ty of more zombies. But I was already worried about something else: if the one with the rifle had been shooting at us, then had ducked in here, it had all the signs of an ambush. But zombies didn't think! An ambush suggested tactical thinking . . . thinking! I hadn't yet had an opportunity to confide in Arlene my suspicions of an overall Mind guiding the invasion, using a great number of mindless opponents against a few human survivors to learn our limits. She probably wasn't in the mood for a quiet, analytical discussion right then. There was too much blood on her, on me. Now it was the lady's turn to find a switch. The room was flooded with clean, white light. We had found a treasure chamber .. . medical supplies, more corn-rats, and ammunition, lots of it. Best of all was another of those handheld video things. "Fly, you know what this is?" exclaimed Arlene in excitement. I let her tell me. "It's a computer map of the entire floor plan!" The medical supplies allowed me to return the "favor" Arlene had done me. She'd been winged by the sniper. She wasn't carrying any bullets around with her, but one had grazed her shoulder. And she had other cuts and bruises from our last battle. "I'm your doctor now," I said. Eyeing the self-heating tins of food and coffee, she sized me up through slitted eyes and said, "I'd rather you were the cook." "Chef," I corrected her. "And what's the difference, anyway?" "Between a cook and a chef?" "No, between a doctor and a cook!" "You win. Feed me, Fly." I bit my tongue. "Doctoring first." She didn't argue, but continued working on the computer map as I tended her wounds. I found a tube of the same cream she'd used on me; but she didn't grimace. I used the hypo to inject the antiviral; but she never flinched. She really was a better man than I. We didn't have any disagreement until I insisted we get some sleep. "You've got to be kidding, Fly. I'm not about to close my eyes and lie down in a rotting pile of zombie corpses!" "We can carry them out and pile them in front of the door." "Oh, great--an announcement that we're in here." "All right. I'll throw them onto the last teleport platform." "We'll throw them." As simple as that, sweet reason had prevailed. The job took twenty minutes. We didn't bother with the teleporter; we spread them like speed bumps among the demons. Maybe visitors would think they had killed each other. Then we enjoyed our first real meal together. The snack had only kept us going; this was a veritable feast by comparison. I insisted that she sleep first. She'd been on the go longer than I. While I was still being nursemaided by the Rons, she was at risk, in battle, up to her eyeballs in demon guts. She would sleep first, whatever it took. Turned out all it took was getting her to put her head down "just for a moment." I let her sleep for four. When it was my turn, I went out like a drained tallboy. She woke me with a gentle hand on my shoulder and a beautiful face to appreciate. We'd both been too ex- hausted for nightmares. We were living them. I hated to leave that room. The same way I'd felt about the Phobos lab infirmary. No, that was wrong. This room was better than that. I'd shared the time with a woman whose survival turned my universe from empty muck back into gold. Blinking away pieces of sleep, I slung the Sig-Cow across my back and we returned to the blue door and again faced the teleporter. "Same routine as last time?" I asked. "Nah. Let's go together." "Why not?" "What the hell." We found ourselves in a room with no doors, no windows, and one of Arlene's big, pink demons. "Mine," I called, and pounded a shell before Arlene could argue. "I have a feeling there's plenty to go around," she said. I was almost starting to like the pink bastards. Their lack of projectile weaponry made them favorites in my book. Of course, I hadn't seen them chow-down on a comrade the way Arlene had. I took point, positively greedy for my next demon kill. I moved well ahead of Arlene. Oh, Fly. Hubris, hubris, hubris! Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. Turning one of those treacherous corners so common in both Phobos and Deimos, I stepped right into The Wizard of Oz. What else could you call a giant, floating head? 19 This head wasn't handsome enough to be a movie star. Its grotesque skin was made of millions of squirming, knotted, bloodred worms stretched over a huge, inflated balloon. For an instant I thought of the floating blue sphere. Staring into the single red eye of this floating pumpkin with a tube for a mouth, I doubted it would make me feel like a million . . . years old, maybe. I dived sideways as the pumpkin spit a ball of lightning out the tube mouth, burning my scalp and hair as it sailed past. It exploded against the wall, producing a million slivers of blue-flickering electricity that had every hair on any part of my body standing at attention. "Mary, Mother of God!" I cried. "Another one that shoots stuff!" I ran back toward Arlene, shouting, "Run, run, run!" With pain and surprise still fresh, I couldn't think of anything else to do. But the floating head hadn't been in Arlene's face; she was still in control. The red ball floated around the corner, and she let it have a blast from behind. It rebounded from the blast, roaring in pain, then slowly turned to face her. While it did, I caught hold of myself. I blasted the floating pumpkin from my angle. As it turned back to me, Arlene skated to the side and blasted it again. Now we both knew what to do. We dropped naturally into a standard Light Drop tactic--move, fire, move again, fire again. The ball did a lot of bouncing. Whatev- er life force kept it going hadn't left it yet. But we kept firing. Then it died the messiest monster death I had seen so far. One moment the ball was bouncing against the walls; the next, there came a spray of sticky, blue goo that smelled like caramelized pumpkin pie and sounded like an overripe squash dropped ten stories. I seriously considered losing the lunch I had struggled so hard to ingest. "Oo-rah!" exulted Arlene. "Smashing pumpkins into small pieces of putrid debris! What the hell was that?" "Um. I was going to ask you the same question." I couldn't take my eyes off the disgusting, deflated remains. We should have been expecting brand new monsters, but this floating beach-ball thing was so weird, it meant anything was possible. That scared the hell out of me. It meant we might run into something indestructible, or at least unkillable. "What, ah, do you want to call this one?" Arlene asked. I'd forgotten our little game. It was a good question, but my mind was blank. "Call it a pumpkin," I suggested at last. Arlene wasn't impressed. She wrinkled her nose as if smelling limburger cheese. "I didn't mean that as a serious name, Fly. We need something more. . . frightening." "All right, then, you name it." "No dice, Fly. First person who sees a monster has to name it. That's the rule." I was about to demand to know why she got to make the rules; I stifled myself in time. Of course she made the rules--she was the female. "Then it's a pumpkin, Arlene." I put my foot down. Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll dislike my name enough that the rule will change. We secured the corridor. It was monster-free. It wasn't ooze-free, but the stuff didn't look deep until pretty far along. Ahead lay a small ocean of the stuff with an exit at the other end. "Best way to get through shallow goo is jogging," she said. "Eats away your boots, but you last longer." "Sure beats swimming in it," I agreed. "Don't be silly. That would kill you." I made a mental note to brag to Arlene about my swim. I searched the immediate vicinity for any life-giving blue spheres, but we were alone in the sea of green. "So what does your computer map say?" Arlene zoomed the room we were in, and we noticed a couple of switches and a teleporter. We threw the first switch, and stairs slid into view like shark fins rising from a tranquil sea. We hoofed it to the next switch, then went straight to the teleporter. We did not pass GO, we did not collect 200 monsters. "My turn to go first," she declared; I knew better than to argue. "I'll count to thirty." Her trim form faded from view, and I started the count. ". . . Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." Weapon up, I followed, ready for almost anything-- except what I actually saw: a whole bank of shiny, new, undamaged radios! "Bank is open," said Arlene. "I guess they missed this room," I said, checking the corners for possible ambush. There was nowhere to hide, and we seemed to be alone; but I didn't let down my guard. The invisible ghosts were reason enough not to completely trust the old eyeballs. Arlene fired up one of the radios then whooped for joy when it hummed and came on-line. But no matter what frequency she typed, we heard nothing but crashing- ocean static. Arlene took her time, running carefully by five mega- hertz jumps up the entire spectrum; then she tried the same procedure with different radios. The results were the same. "Fly, this doesn't make sense," she said finally. "They couldn't be blocking the signal somehow?" I asked. "These antennas stick half a kilometer off the surface of Deimos! Whatever's blanking the signal must be enveloping the entire moon." Time to put on the thinking cap. I even paced. "Arlene," I said at last, "every radio I came across on Phobos was smashed." "Same with me." "Now here is a vitally important communications room that they couldn't possibly miss . . ." "You're assuming an intelligent enemy here," she said. "There has to be, Arlene! Phobos and Deimos are part of the same invasion. Why leave this room intact, but not the ones on Phobos?" "Fly, Deimos was abandoned four years ago. I was present when the Marines picked up everything and left. Budget cuts, reduction in force, and a lack of tactical imagination sent us packing." I nodded, sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, at an angle where I had an unobstructed view of the door. "A big mistake," I said. She was on a roll: "What if the aliens invaded back then? Or some time ago--weeks, months, or longer. They could take their time spreading through the facility . . . and there'd be no reason to smash the radios here on alien-controlled Deimos." We listened to the symphony of white noise. "So why can't we reach anyone now, Arlene?" When enough crazy stuff happens all at once, the imagination is free to float off like that damned pump- kin. I didn't know if it was inspiration or not, but I asked the trillion-dollar question: "Maybe Deimos is no longer in orbit around Mars?" I was so used to the way she liked to watch me through slitted eyes that when she stared at me wide-eyed, she looked like a different person. "I never thought of that," she said. "It would explain Deimos vanishing from the screens. I just assumed it was destroyed somehow." Having started down the twisting path, I ran to keep up. "You said Deimos is so small that gravitational effects are negligible. It's more like a giant spaceship than a planet." We stared at each other. Inspiration can be catching. "But how do you remove an entire moon instantaneous- ly," she mused, "even one as small as Deimos?" I don't spend all my time on target practice and working out; sometimes I read. "By shifting it into a different dimension?" She smiled. "Fly, you've been watching too many sci-fi trideos." "I don't know about that, A.S.; but special F/X will never be convincing again after facing the real thing." "What makes you think we'll ever see another movie?" Neither of us spoke for a bit; then Arlene continued. "So suppose they've turned Deimos into a giant space- ship," she said. "Where would they be taking us? Back to their home world?" "With us as prime specimens?" I said, not feeling the least bit comfortable about the idea. "Whatever the destination, I've got a bad feeling about this." "Any destination is probably bad for us," she agreed. "We could be in some kind of artificial wormhole on the way to hell." "As if this weren't hell already! Besides, I'm not religious, Fly; I didn't go to any parochial school." My mind's eye conjured up old images from the Chapel of Mary and Martha. Sister Lucrezia, who taught us Dante's Inferno, acted as if she'd just returned from a special tourist-class trip through the infernal regions and couldn't wait to share her Bad News for Modern Man. One July weekend at Saint Malachi Summer Camp, I saw her in full regalia, standing up in a rowboat and pushing off from the dock with a long oar. I thought I'd seen a vision of Charon the Boatman, ferrying lost souls across the River Styx. I doubt any monster here could beat her out for the job. I was half convinced I was already on a one-way trip to the real place. But the idea that Arlene was coming along drove me mad with anger. I wasn't about to let one stinking demon-claw touch that noble soul of hers. Arlene stood up from the useless radios. "I've been trying to get a fix on the enemy, some handle; but all I'm doing is drawing blanks. I've had the experience of running down corridors before," she confided, "with dozens of armed men out for my blood. Sometimes your best chance for survival is to go right into the rooms and corridors they hold and destroy whatever they came for. We made our way into the embassy vault and burned all our important documents ... and the KPLA left. You know what I'm talking about?" "I'm glad you got out of there, A.S. It was a real hellhole." "Yeah, I wouldn't miss this hell pit for the world." I stared at the radios myself. Yep . . . that's a radio, all right, I thought, which is about as far as my education in electronic communications gear went. Why on Earth--on Deimos--would the Corps give up such a strategic position as this station? By Executive Order number whatever, the Marines had military juris- diction on all extraterrestrial planetary surfaces; the Navy had deep space; the Air Force had atmospheric; and the Army had Earth itself. Mars, Phobos, and Deimos were surely ours to the bone. The only reason I could imagine us giving it up was if the other services conspired to cut our space-ops budget. . . with pretty disastrous consequences. Wonder if anybody felt shame about that, or would if we lived to tell anyone? "Round of ammo for your thoughts," she said. "Nothing important. Politics back on the old home planet." "At least there's no politics here. Unless you count that swastika." "You saw it, too?" I was beginning to wonder if I'd dreamed that damned crooked cross. "That's not poli- tics; it's a bad joke." "You think they put it there to scare us, huh? The way they--what do you call it? rework--the physical build- ings gives me the creeps." "Nothing from Earth scares me after what I've seen, Arlene. What's next, a hammer and sickle?" "A what?" "Never mind. You're too young to remember. I'll make you a bet that we don't find any other symbols from the home planet." We shook hands. "You'll lose," she said. "You are thinking too much about politics. I win if we find any symbols, including religious symbols . . . and there've been plenty enough of those." "Damn, you're right. I lose. All the Satan stuff." She could sound like a professor when she wanted to: "Maybe the demons--the aliens--were confused by Hollywood into thinking the swastika is a satanic sym- bol. It sure seems suspiciously like somebody had an official list of Things that Scare Westerners . . . like they knew it would be seen by UAC workers and Marines, not by Native American Indians or Japanese. Wonder if they'd change the symbols for different humans, say using the letters kyo or oni if they were invading the Nippon Electric space station? "In any case, the religious symbols are terrestrial, so you lose, Corporal." Now it was my turn to grin. "Well, Arlene, if you are going to lose a bet, it's good to find out before you set the amount." She gave me a playful punch in the shoulder. We started out while I massaged the numbness out of my arm. At the next inverted cross we passed, I'd pay anything she wanted. Within reason. 20 The video map showed us how to get to the central elevator for all of the Deimos installation. We were very near. All that separated us from our goal was a wall. The wall had a switch, a full-body bas relief of a cloven-hoofed alien. And it wasn't his tongue that re- quired flicking. My face flushed. "Um, you'd better take this one, PFC Sanders. "And here I thought you were a born lever-puller." Arlene flicked the switch; the blue-gray wall cranked down into a slit in the floor, revealing a spacious lift. "Deluxe service," Arlene said, pointing at the labeled bank of elevator buttons. We'd made it through the Containment Area. Below us was the Refinery, then Deimos Lab, the Command Center, the Central Hall, and three levels below that which were unlabeled. "Basement? Skip the crap?" I said. "Hm. Yeah, well, maybe." "Maybe? Makes sense to me. Every time that door slides open, we run the risk of being stormed by giant vampire slugs from the planet Pornos, or being machine- gunned to death by Nazi schutzstaffel." "Fly, these lifts didn't work too well even back when we had people maintaining them! They got stuck all the time. If the sensors detected anything in the shaft, you stopped at the floor above. If a door was open some- where, the whole elevator could freeze. Go ahead and push the basement button . . . I'll bet you a month's pay we won't make it more than a couple of levels; then we'll have to find another lift somewhere." I looked at her and snorted. "You're so full of good cheer. Well, ready or not, here goes nothing." Here went nothing, all right. I pushed the button; we started with a jerk and ground downward, skewing back and forth dangerously. As we descended toward the refinery, I saw that the lift didn't take us there directly, but to a warehouse section we'd have to pass through first. In the distance we had an actual view of the refinery through large, gaping holes in the floors and ceilings. Some kind of fighting had gone on here. We had descended some fifty meters. What we could see of the refinery was laid out like an open maze; it was possible to see in the distance an expanse of pink, moving objects that looked like fleshy cubes or blocks. I hoped they weren't alive, weren't the next creatures on the hit parade. They were gigantic, reminding me of the "organic ladder" and the pulsing walls back on Phobos. Then we'd moved past the point where we could see the refinery. Our descent brought us to a more normal scene. "Normal" in this case meant a warehouse area stuffed with UAC boxes to the height of twelve feet or more and so densely packed as to create their own pseudo- corridors. We'd noticed a number of humanoid figures with the familiar brown hide and white spikes scurrying for cover . . . back in imp country again. The lift stopped, not quite all the way to the floor; we had to jump down about three meters. Arlene peeked over the edge. "You owe me a month's pay, Corporal Flaggart." "Did I take the bet? I don't recall saying any such thing." "Native American giver." We hopped out onto the ugliest, puke-green marble I'd ever seen; but it was still good to have something solid underfoot. "All right, PFC Sanders, let's do this by the numbers." "Sure, Fly. So which box is number one? And how come we never do stuff by the letters?" I threw her a withering glance, like an older brother to a pesky sister. We were ready to rock and roll. Fighting demons had spoiled me. I liked an enemy that didn't shoot back. We popped through the warehouse like nobody's business, pulse galloping, keyed to instant reaction. The refinery had its share of toxic ooze. We didn't pay it any mind, but so far, there were only a few sticky regions instead of slime beach. I looked for barrels of the stuff, my favorite way of dealing with imps; but there were none. The first fireball missed us by a country klick. The second came too close to Arlene to suit me, so after I killed the imp, I wasted ammo . . . and killed him again to teach him a lesson. They were smart enough to duck in and out of the natural defenses provided by the stacked boxes, but not enough to gang up on us or show any other sign of working together. None of these guys were talking. Still, there were a lot more of them than there were of us. One almost got me from behind. If he'd had a partner, I'd have been dead meat. Instead, Arlene slid in behind the both of us and used her bayonet like a can opener. Busy as I was staying alive, I could appreciate the sheer grace of Arlene, back to the wall of boxes, cradling her shotgun like a baby; never mind dogs as "man's best friend." With hand gestures I indicated who would take which section. Another fifteen minutes and we were back in the same place. She'd killed more than I had. The warehouse area had been cleared. I was tired enough to wish one of those magical blue spheres would make an appearance. I hadn't told her about that because it seemed too unbelievable, even in a place like this. But Arlene the mind reader had brought a small black case back with her. It looked medical. I'd have to start calling her "Doc." Opening it, she produced a syringe filled with clear liquid, labeled "cardiac augmentation stimulation unit." I held it for a second, then carefully passed it back to her as if it were a loaded weapon. "Can't believe I found this," she said. "It's synthetic adrenaline to be used on patients who are in the throes of cardiac arrest." "What would it do to you or me?" She paused, biting her lip again. "In a normal person, the adrenaline rush would make you super strong. There's a drawback, though; it could also give you tachycardia and kill you." "Just say no to having an edge," I commented, taking the black package and its contents and adding it to my collection. "Fly, maybe we should toss it. That stuff could be too much of a temptation." "Hey, if push comes to shove, we can inject one of them with it, right up their monster fundaments. All in the interests of science." The only unlocked door led to a huge, green marble chamber with a collection of weird, red pillars. Pulsing veins stretched around these pillars like living ropes. The sharp, cloying odor of perspiration combined with the sick-sweet stench of rotting meat. Mechanical stuff was fine with me, even organic stuff like the arboretum. But I didn't like it when they combined, and I couldn't tell where one part left off and the other began. The throb- bing of the veins matched the throbbing in my head. I was almost grateful for the appearance of a number of imps. At least they took my mind off the architecture. Then some more imps . . . and some more after that. Too much of a good thing. "Check your six, Fly," said Arlene. I looked behind me, across the room; sure enough, even more snot-spitting spinys. My gratitude faded fast. I made out a dozen imps. I started the donnybrook with a well-aimed shell; between their fireballs and our shotguns, we had one serious firefight. I thought the pillars would catch fire, so thick were the red flames and black smoke. I killed two. Arlene killed three. The survivors were better than the previous imps at dodging behind the pillars, and even our shotgun extender mags were run- ning dry. They forced us back into a corner, pinning us down. Mexican standoff time. I wanted to bail. Then I pumped, and the slide locked! Nothing up my sleeve; nothing in my gun. Now what? Time to even the odds. Arlene was watching the imps, firing off a shot now and then, looking down at her mag window and frowning. I reached inside my vest, pulled a hypodermic and studied it. Intravenous? No, intramuscular. Well, that was easier, at least. But could I actually do it? To myself? Jesus, what a dilemma. For a moment it was like being back on Phobos. That needle bothered me more than flaming mucus in my face. Without question, the next scientific revolution should move beyond the need for needles. But more important, could I risk a heart attack if I had a bad reaction? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I'm a Marine! Semper fi, Mac. I gave myself the shot. At first, nothing; then the stuff stimulated my adrenal glands; and in a minute I was filled with red rage! The world turned crimson and my breath was fire. My heart beat so fast that it spun in my chest like a gyroscope. I drew my bayonet from my webbing and bolted from the corner; if Arlene yelled after me, I didn't hear it. All that mattered was to kill, getting in tight and cutting the steak. Blood-rare--God, how I loved imp blood, thick as red ink from a shattered paint stick, communion wine splashing on the floors of eternity. Every motion was a target to strike. Flesh was too easy. Bone was the real work, the blade sticking in the carti- lage, the cracking and crunching inspiring me to greater efforts. I hardly noticed the blood splashing in my eyes. The world was already a red haze; liquid salt was trivial pain as I swung my blade in the center of adrenal agony. The more I killed, the heavier the weight in my arms. But exhaustion spurred me to greater fury. I no longer saw the Chinese-mask faces of the imps, only a blur. Their claws rent my flesh, but we were too tight for them to use their best weapon. Dimly I realized that I was bleeding from many wounds. That was fine with me. Blood kept me warm, theirs, mine, anyone's . .. just so that I could continue to swing a blade and slay the bastards. Motion must be met with motion. An imp exploded in front of me before I could even reach it. Only one imp left now. "Fly!" A voice called my name, near at hand. I hadn't expected any of these imps to speak, especially not in a high, almost feminine voice, calling my name. I was so surprised that I hesitated for a moment, blade poised over the last imp. "Fly!" My vision began to clear. My arm was a bar of lead, my chest a sharp pain, as the old heart slowed to merely fast. The fury slowly lifted from me like a thick, red, trideo theater curtain drawing back. The hazy shape before me grew solid and took on familiar features, Arlene's fea- tures. I was very glad that I hadn't killed that last imp. 21 They're all dead," she reported. "Are you all right, Fly?" "Thirsty," I croaked. My own canteen had split open during the fight, spilling its contents. She shared water from her supplies. "Better?" she asked. I nodded, utterly spent. I almost fell as she helped me out of the room. She set me down, held my arm. My mind still raced, but my body was exhausted. Arlene made me rest twenty minutes, then reluctantly helped me up so we could move on. We walked past the secure area, beyond the pillar room, and faced another closed door. It was hardly worth kicking. On the other side was a shimmering floor of the noxious slime, across which was a console with a blue key card. "Doesn't look too promising," Arlene said. I was never optimistic where toxic goo was concerned; but my head was still flying from the adrenaline, a perfect recipe to make a volunteer. "I'll go," I said. "I could use the exercise. Jogging is just what my heart needs right now." "You need to rest, Fly!" That was thoughtful of her. I appreciated her senti- ments as I evaded her grasp and stepped into the gunk, my boots making shunk-shoosh sounds, slowing me down and eating bit by bit through the thick soles. Then I stepped on something hard and felt it shift under me. Heavy machine sounds came up through the slime, followed by something more substantial. A section of floor rose through the toxin. Staggering was not a good idea. I didn't want to fall down in this. I regained my footing as I saw a wire-mesh platform rising to match a set of blue-paneled lights directly overhead. I was just about to take steps when Arlene brushed past, turned, and stepped to the right to follow the path that was under those lights. As she ran out of the pathway an odd thing happened. More wire mesh rose to meet her footsteps, correspond- ing to the lights above, winking like the stars I hoped I would live long enough to see again. I followed her. A major improvement over the normal way of crossing the slimelands--did any other spills have such shortcuts installed, I wondered? When we reached the "island" on the other side of the green ocean, Arlene said, "You may have something with that rats-in-the-maze idea." "No human would design this, except maybe a game show host." "Game is right. I wonder if the entire moon has been reworked?" She reached over and grabbed the blue key card. We found a door with pretty, blue trim; the key card popped it open. Inside, I whooped with pleasure to see my old buddy, the rocket launcher, with lots of little battery rockets as well as another AB-10 machine pistol. The body of an imp lay in a corner. "Think that one died of natural causes?" Arlene asked. "Unnatural more likely." "Say," she said, "if imps are smart enough to talk, why don't they use weapons?" It was a good question . . . one of many that had started to gnaw at me. "Maybe because it wouldn't be fair," I said. "Excuse me?" Arlene's eyebrows shot skyward. "I must have misheard; it sounded like you said they don't use weapons because it wouldn't be fair." "Let me rephrase ... it would be a fair test of our defensive ability. The mastermind--whoever, whatever --wouldn't learn much except what we look like when we die ... and God knows, it already knows that well enough." After a moment of silent thought, Arlene whispered, "I don't like it, Fly; it makes me feel like we're being watched." "You think I'm paranoid?" "I didn't say I didn't agree; I don't like the implica- tions, that the whole invasion of the Martian moons is just practice, a war game, just the prelude to . .." "To what?" "We'd damn well better find out, Flynn Taggart." Arlene took the AB-10. I took the sweet darling that could kill minotaurs and open doors. We didn't run into any trouble on our way to the other lift on this level; it was clearly marked on the video map. Maybe that was because there was so much trouble in the refinery. There must be a Law of Conservation of Tsouris. But the buttons for all levels below the next were inoperative. It was a local shuttle only. Arlene made triumphant noises, but I reminded her that we never did have a bet on. Only way out is down, I repeated, and pressed the button. Whatever Arlene said, I still thought my primary duty was to get her the hell out of hell; but at the moment, her path and my path were the same: we both needed to burn deeper into the nightmare. "I don't like the look of this place," said Arlene as we stepped from the lift into a vine-covered hallway. "What's not to like? Rows of skulls, walls covered with squirming, writhing, fleshy ivy ... should be like high school by now." We gave the tendrils a wide berth; they looked like they might loop around our throats and strangle the life from us. "Fly," Arlene whispered, "I see another lift right through there." She pointed to the left, at a gap in the ivy on that side where I suddenly realized there was no wall--only the squirming expanse of "plant" life. "Uh-oh," I said. There was more on the other side than a room with a lift in it. There were our old friends, the demons . . . imps, too. We dropped back from the window while the imps began to hiss and heave flaming spitwads. Then my pal Arlene froze my marrow with a professionally calm voice in my ear: "Fly, I think we're going to need the rocket launcher, too." I was already getting ready to rock 'n' roll when I turned to see a pair of giant, floating pumpkins trapped in a cage ahead of us. I could have sworn that spot was empty when we first came in here! Maybe the cage had been lowered just now. If it had been demons, we could have ignored them; but the bars were spaced far enough apart that the pumpkins had all the space they needed to fire their deadly ball-lightning. There was no telling why these heads were locked up; but it meant no more security for us than caged machine gunners. The air crackled above us; electrical discharge ran thousands of prickling little fingers down my head and back, and our hair stood at attention. Arlene looked like a Goosh Ball. Focusing my concentration on the single task of standing up and firing, I heard her shout, "I'll take our nine!" referring to the maddened imps and demons to our left, at the "nine o'clock" position, ripping through the ivy. We ducked as the fireballs seared the same area where the balls of lightning had played electric hairdresser. I wished the imps and pumpkins were only closer together, so that the fireballs and lightning balls might cross paths and wipe out both monster lines. I nearly got my wish. Arlene opened up with the AB-10; when the imps returned fire, they hit their demon buddies. . . the rest was history. While demons swal- lowed imps, who did their best to give a horrible case of heartburn, I squeezed the firing ring, turning the pump- kin cage into an oven to bake pumpkin pie. "Are you all right?" I asked. I could tell from the way she was shaking her head that she hadn't been this close to the rocket explosions before. "As soon as the phone stops ringing between my ears," she answered. "Pack a wallop, don't they?" I was still worrying about the giant blocks of flesh as we skirted the cage and entered an empty, gray room. "They used to use a lot of chambers around here to crush ore and refine the liquid," Arlene explained. "Be careful . . . lots of dangerous equipment." Indeed, I could hear some heavy machinery really earning its keep right nearby. But what? No platforms or lifts, no rising staircases; then Arlene won the prize by looking straight overhead. "Holy ore-crusher, Batman!" she yelped. The damned ceiling was descending on us. Not too fast, but fast enough. "Didn't I see this in a trideo?" I asked, edging back the way we'd come. "It's just too Edgar Allan poetic," said Arlene. We backed out before turning into grease spots. "Now what?" "Hate to say it, Fly . . . but there ain't no other way to book. There must be a door or something in there--if we can find it and pop it before they have to scrape us up with a spatula." The ceiling hit bottom, then rose again at the same stately pace. "We could hunt for another route past this garlic press," she said hesitantly. "But I'm pretty sure this is the only direct route around to Sector Nine, where we were looking through the ivy window at the other lift. At least, that's how I remember it from when I was posted here. "Look, Fly, let me go in and hunt; I know what this place is like better than you." I hated the thought--Arlene under the crushing ceil- ing while I waited outside, "guarding"! But. . . she had a point. Flashlight in one hand, Arlene ran to the opposite end of the room while the ceiling was still rising. She rubbed her palm gently across the smooth surface. "How are you doing?" my voice was strong enough to call out. "I can't find any switches!" she called. Worried, I started pacing in front of the Poe chamber, a restless sentry. Arlene found nothing . . . but would you believe it? I triggered a motion sensor, causing a door to slide open near her. It was pure, dumb luck. "Come on," she shouted. The ceiling had reached the top and was descending again. I ducked my head like a halfback center-punching through the line and bolted across the room through the door--which had already begun to close as the ceiling fell. The door led to the room I'd seen from above, with huge, fleshy cubes rising and falling, an alien mockery of the ore-crushers. But the blocks weren't just flesh; they were alive. Twenty-five pink, fleshy pumping platforms completely covering a room seemed more pointless than disgusting. They made high, whining sounds like newborn infants. "What the hell are they?" I asked. "Wonder if they can move out of those holes in the floor?" "Christ," I added, "what do they do?" Arlene edged closer to one block. She squatted and rose with it, following it down and up. "This isn't just random flesh, Fly; this is muscle tissue. Human muscle tissue." I approached another block. "This is a heart or liver or something." I tracked along the edge of blocks. The last of the five blocks comprised convoluted ridges and furrows, folds in a grayish, spongy medium. "Unless my grandma's been lying all these years," I said, "them there's brains, A.S." "Yecch." We backed away. "All right. . . muscles, brains, some kind of organ meat--this suggest a pattern to you, Fly?" "Several." None of them pleasant. "Are they farming meat, human flesh?" "That's the best-case scenario, Arlene." She looked at me with eyes widening. "And the worst-case?" I smiled grimly. "They're farming humans. They're getting the hang of growing human cells because they're trying to genetically engineer zombie-soldiers, better than the pathetic ones they have now." We watched the blocks rise and fall a couple more minutes. Then Arlene upspake. "Corporal?" "Yes, PFC?" "Permission to hose their research?" "Permission enthusiastically granted. You have some- thing in mind, Arlene?" She did. There was a row of torches along the wall we'd entered by. We blew them out, then upended them, spilling the oil as we hopped from block to squishy block. At the far end, I let Arlene light the ceremonial cigarette lighter. It was her idea, after all. We left the flesh blocks joyously in flame. I supposed the bone block would survive. Well, let the bastards animate skeletons, then! We bolted down a corridor and turned the corner; there I halted in astonishment. Arlene plowed into me, then she too stared. Fifteen demons had arranged themselves in a semicir- cle, backs to us, and they were grunting in unison, giving the impression of speech. Over to the right I noticed a barrel of the ooze. "Have I ever told you about my barrel trick?" I whispered. "Back up around the corner." I followed her, then peered around, lined up my shot very carefully, and gently squeezed the trigger. The world exploded. The heat blast pressed on my right eye and right hand as I pulled back. The explosion even drowned out the screams of the demons. When the debris settled and the last piece of pink and red demon flesh flopped to the smooth floor, Arlene nodded. "Impressive," she pronounced. Then we found out what the demons had been doing crowded into that semicirc