He walked on. As he advanced, the skull seemed to jerk slightly forward. A flickering occurred within it, and then a pale green light grew behind all of its apertures which faced him. Far off to the right, Coyote made a sudden, low, growling sound.

  As he neared the end of the trail the skull tipped backward and turned slightly to the right, keeping the eyesockets fixed directly upon him.

  A rasping voice emerged from the skull:

  “Behold your chindi”

  Billy halted.

  “I used to play soccer,” he said, smiling and drawing back his foot. “Those two rocks up by the ruin can be the goal posts.”

  The ground erupted before him. The skull shot upward to a position perhaps a foot higher than his head. It rode upon the shoulders of a massive, nude, male body which had grown up like the flower before him. The green light danced all around it.

  “Shadow-thing!” Billy said, unslinging his weapon.

  “Yes. Your shadow. Shoot if you will. It will not save you.”

  Billy continued the movement which brought the snub-gun forward, reversing it in his hands, driving its butt hard upward against the skull. With a brief crunching noise the skull shattered, and its pieces fell to the ground. The trunk beneath dropped to one knee and the arms shot forward. A massive hand caught hold of the weapon and tore it from Billy’s grasp. It cast it backward over its shoulder, to fall with a clatter among rocks far up the canyon and to vanish there.

  The left hand caught his right wrist and held it with a grip like a steel band. He chopped at the other’s biceps with the edge of his left hand. It had no apparent effect, and so he drew his hunting knife, cross-body, and plunged it into the headless one, in the soft area below the left shoulder joint.

  Suddenly his wrist was free and the thing before him was falling backward, knees folding up toward the chest, arms clasping them.

  Billy watched as the other rolled away, darkening, losing features, growing compact, making crunching noises in passing over gravel and sand. It had become a big, round boulder, slowing now…

  It came to a halt perhaps fifteen meters distant, and then, slowly, it began to unfold into a new form. It unwound limbs and shaped a head, a tail…

  An eye.

  Cat stood facing him across the canyon of the lost city.

  We shall continue where we left off before the interruption, he said.

  Mercy Spender was jerked out of a deep, dreamless sleep. She began to scream, but the cry died within her. There was a twisted familiarity to what was happening. She drew herself into a fetal position and pulled the blankets up over her head.

  Alex Mancin was spinning figures across his video console when it hit. When his vision wavered and dimmed, he thought that he was having a stroke. And then he realized what was happening and did not resist it, for his curiosity was stronger than his fear.

  Elizabeth Brooke twisted from side to side. It was getting better every second. In just a few more moments…Her mind began to twist also, and she shrieked.

  Fisher was in communication with Ironbear when the mental storm broke and they were sucked into another state of awareness.

  What the hell is it? he asked.

  We’re being pulled back together again, Ironbear replied.

  Who’s doing it?

  Sands. Can’t you feel him? Like a broken lodestone, reassembling itself—

  Nice image. But I still don’t under—Ah!

  Plosion ex. Im noisolp. ashes falling back into bonfire, fireflame along the across the night arcing east drawn tgthr brainbow four containing ffth reassembling spring pushing upward beneath erth snows elds sorting moisture bright spikes fling waters flwng hllw-eyd ruins facing knifemanhanded and rockdreamt beast lost within this place of old ones weeeel frthgo endlessly unwrapping thoughtveiling countereal ity downow bhind substances tessences and above fireflame waterflow and blow wel fish the toilet of the world and let the spiral remain powr now the pwr ander seav nightebbing kraft tofil manshadow in shdworld he travel and wl the fireflame Iwe like blude tofil circulate and recur along the manform outreach hmsel fireflame along the plosion

  He stands, crouching, blade in his left hand. He moves the weapon slowly, turning it, raising it, lowering it, hoping for a glint or two to catch the vision behind the eye. The beast takes a step forward. The green light is trapped within the facets of that eye. Whether the blade holds any fascination for it he cannot tell.

  The beast takes another step.

  A gentle rain is falling. He is uncertain when it commenced again. It increases slightly in intensity.

  Another step…

  His right hand moves to his belt buckle and catches hold of it. He turns to extend his left shoulder, continuing the movements of the blade.

  Another step…

  The beast’s tongue darts once, in and out. Something is not right. Size? Pattern of movement? The cold absence of projected feelings when it had communicated?

  Another step.

  Still a little too far to spring yet, he decides. He turns his body a little more. He releases the belt buckle and slides his hand farther to his left, the movement masked by the flap of his jacket, by the angle at which he now stands. Is it reading his mind at this moment? He begins the Blessingway chant again, mentally, to fill his thoughts. Something inside him seems to take it up. It runs effortlessly within his breast, the accompanying feelings flowing without exertion.

  Another…

  Soon. Soon the rush. His right hand comes upon the butt of the tazer. His fingers wrap about it.

  Almost…

  Two more steps, he decides.

  One…

  Now is the time of the cutting of the throat.…

  Two.

  He draws the weapon and fires it. It strikes home and the beast halts, stiffens.

  He drops the tazer, snatches the knife into his right hand and lunges forward.

  He halts several paces before the creature, for it begins melting and turning to steam. In moments, the form has dissolved and the vapors have collected into a small cloud about three meters above the ground. Lowering the knife, he raises his eyes.

  Smokelike, it now drifts, passing to the left toward a huge pile of rubble from some ancient landslide. He follows, watching, waiting.

  Neat trick, that.

  I am not the beast you slew. 1 am that which you cannot destroy. I am all of your fears and failings. And 1 am stronger now because you fled me.

  I did not flee you. I followed a trail.

  What trail? I saw no trail save your own.

  It is the reason I am in this place, and I presume I am the reason you are here.

  The smoke ceases its movement, to hover above the rock heap.

  Of course. I am the part of yourself which will destroy you. You have denied me for too long.

  The smoke begins to contour itself into a new form.

  I no longer deny you. I have faced the past and am at peace with it.

  Too late. I have become autonomous under the conditions you created.

  De-autonomize, then. Go back where you came from.

  The form grows manlike.

  I cannot, for you are at peace with the past. Like Cat, I have only one function now.

  Cat is dead.

  .…And I lack a sense of humor.

  The form continues its coalescence. Billy regards an exact double of himself, similarly garbed, holding a knife the exact counterpart of his own, looking back at him. It is smiling.

  Then how can you be amused?

  I enjoy my one function.

  Billy raises the point of his blade.

  Then what are you waiting for? Come down and be about it.

  The double turns and leaps to his left, landing on the farther side of the heap. Billy rushes around it, but by the time he reaches him the other has regained his footing. He wipes his brow with his free hand, for the rain still descends. Then he drops into a crouch, both hands extended, low, knees bent. The other does the same.

  Billy backs away as the other advances, then shuffles to his right, feinting, beginning the circle. He studies the ground quickly, hoping to steer the other into a slippery place. As his eyes move, his double lunges. He blocks with his left forearm and thrusts for the body. The point of the other’s blade pierces his jacket sleeve and enters his arm. He is certain his own blade has bitten deeply into his adversary’s left side, but the double gives no sign of it and Billy sees no blood.

  “I am beginning to believe you,” he says aloud, feeling his own blood dampen his arm. “Perhaps I cannot kill you.”

  “True. But I can kill you,” the other replies. “I will kill you.”

  Billy parries the blade, slashes the other’s cheek. No wound opens. No blood appears.

  “So why do you not give up?” the other says.

  “Supposing I were to throw down my knife and say to hell with it?” he asks,

  “I would kill you.”

  “You say you will kill me whether I fight or do not fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I might as well fight,” Billy says, thrusting again, parrying again, slashing low, moving back, thrusting high, circling.

  “Why?”

  “Warrior tradition. Why not? It’s the best fight around.”

  As he backs away from a fresh attack, Billy almost stumbles when his right foot strikes an apple-sized stone. But he recovers and brushes it backward as if it were an annoyance. He slashes and thrusts furiously then, halting the other. Then he takes a big step back, positioning his foot just so. …

  He kicks the stone as hard as he can, directly toward his double. It flies as from a catapult, striking the other’s right kneecap with a satisfying thunk.

  The figure bends forward, blade lowering. His head falls into a tempting position and Billy swings his left fist as hard as he can against the right side of his adversary’s jaw.

  The double falls back onto his left side, and Billy kicks again, toward the knife hand. His boot makes contact and the blade goes clattering across rocks into the distance. He flings himself upon the fallen form, his own blade upraised.

  As he drives the blade downward toward the other’s throat, his adversary’s left hand flies up and the fingers wrap around his wrist. His arm stops as if it has encountered a wall. The pressure on his wrist is enormous. Then the right hand rises and he knows somehow that it is about to go for his throat.

  He drives another left against the other’s jaw. The head rolls to the side and the grip on his wrist slackens slightly. He strikes again and again. Then he feels a powerful movement beneath him.

  His adversary bunches his legs, leans forward and begins to rise, bearing Billy along with him. He strikes again, but it seems to make no difference. The other’s movement carries them both to their feet and that right hand is coming forward again. Billy seizes the extending wrist and barely manages to halt it. He pushes as hard as he can but he is unable to advance his knife hand.

  Then, gradually, his left hand is forced back. His right wrist feels as if it is about to snap.

  “You chindis are strong sons of bitches,” he says.

  The other snarls and flexes his fingers. Billy drives his knee into his groin. The double grunts and bends forward. Billy’s knife advances slightly.

  But as the other bends forward, Billy sees over him, beyond him. And he begins singing the song the old man taught him, the calling of Ikne’etso, the Big Thunder, recalling now when he had transferred power from the sandpainting to his own hand.

  Sees…

  First, to where the totem stands—the same four figures below; but now, crowning the spirit pole, the shadowy fifth form has grown more distinct and is shining with an unearthly glow. It seems to be smiling at him.

  You have, I see, gambled. Good, it seems to say, and then the pole begins to elongate, stretching toward the now brightened heavens…

  To where, second, the rainbow now arches in full spectrum.

  And his gaze continues to mount, to the rainbow’s crest. There he sees the Warrior Twins regarding him as on that occasion so long ago. A dark form circles above them.

  Nayenezgani strings his great bow. He puts an arrow to it, draws it partway back and begins to raise it. The dark form descends, and Black-god comes to sit upon Nayenezgani’s shoulder.

  The double tightens his grip and twists, and the knife falls from Billy’s hand. He can feel the blood running up his left arm as the strength begins to ebb and the other draws him nearer. He continues to utter the words of the song, calling…

  The pole stands to an enormous height now, and the figure atop it—now a man from the waist up—is raising his right hand and lowering his left, pointing at him. He is reaching, reaching…

  The drumbeat grows louder, comes faster. The rattling sounds like a hailstorm.

  Despite a final effort to thrust him back, the double stands his ground and draws Billy into a crushing embrace. But Billy continues to choke out the words.

  Nayenezgani draws his bowstring all the way back, releases the arrow with a forward snapping motion of his left arm.

  The world explodes in a flash more brilliant than sunlight. In that moment he knows that he has entered his double and his double has entered him, that he has fused with the divided one, that the pieces of himself, scattered, have come home, have reassembled, that he has won…

  And that is all that he knows.

  The Fourth Day

  DISK IV

  BANK OF NOVA SCOTIA COMPUTER

  PLEADS NOLO CONTENDERE

  STRAGEAN TRADE AGREEMENT NEARER REALITY

  DOLPHINS SETTLE OUT OF COURT

  ILI REPORTS MISSING METAMORPH

  * * *

  Now you travel your own trail, alone.

  What you have become, we do not know.

  What your clan is now, we do not know.

  Now, now on, now, you are something not of this world.

  * * *

  NEW YORK PHILHARMONIC TO

  PREMIERE “LEVIATHAN” SYMPHONY

  Charlie, an aged humpback whale who makes his home in Scammon Lagoon, will hear the first instrumental performance of his composition via a satellite hookup to ^full-fidelity underwater speakers. Although he has refused to comment on the rehearsals, Charlie seemed

  TAXTONIES DO IT AGAIN

  When their leader’s clone’s bullet-riddled body was found in the East River, a potential riot situation was only temporarily averted

  SMUDGE POTS IN VOLCANO CRATER CAUSE PANIC

  ALIENS REPRIMANDED

  A pair of tourists from Jetax-5, whose culture is noted for its eccentric sense of humor, admitted to

  GENERAL ACCEPTS NOBEL PEACE PRIZE • • •

  crawling, he made it into a sheltered place. He leaned his back against a wall and dipped his finger into the blood. Reaching out • • •

  WHOOPING CRANE FLOCKS TO BE PRUNED

  Hunting permits will be issued to deal with the overpopulation problem in flocks of the once rare crane which has now become a nuisance.

  “Who can sleep with all that whooping?” complained residents

  BERSERK FACTORY DESTROYS OUTPUT

  HOLDS OFF NATIONAL GUARD FOR 8 HOURS

  HOSTAGES RELEASED UNHARMED

  * * *

  There was an old bugger from Ghent

  Spilled his drink in the sexbot’s vent.

  He screamed and he howled

  As if disemboweled.

  Instead of coming, he went.

  * * *

  COMPUTER THERAPIST CHARGED WITH MALPRACTICE

  BLACK HOLE TO BE AUCTIONED

  At Sotheby Park Bernet next Wednesday

  A WET SPRING FOR MUCH OF THE NATION

  t otempl fling across beside the waters andown theating of thearth after fireflow fromigh wright but rong oh sands the merger each with sands sands sands sands ourglass runneth over days roulette struck fire andown thever narrowing tunnels of being we go fireflow part a part freverdreaming newslvs dreams tove touched the shaman mind beneath the bead fireflow across the windrawn days andown conditions of being focused through fireflood lens anew the hunted self achieved rainwet snowblow windcut daythrust knifeslash fireflown are the hunted and hunting selves the landscape dreamspoken nder earth of mind through heart of stars toth still the running the burgeoning the everrun foreverrun one frevermore as lps that kss the lightning creationheat everflow firetotem apart a part one frever and run

  Mercy Spender, awakening with a taste for tea and the desire to attend a dog race—strange thought—called Fisher and asked him to join her in the dining room. Then she showered, dressed, combed her hair and thought about makeup for the first time since her early singing days.

  Fisher rummaged through his thoughts, wondering whether his illusions could use a touch more class. How long since he had been to an art gallery? Studied himself in the mirror. Perhaps he ought to let his hair grow longer.

  Out the window, new day clearing, snow melting, water dripping. He hummed a tune—Ironbear’s, now he thought of it. Not bad, that beat.

  Alex Mancin decided to undertake a retreat at a monastery he had heard of in Kentucky. The money market could take care of itself, and the dogs would be fed and groomed by the kennel keeper, poor bastard. They were such stupid little things.

  Ironbear turned and sidled, passing through the narrow, rockfallen place between sheer rises. As he had progressed, his ability to read the trail signs had grown better and better, exceeding perhaps what it had been in those long-forgotten days in the Gateway to the Arctic. Now, as he entered the canyon, he felt that he was nearing the trail’s end.