now, his weapon covering the guard. "Give me the block keys."
"Can't," said the man. His face was pearled with fear-sweat as he looked at the death in Logan's hand.
"Why can't you?"
"Cells are set to open automatically at shift-time, when the crews are changed. Only Gant can open them between shifts."
"Then get him on the vid." Logan's eyes were blood-fired. "Call him over."
"He won't come," protested the guard. "What can I tell him?"
"Tell him you have word of Logan—that you think you know where to find me, but that you want to lead him there yourself, alone, so that no one else can claim the reward."
"He'll never believe that! And if he did he'd bring a dozen men!"
"Your life depends on what he believes," said Logan. "He wants me dead by his hand. That's Gant's prime passion…He'll want to believe what you tell him. And personal greed is a thing he understands. He'll come."
The guard, still sweating, turned to the vidphone.
FLAMER
Gant keyed the outer door, stepped quickly inside.
His step was light. There was an exultation in him. Somehow, this fool guard had discovered Logan's hiding place; the how of it didn't matter. No one would come up with such a story unless it were true. What could it gain the man to lie? No one lied to Gant about Logan; no one would be mad enough to try.
It was true, then: Logan 3 was once again within his grasp. And this time nothing on Earth could keep Gant from killing him.
He felt like singing!
But wait…
He stopped, eyes narrowed. Where was the inner guard? Gant swept his gaze to the upper cellblock.
No guard there either.
A trap!
"You wanted me. I'm here," said a voice from the shadows.
And Logan stepped into the light, a Fuser aimed at Gant's head. The dark man could not speak; his throat muscles worked convulsively in the shock of this meeting.
"Your Gun…let it fall," said Logan.
Gant hesitated, glancing toward the vid-deck.
"No guards to help. They're all dead. Do it."
The holstered Gun thumped the floor.
"Now—the central block key. Give it to me."
"I don't have it."
"I won't ask twice." Logan raked the side of Gant's head with the Fuser's barrel. Blood pulsed on the tall man's ripped cheek. He handed over the key.
"All right," said Logan, "walk ahead of me. Fast."
They moved toward the block.
Behind Gant, Logan said, "What have you done with Mary-Mary?"
"She's alive."
"Where?"
"In a cell. Main building."
"She's in the stormroom, isn't she?"
Gant said nothing.
"After I free the workers we're going there. If she's dead you'll wish you were…and you'll be a long time dying." After his call to Gant the guard had jumped Logan. A foolish move. But, in killing him, Logan's shot had severed the vid-line. Meaning that there was no way to force Gant to cancel the storm that must, even now, be battering Mary-Mary.
The thought of the girl's anguish distracted Logan for the split-second it took Gant to feint left and kick the Fuser from his enemy's hand. Logan surged at Gant. But, like a great dark cat, the man had whipped back—to palm a wall switch.
Instantly, a series of mirror-bright steeloid panels dropped from above, sealing Logan within a circular area perhaps thirty feet across. A final panel slid over the others to form a dome above his head. Leaving him blind and alone.
Outside, the triumphant voice of Gant: "Another of my inventions, Logan…in case I had to discipline one of my workers. And really quite imaginative…Watch!"
The blackness grew less intense as the circular walls surrounding Logan began to glow. Heat began to sweat Logan's skin; the panels glowed a furious blue-orange. The heat was stifling.
This place was an oven—an immense human cookery, in which Gant literally roasted his victims! Logan bellied flat, knowing the heat would rise, giving him a partial respite from the worst of it. But his gesture was futile. Each breath he took scalded his lungs. His eyes burned
. He'd be dead soon enough, his flesh blistered and curled to ash.
Gant's final revenge.
Logan's thoughts reeled in confusion: the heat seemed to be lessening, not increasing!
The glow slowly faded from the walls. Darkness returned.
And with it, the voice of Gant: "You didn't think I'd let you die in there, did you, Logan? And cheat myself of watching your finish? No, that would never do. Not after all we've been through together."
What was next? What new torture had Gant devised?
"I'm coming in, Logan. To watch you die. But under my hand. I don't want one of my inventions to finish you. That pleasure I reserve for myself."
And a panel slid back. Light flooded the circular area.
Logan squinted, saw Gant standing with a Flamer in his jeweled hand.
"You were using one of these in your clumsy attempt to destroy my beautiful Core. Now it's only appropriate that I use it to destroy you."
And the panel whispered shut, killing the light.
Logan and Gant were together in darkness.
DUEL
On the rock shelf, Jessica waited.
Logan had told her he would need her help if he managed to free the workers. Until then, all she could do was await some sign of his success.
It did not come.
She'd seen Gant enter the prisoners' compound alone, and assumed that Logan was responsible for his appearance—but no one had come out. Not Logan. Not Gant. Not the workers. What had happened inside the compound?
Logan knew that the first rule of fighting in the dark is not to be where your enemy expects you to be. Therefore, as the steel panel was sliding closed, killing the light, Logan was in swift motion,
catapulting himself across ten feet of flooring. A long bloom of yellow-green flame told him he'd been correct—as Gant aimed at the spot where Logan had been standing. The fire lit the chamber for a brief instant, showing Gant Logan's new position.
Again, he triggered the Flamer.
And, again, Logan was gone. A dry chuckle from the darkness. "I could make this an easy kill," Gant's voice declared. "In one hand, the Flamer, in the other a flashbeam. To pick you out, Logan. To reveal you in the dark…" The chuckle was repeated. "But that would be too simple. There would be no joy in it. I want our little…contest to last. I want to enjoy burning you to ash."
In one way, Gant was wrong. Even with a flashbeam, spotting Logan's exact position within the circle would be difficult—since the polished curving-steel panels acted like a hundred mirrors, casting back a multiplicity of images in their reflective surfaces.
If Logan kept moving…
His foot caught on a panel projection; he stumbled. Instantly, a blade of flame jabbed at him. He rolled away from the heat blast, his right leg singed, the cloth burnt away to raw skin.
"Close, eh, Logan?" the taunting voice asked him. "Since I've been reworking the Thinker I've become quite adept in the use of a Flamer. As you are discovering!"
The voice never came from the same spot of darkness long enough for Logan to get a fix on it. Gant knew he'd come for him if he had a stationary target. So each man kept circling, kept fluid…waxy,
alert…
Logan was weaponless. Just his bare hands against the kill-power of a Flamer. Gant had called this a contest. No contest; an execution.
Then Logan realized Gant had stopped moving. Logan froze, locking his muscles, stopping the breath in his lungs.
Gant was motionless, listening.
Logan, too. Motionless.
Can he hear the pounding of my heart? Logan wondered. It sounded, within his body, as loud as a hammered drum.
The silence grew, became intolerable.
Logan's mouth was dry; he wanted desperately to swallow—but the faint sound would draw Gant's fire as surely as a shouted word.
His right leg was aching terribly; the flesh, from thigh to ankle, throbbed with stinging pain. Logan had to shift the leg, ease it. Didn't want to. Shouldn't. But…
Had to.
Gant fired.
Flame ate at Logan, his writhing body mirrored and multiplied a thousand times in the sudden heatglow. It had not been a direct hit. Had it been, he'd be dead at this moment. But, instinctively, he'd twisted his torso sideways and rolled with the flame as its cutting edge assaulted him.
From the blackness, Gant roared his delight. "Taste the fire, Logan! Taste its sting!…There's no more running for you. No Sanctuary to reach. No Jessica. No Ballard alive to help you…"
He was saying more, taunting Logan in a triumphant, mocking voice. Gant began to laugh, and in so doing made one vital mistake: he forgot to keep moving.
Logan had slipped the belt from his tunic, fisting it tight at each end. He launched himself at the sound of Gant's laughter, in a collision of flesh…
A shocked, strangled gasp burst from the tall man as Logan's body bore him floorward. The Flamer was knocked, spinning, into darkness.
"Damn you!" cried Gant, his huge hands at Logan's throat.
He had the strength of ten; he was truly a giant, superbly conditioned, a fighting machine of awesome capability—fired with hatred for this tenacious enemy who continued to plague him, who dared, even now, to physically attack him.
He would crush the life from Logan!
He's killing me! I'm getting dizzy. Mind's blanking. Can't breathe!
But Logan broke the hold. Using his feet, he snap-kicked free, twisted, looped the narrow belt around the giant's thick neck, applied fierce pressure.
Gant fought him. For a long moment it was impossible to say which man had the greater advantage. Two ex-Sandmen, trained to kill, masters of their craft. Each driven to hate, each determined to end the other's life.
Abruptly, Gant's hands fell away from Logan. He beat the floor with the flat of his palms—as a panicked bird beats its feathers under the hawk.
The great dark hands went slack; the fingers curled, twitched, fluttered. And did not move again.
Gant was dead.
ROUT
She saw him!
"Logan!"
"Jess!"
Workers were flooding out of the cells, arming themselves with Flamers, metal clubs, stones…rushing toward the door which Logan had opened wide.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to face Gant," she said, trembling, holding him. "When you didn't come out…when no one came out…I thought he'd killed you!"
"It's Gant who died," he told her. "Now do as I said. I'm going after Mary-Mary."
Nodding, she vanished off into a twist of cavern gloom.
Evans 9 got the word first: Breakout. Main block. All the cells emptied.
Where were the guards?
And where was Gant?
No matter. Evans could handle a ragtag band of half-starved workers. He needed a bit of excitement; things had been dull since Logan's escape. He was probably hopelessly lost by now in the caverns, and Jessica with him. Without Mary-Mary they'd have no chance.
Evans was at the vidphone. "Which way are the workers headed?"
The vid gave no reply; the image screen was blank. A malfunction was annoying at a time like this. Evans strapped on his Gun, stuffed an extra Fuser into his belt, left the unit.
Steratt and the others were outside, battle-assembled, ready to move against the escapees. Evans smiled. His men would grind the rebels underfoot. A mere flexing of Sandman muscle.
It would be amusing.
Logan was at the door of the storm chamber. Through the thick metal walls he could hear the hurricane roaring inside.
"Kill it," he said to the control-tech in front of him, his Fuser jabbing the man's back.
The tech mouthed fear-words, palmed a primary switch on the weatherboard.
The storm died.
"Door," snapped Logan. "Get it open."
The tech did that.
Logan clubbed him aside and vaulted into the room.
She was alive.
"There!" s
houted Evans, pointing. "There they are."
Steratt and the Sandmen advanced toward the workers. A narrow stretch of rock tunnel separated the two groups.
The Sandmen moved into the tunnel, Guns ready.
The workers halted, seemed confused. They murmured among themselves.
"The poor fools aren't even firing at us," grinned Steratt. "Maybe they think we'll make it easier on them if they give up now."
"Too bad," sighed Evans, his Gun raised. "I was actually looking forward to—"
He didn't finish.
Evans and Steratt and the entire group of advancing Sandmen were buried in a sudden, crushing downfall of rock…huge boulders loosed in deadly profusion by willing hands from above. Under the personal direction of Jessica 6.
The tunnel was still.
Not a shot had been fired, yet the battle had been won.
COUNTDOWN
Fennister simply could not believe it, could not accept the fact that it had all happened so quickly, that one man and one woman had routed Gant's army, had freed the workers and turned his universe upside down.
"My whole reason for existence here, for months, has been to make the Thinker live again," he said to Logan. "And now you want me to let it die?"
"No," said Logan, "not let it die. I want you to destroy it. Totally. So it can't be revived again, by anyone. No more rule-by-computer. Ever."
"But with Gant dead…you and I…we could use it, for the good of man, not his enslavement."
"There's no good in it," said Logan.
Fennister shook his head.
"And if there was," Logan continued, "who's to say how long we'd control it? Every power-hungry maniac in the world would be licking his chops over the thought of running it. No, Fennister, the Thinker has to die."
They were in the scientist's lab, beyond the inner Core, a vast place of complex instrumentation, filled with a dazzling array of multi-operational equipment which Gant had supplied. Nothing had been stinted here.
