Whipping Star Part 60

Cheo rubbed the scars on his forehead.

There'd be no more PanSpechi then to point accusing fingers at him, to call him with ghostly voices. Never again would there be a threat to the ego which he had secured to himself.

No one could stop him.

Mliss could never come back from death to stop him. She must be gasping in the sealed tank by now, straining for the oxygen which did not exist there.

And that stupid McKie! The Saboteur Extraordinary had proved to be elusive and annoying, but no way remained for him to stop the apocalypse.

Just a few more minutes now.

Cheo looked at the reference dials on the S'eye controls. They moved so slowly it was difficult to detect any change while you kept your eyes on them. But they moved.

He crossed to the open doors onto the balcony, drew a questioning stare from the Palenki, and stepped outside. There was no moon, but many stars shone in patterns alien to a PanSpechi. Mliss had ordered a strange world here with its bits of ancient history from her Terran past, its odds and ends of esoterica culled from the ages.

Those stars, now. The Caleban had a.s.sured them no other planets existed here . . . yet there were stars. If those were stars. Perhaps they were only bits of glowing gas arranged in the patterns Mliss had requested.

It would be a lonely place here after the other universe was gone, Cheo realized. And there would be no escaping those starry patterns, reminders of Mliss.

But it would be safe here. No pursuit, because there would be no pursuers.

He glanced back into the lighted room.

How patiently the Palenki waited, eyes lidded, motionless. The whip dangled limply from its single hand. Crazy anachronism of a weapon! But it worked. Without that wild conjunction of Mliss and her kinky desires, they would never have discovered the thing about the weapon, never have found this world and the way to isolate it forever.

Cheo savored the thought of forever. That was a very tong time. Too long, perhaps. The thought disturbed him. Loneliness . . . forever.

He cut off these thoughts, looked once more at the S'eye dials. The pointers had moved a hair closer to the curtained moment. They would coincide presently.

Not looking at the pointers, not looking anywhere, really, Cheo waited. Night on the balcony was full of the odors Mliss had gathered-exotic blooms, scents and mucks of rare life forms, exhalations of a myriad species she had brought to share her Ark.

Ark. That was an odd name she'd given this place. Perhaps he'd change that . . . later. Creche? No! That carried painful reminders.

Why were there no other planets? he wondered. Surely the Caleban could have provided other planets. But Mliss had not ordered them created.

Only the thinnest of lines separated the pointers on the S'eye dials.

Cheo went back into the room, called the Palenki.

The squat turtle shape stirred itself to action, came to Cheo's side. The thing looked eager. Palenkis enjoyed violence.

Cheo felt suddenly empty, but there was no turning back. He put his hands to the controls -- humanoid hands. They would remind him of Mliss, too. He turned a k.n.o.b. It felt oddly alien beneath his fingers, but he stifled all uneasiness, all regrets, concentrated on the pointers.

They flowed into each other, and he opened the jumpdoor.

"Now!" he commanded.

If words are your symbols of reality, you live in a dream world.

-Wreave Saying

McKie heard the PanSpechi's shouted command as the jumpdoor's vortal tube leaped into existence within the Beachball. The opening dominated the room, filled the purple gloom with bright light. The light came from behind two figures revealed by the opening: a Palenki and the PanSpechi, Cheo.

The vortal tube began swelling to dangerous dimensions within the confined room. Wild energies around its rim hurled enforcer guardians aside. Before they could recover, the Palenki arm thrust into the room, lashed out with its whip.

McKie gasped at the shower of green and golden sparks around the Caleban. Golden! Again the whip struck. More sparks glittered, fell, s.h.i.+mmered into nothingness.

"Hold!" McKie shouted as the enforcers recovered and moved to attack. He wanted no more casualties from a closing jumpdoor. The enforcers hesitated.

Once more the Palenki lashed out with its whip.

Sparks glowed, fell.

"f.a.n.n.y Mae!" McKie called.

"I reply," the Caleban said. McKie felt the abrupt rise in temperature, but the emotion with the words was calm and soothing . . . and powerful.

The enforcers jittered, their attention darting from McKie to the area where the Palenki arm continued its vicious play with the whip. Each stroke sent a shower of golden sparks into the room.

"Tell me of your substance, f.a.n.n.y Mae," McKie said.

"My substance grows," the Caleban said. "You bring me energy and goodness. I return love for love and love for hate. You give me strength for this, McKie."

"Tell me of discontinuity," McKie said.

"Discontinuity withdraws!" There was definite elation in the Caleban's words. "I do not see node of connectives for discontinuity! My companions shall return in love."

McKie inhaled a deep breath. It was working. But each new flow of Caleban words brought its blast from the furnace. That, too, spoke of success. He mopped his forehead.

The whip continued to rise and fall.

"Give up, Cheo!" McKie called. "You've lost!" He peered up through the jumpdoor. "We're feeding her faster than you can rob her of substance."

Cheo barked an order to the Palenki. Arm and whip withdrew.

"f.a.n.n.y Mae!" the PanSpechi called.

There was no answer, but McKie sensed a wave of pity.

Does she pity Cheo? McKie wondered.

"I command you to answer me, Caleban!" Cheo roared. "Your control orders you to obey!"

"I obey holder of contract only," the Caleban said. "You share no connectives with holder of contract."

"She ordered you to obey me!"