Have I been a fool? the Shaker asked himself. Have I lead myself and my loved ones into a maze of traps, a puzzle of disasters?

  And for what?

  The wind howled.

  The cold had reached his bones, and he shivered a little with it even while he perspired under the weight of all their coverings.

  As he wondered over his foolishness or lack of it, his mind was drawn to what might lie beyond the Cloud Range, out there in the darkness where the Darklands and Oragonia had never extended land claims. Far, far to the east, the ships of the Salamanthe nation had docked on the distant shore of this great continent, to be sure. The Salamanthes, living as they did in a cluster of a thousand islands, had long ago learned the vagaries of the sea well enough to ride it with impunity; where the Salamanthe's sailors had not touched keel to shore, there was a place not worth traveling to; otherwise, they had been everywhere. But being people of the sea, they never ventured far inland. Open land frightened them, just as endless miles of water frightened men of the land. And so the heart of the continent, of the east, lay unexplored. And somewhere in it was contained a store of knowledge from the Blank. The Oragonians had proved that. Dynamite, aircraft, horseless vehicles

  Yet it was not gadgets that the Shaker sought, but understanding. He had not been so fortunate as Gregor; his mother had kept no diary, and all she had left him were the tales other people could tell of her. It was little to go on, little to know her by. And all his life he had wondered after her, never grasping the illusive ghost of that long dead woman. Perhaps he would not find an understanding of her in the east; but he might very well come to understand the nature of a Shaker and his heritage, might be at last able to shrug loose of his remaining guilt. He was certain his mother had not died as punishment for delivering a Shaker into the world. He believed all such superstitions were absurd. And yet And yet it would help so very much to know a Shaker's heritage was as simple a thing as the heritage of black hair or blue eyes

  He heard Mace shift in the sleeping bag next to him.

  Gregor was already asleep.

  Guards huddled by the campfires, listening to the wind shriek, too puny to compete with its voice.

  He slept

  Near morning, with light finally tipping the clouds and sending smeared fingers down into their encampment, Mace was wakened-not by Gregor who now posted watch-by a sound he could not immediately identify. The severe cold and the depth of his exhausted sleep had claimed some of his justly renowned speed of reaction. He sat up, listening more alertly for what he had heard.

  You heard it? Gregor asked.

  Yes. What was it?

  A scream, the neophyte Shaker said.

  Just then, they heard another: loud, long, terrified

  13

  The windbreakers had been partially re-positioned, a length of them turned perpendicular to the side of the mountain, and now divided the camp area into two distinct halves. This was done at Mace's suggestion. Also at the giant's insistence, all the men-except himself, Gregor, Shaker Sandow, Commander Richter and the Coedone Gypsy named Zito Tanisha-had been put on the windward side of the canvas. They huddled there now, caught in the malevolent hammer of the wind, in the stinging bite of the furiously whipping snow.

  It was not that Mace desired those enlisted men to suffer. He was thinking of their welfare more than anything else as he made these arrangements. But to do the work that must be done, all those whose loyalty was not certain must be segregated beyond the canvas, and Mace and these few with him must have the quietest side to work on. In that lot beyond the canvas, the killers waited. Mace was certain of the Shaker and Gregor. The commander did not seem to be a killer-and he could not have possessed the enlisted man's dagger which had done the evil work of this night just passed, the work Blodivar's scream had summoned them to discover. The commander vouched for Zito, and no one would ever question the faithfulness of a Coedone who had given his bloodied kerchief, as the dark Tanisha had given his to Richter. So the enlisted men suffered the cold and the wind-while those on the leeward side of the canvas suffered tension and split nerves.

  The scream which had awakened Mace had come from a short, quick-mannered man named Blodivar who had risen to discover that the other four sleeping men in his canvas-wrapped unit were not sleeping at all but were quite dead instead: their throats were slit from ear to ear in a secondary, grinning mouth. As the others woke, more discoveries were made. In five separate sleeping units, the same scene obtained: all dead but one man. Twenty-two corpses, and in each cluster of them, a single man had been spared. When two guards were found, kneeling by their campfires, knifed in the back, it was seen how such slaughter had been achieved.

  It was this touch of sadistic ghoulery, though, that made the murders worse. Now a man not only needed to fear death himself, but he must live in terror of spending a night locked in the cold arms of gashed and lifeless comrades, their blank white and sightless faces staring at him when he woke in the morning

  And though it seemed like the ploy of a madman, Mace could see that it was not. The psychological weapon the assassins had devised here was more effective than the imminent scythe could ever be. For the first time, the men talked openly and unabashedly about returning to the Darklands and abandoning this quest. For the first time, mutual distrust of comrade for comrade was out in the open, manifested in a hundred little signs of fear and hostility. If they did not return but continued on under these circumstances, there would be a mutiny or a bloody siege of in-fighting in the manner of witch hunting.

  But the killers-one of them, anyway-had made a mistake, had left a clue. If they were clever enough and quick enough, they might cut the opposition's numbers in half, at least.

  Zito, Commander Richter said, you will hold a drawn arrow in the notch of my bow, and you will stand eight paces from this spot. He marked an X in the snow. Mace will be standing behind each man we bring in, five steps behind the X. The moment one of our suspects turns vicious and tries anything, you will attempt to skewer him with an arrow in some spot that is not deadly. If you should miss-hardly a possibility at such a range-Mace will subdue the killer by whatever means he decides best.

  Bu' wa' is it tha' we look fo', commanda? Zito asked. He looked quite capable, standing there, holding the weapon as if it had been in his hands from the moment he was born.

  Richter held up a curled ornament of metal no larger than the nail of his little finger. This is from the hilt flange of an enlisted man's dagger. There is one to either side of the blade. Mace here discovered this embedded in the wound of one of Blodivar's mates. Apparently, it snapped off when the assassin drove the blade into the man's throat, and hopefully its absence has not been noted by the guilty' party.

  Ah. An' tha' is why ya' wanted ta' look at ma' knife!

  And you're safe, Zito. I am sorry if my suspicious mind insulted your heritage.

  Na", na'! Ya' must be sure! Ya' ha' na' choice about it!

  Richter slapped the dark gypsy's back, then nodded to Gregor who walked to the slit in the canvas, pulled it open, and called the first of the men in from the other side: Sergeant Crowler.

  May I see your dagger? Richter asked, holding out his hand for the surrender of the weapon.

  What for? Crowler asked. He looked carefully around from man to man, licking his lips and steeling himself for something.

  Mace stepped closer in behind him.

  Zito Tanisha raised the bow and held it level with the burly sergeant's chest

  I am ordering you to surrender it, Richter said.

  What does he have that bow on me for? Crowler asked, nodding to Zito. What is all this? You know I been a loyal man of yours for ten years now, and-

  Zito, Richeter said, if he does not surrender his dagger to me in the next ten seconds, put an arrow in him.

  Crowler blanched, drew his knife and placed it in Richter's open palm.

  The commander examined it briskly and returned it to the squat non-com. I'm sorry, Crowler. But we have a clue to the killer, and we aren't trusting anyone. And you were acting mighty suspicious there.

  Crowler sheathed the dagger. Only because I thought maybe you-maybe all of you were the killers!

  Call the next man, Richter said.

  Gregor did the commander's bidding again and again, ushering one potential killer after another through the slit in the canvas where the ritual of the knife examination was repeated.

  His name was Cartier, and he had been the last man on that seven-man team which had met with disaster on the first day of their climb. The commander had said that only a madman would have tried to kill the six men above him on a climbing situation like that. Cartier was not a madman, but he was not merely a man, either.

  May I see your dagger? Richter asked, pronouncing the words in a monotone by this time. Of the forty men who had been waiting on the windward side of the canvas, thirty-two had already been checked. By this time, Richter operated almost like an automaton. In all of them, despair had replaced tension. It was possible, of course, that the killer waited in those last eight to be checked, but doubtful. Instead, it seemed more likely- considering the craftiness of their adversaries-that he had somehow managed to slip by them. This despair was also evident in the commander's tone.

  My dagger? Cartier asked. As with all the others, he did not know what would be asked him until the words had been spoken.

  Yes, Richter said.

  But Cartier made no move for it.

  That's an order, Richter said.

  How am I to know that you're not all-

  Zito, the commander said. To Cartier, he said: If you do not surrender your dagger now, Zito will place an arrow in you to make certain you offer no resistance to Mace there.

  Cartier looked about himself, at Mace and at the Coedone who stared back at him with a coolly murderous look that belied the strength in the dark hands that held the bow and arrow. He seemed like a cornered rat, and he hissed between his teeth.

  Richter stepped backward. You have nothing to fear if you aren't the killer. Just hand over your knife-

  In the instant, Cartier had the dagger in his hand and had leaped for the commander, snarling like some mad dog, his face expressionless but for the twisted sneer of his lips.

  Zito's arrow twanged. It caught the assassin in the neck and sent him sprawling at Richter's feet, blood pumping out over the virgin white of the snow, spreading around the gagging, twisting corpse like a burial shroud.

  Richter bent to the corpse, went to touch it, then drew back suddenly as snaking lengths of glistening wire rose through the clothes of the man. They waved in the breeze like the seeking lengths of cobras, bending toward the body warmth of the men close by, growing longer, dancing, singing in the slight breeze that washed them.

  What is this? the Shaker asked, moving in to look. Behind him, the other men moved in as well, staring with fascination at the corpse that was not just a corpse.

  Be careful there! Mace said, drawing the Shaker back. I think those wires would spear your flesh and make you into another of whatever this Cartier was.

  A murmur of agreement went through the ranks of the Banibaleers who looked on.

  Mace kicked the body over with his booted foot, danced backward as the swaying wire tendrils grasped at his leather footwear and sought to breach it in its quest for flesh.

  Wires sprouted from the front of the dead Cartier, just as they did from the back, thousands of them. He seemed to be a man covered with a wind-stirred mat of coppery fur.

  His eyes were pulped and gone. Wires rose out of them.

  His nostrils spewed forth curling lengths of shimmering metal which grew toward his lips like tiny streams of oddly colored blood.

  In his mouth: copper.

  His lips split open, and pieces of machinery, little tubes and gears, spilled out and down his chin.

  Bits of glass glistened inside his throat which hung open to their view.

  Demons, someone whispered.

  No, the Shaker said, almost absent-mindedly. This is something from the Blank, a lost invention.

  But I knew Cartier since childhood! someone protested.

  And Oragonian spies reached him and used the science from gone days, from the Blank, and made him into whatever he is here.

  Cartier's face split open.

  Desperately, the living machinery within him attempted to find another host.

  There was no more blood.

  The wires began to tangle with each other, snarled, weaved one another, collapsed, fizzing, dying

  Smoke rose from the corpse, as if the machinery had used his blood for oil and was now grating against itself without lubrication.

  There was an angry noise as of bees swarming, then a strangled, ugly screech from Cartier's shattered throat as the inhuman machine tried to use his voicebox for some unknown purpose. Then the wires stopped moving and the smoke rose in a gush and the thing that had possessed him was finally dead beyond recall.

  They stood for a while, watching the smoke blow away from the corpse, listening to the howl of the wind, unable to cope with what they had seen.

  At last, it was Richter who turned the mood to one of determination. That is the sort of thing Oragonia would bring to bear upon the Darklands. If Jerry Matabain had his demonic way, your loved ones, your wives and children would be as those assassins which have stalked us: creations without souls, things more machine than man, with love and emotions gone from them and nothing but obedience to Jerry Matabain as their life's motivation!

  No! someone called, furious at such a thought. And it had worked, this call to patriotism and to love of family, to fear that lies in all men-fear of losing their individuality. Other men began grumbling, angry at the treachery set loose among them and dedicated, as never before, to reaching the east and the stores of Blank era machinery waiting there.

  But, Richter said, we are not yet free of this curse. There is another such creature loose among us. Does anyone here remember who Cartier spent his time with? Did he have a buddy, a companion he seemed to share secrets with?

  The men talked among themselves, turned curious faces on each other, and in a few moments, the word came from several places at once, then was repeated everywhere: Zito-Zito-Zito. Zito. Zito. Zito. Yes, it was Zito. It was Zito he was with!

  The Coedone Gypsy stood where he had been, the bow in his hand. There had been but one arrow, and that was now embedded in the corpse of what had been Cartier.

  It can't be so, Richter said, staring at the dark gypsy. You once gave me your kerchief. You swore eternal fidelity.

  An' it is na' true, either, Zito said, approaching the commander with his tough hands spread to either side, as if he were as perplexed by these accusations as the old man was. I wa' with him, tha' is sure. Bu' tha' does na' mean guilt! I am as loyal to tha' commanda' as-

  He was no more than ten feet from the commander when a thrown knife buried itself to the hilt in the center of his chest, ripping cleanly through his bulky coat and spearing flesh. Eyes turned in the direction of the knife, stopped on Mace who stood in the position of a marksman. He would have throttled you, Commander, or worse, Mace said. It was in his face, believe me.

  Everyone turned to stare at Zito.

  The gypsy was looking stupidly down at the blade buried in his chest, swaying back and forth as his pierced heart labored to pretend that death was not present, and the machinery that shared his flesh worked to knit the torn artery inside of him.

  Mace spoke again, his voice self-assured, even though the dying man seemed only to be that and no more-certainly not a fiend whose body sheltered an alien life form. You told him to do no more than wound the guilty man whenever we discovered who it was. Instead, he placed that arrow in Cartier's neck, a deadly shot. Mace turned to Zito. Were you frightened that what few traces of humanity remained in Cartier might turn on you and betray you if you only wounded him? Was it necessary to kill him so that he might not say the truth in his last moments?

  It is na' true, Zito gasped.

  Blood bubbled up on his lips.

  He looked beseechingly around the group, and finally a man named Hankins stepped forward and went for the wounded gypsy.

  No! Mace shouted.

  But it was too late. As Hankins touched the dark Coedone, the gypsy snarled, clasped the man in a death embrace.

  Hankins screamed, fought to break loose.

  The Coedone's face split, spewed forth snaking wires which stung into Hankins, threaded his flesh and sought out the core of him, slowly turning him into whatever it was that Zito had been. The living machine shrieked in triumph, using Zito's vocal cords.