A Rose-Red City

Twelve

THE CROWD ROARED…

Ariadne stood on the platform, a bronze rail in front of her, facing an amphitheater under a blistering furnace of a sun, wearing nothing.

It couldn’t possibly be happening to her. But it was.

Fortunately, she was drunk.

Three days in a dungeon had been bad enough. Three days in a dungeon with Maisie no, that wasn’t fair. She’d been very, very glad of Maisie’s company, and each had consoled the other. It would have been much worse alone, and there could have been worse people to share a dungeon with. Not really a bad kid, Maisie, short on brains, but well-meaning. She’d been cursed with an incredible body in what was still— this was twentieth century reality she was thinking of now, not this legendary Bronze Age fantasy— still a man’s world and had managed to handle that problem well enough to be still a virgin when she got Graham to the altar, which was certainly more than she, Ariadne, had managed. Not a bad kid, just not good enough or old enough to be mother to Lacey and Alan; she was certainly welcome to Graham.

The primping and preening… after three days in that dungeon, they’d been dragged out before dawn, taken to a sort of bathhouse, and there been groomed by a team of giggling female slaves— deloused, bathed, then dried and rubbed until they glowed, and massaged with warm oil so scented with poppy that it had made her head swim, but had felt great. Their hair had been curled with hot bronze tools, the blond locks being treated as one of the wonders of the world, although their shortness was obviously regarded as scandalous. Their eyes, lashes, and brows had been painted with black stuff, their toenails and fingernails varnished, and their nipples rouged. That should have warned her about the dress requirements. Then wreaths of flowers had been braided into their hair. She had expected the fancy garments to appear then.

They had put a coat of blue paint on her breasts and green paint on Maisie’s— much more paint— and a matching stripe on their backs, and that had been it. She had a vague idea why they were different colors and she did not want to think about it.

Drunk, but not her fault. Just drunk enough to keep her from fainting from terror.

The amphitheater was as big as some football stadiums she’d seen, made all of stone. Squinting against the sunlight, she ignored the center itself and looked at the stands. The place was not full, but there were several thousand people there. Curiously, there were no seats; each level seemed to be flanked by a low wall, which would stop people falling into the row in front, of course, but it seemed a strange way to watch a show. Many spectators were sitting on those dividers, but that meant they had to twist around to see what was going on down in the arena itself.

After the bath and beauty treatment, Maisie and she had been taken to another room and offered a meal of four or five dishes that they had hardly touched. The platters themselves had been incredible, solid gold plate so embossed with intricate designs that she had been tempted to throw the contents on the floor just to be able to admire the artwork. But the food had not appealed— salt fish, something that was probably sliced octopus, and a sort of grain mash like the stuff she fed to chickens. After a few sample mouthfuls she had decided that they were all spiced to heaven and heavily salted, and their purpose, therefore, must be to make them drink, so she had pushed them all away and warned Maisie.

That had provoked vast consternation and whispered discussion among all the slaves and the fancily dressed women who were probably priestesses. There had been long harangues, then, in the gibberish language, and even threats, and gestures that they must drink and eat, especially drink. When they still refused, several butch-type female slaves had been brought in, and a large funnel produced. The threat had been obvious, and so both had yielded and drunk as required— two drafts apiece from enormous gold goblets almost too heavy to lift.

So she was off the wagon, and the world had a familiar, enjoyable vagueness to it again. Lousy wine. And the volume! She needed to go again already, but perhaps that was nerves.

The crowd roared…

She half turned in time to see Maisie being brought out and marched up to stand beside her at the rail, facing the amphitheater, blinking in the sunlight, and bombed to the earlobes.

Ariadne gave Maisie a grin to cheer her up. “Wave to the nice people,” she said, “and see what happens.” She hadn’t dared— she was too crushed by her nakedness before this huge throng.

Maisie stuck our her dainty chin. “And why not?” she said. She was drunk and in the past she had won beauty contests wearing little more than this; so she threw up her arms in a salute. That sort of gesture made Maisie bounce spectacularly.

The crowd roared

They hadn’t been badly treated by the standards of the Bronze Age; not by the standards of the squalid little farms and the dingy, filthy streets she’d seen, or the monstrous half-built megalithic walls of the palace which meant massive public works being done at the wrong ends of whips. They’d been arrested by soldiers with shields and bronze swords and helmets shaped like colanders. These brown young men in leather kilts had been fascinated by the sight of blond women and unable to resist looking to see if that sort of hair was present elsewhere, but had behaved themselves reasonably well otherwise under the watchful eye of a five-star general in gold armor who wore a helmet made of boars’ tusks. Jerry had become absurdly excited over that helmet— indeed, over the whole procedure— and either he was incredibly brave, or had tremendous faith in the Oracle, or he was just plain crazy.

She could use a shot of gin to take away the taste of the wine. Why the wine, anyway?

Why had the Oracle said that she could help? The ball of twine that Killer had given her had gone with all their other possessions— with rings and rosary and earrings— and, anyway, twine would only be useful for coming back out, which they were supposed not to need to do, if you believed what Killer said the Oracle said.

Maisie hiccuped and giggled and waved to the crowd again.

Ariadne forced her eyes down to look at the Labyrinth and saw the small stone roof in the center, the Minotaur’s pen— one flat slab in the middle of a great expanse of rectangular walls. There was a very low doorway on this side of it, facing towards the royal box, the top of the doorway just visible to her over the top of the first wall in front of it. Even as she first looked, something crawled out of that door and stood up.

The crowd roared…

the Minotaur! A wave of dread and nausea swept over her, and she gripped the bronze railing tightly and fought down a throbbing blackness that threatened to wash her away in that wave. Was that what the wine had been for then, to keep the victims from fainting with terror? A mercy?

She had looked away and now she forced her eyes back to it— just what she had seen in the cottage, except that if it was truly as large as that, then this place was even more huge than she had thought. It was yawning and stretching like a man waking from sleep, except no human being had ever had arms like that, perhaps no gorilla ever had. It was not unlike a gorilla, either, with the thick black hair over the front of its body, its arms and shoulders and chest far out of proportion to the legs. But it would need those shoulders to support the gigantic bull’s head, that bestial black muzzle with the black horns curving upwards and outwards.

Asterios the Minotaur had heard the crowd noise and was emerging to see what was for breakfast.

But where were the men?

They’d been separated that first night in the village and transported in separate carts to the city, thrown into separate dungeons. Ariadne had not seen or spoken to Jerry, Carlo, or Graham for three days. Perhaps they had gone earlier? No, Killer had said three days to eat a body.

She saw bones. The roadways between the innumerable walls were black dirt, and there were bones protruding from it in places. Directly below her— about twenty feet down, maybe— she could see a shattered skull, half-buried in dark slime.

She swung around, turned her back on the Minotaur, and looked at the rows of spectators behind her and the front of the royal box directly above. She could not see the occupants, or if King Minos was present, but she could catch a glimpse of a guard at each front corner, in those strange helmets, like pineapples made of boars’ teeth. A type of helmet described in Homer, Jerry had said, and dug up at some site in Greece— so what? Below the box was the door from the players’ dressing rooms, and there was Jerry, naked as a newborn, with flowers in his hair and two soldiers prodding him on with spears.

He had an all-over tan, she noticed, and his breasts… sorry, sir, pectorals… had been painted yellow to match his hair.

It was foolish to be embarrassed at a time like this, but Ariadne turned around to face the arena again as he emerged from the tunnel, and the crowd roared.

Third victim, ladies and gentlemen, in today’s gala presentation. 5— count them— 5!

It was good to see him again, though. Maisie was all right, but now she wanted male support. Three days with Maisie, trying to make conversation in the semidarkness of a tiny stone cellar, sparsely furnished with straw that was itself well furnished with lice, staring at a rank bucket and the inevitable bowl of beans and jug of water which was all they had been fed— they were fortunate that neither of them had felt any real desire to eat or drink. They had talked of the children and the things they had said or done. Ariadne had rambled on about Lacey’s great future in music, and Maisie had nodded and not truly understood. They had even talked of Graham, and it seemed his sex life was much the same as before, just as insatiable and inconsiderate as ever. But if Maisie enjoyed being a trampoline, that was her business… and perhaps she, herself, had found it flattering or something when she was that age.

Brown-tanned, yellow-breasted, Jerry staggered up and put an arm around her shoulders, then lumbered into the rail, and came to a stop. He looked freshly shaven, oiled, and smelled of poppy as she did, and his yellow hair had been curled. What would Killer say if he could see him now?

“Shgood shee yuh,” he said, with difficulty. Oh no! He was almost too drunk to stand.

“They got you too, did they?” she said angrily.

He tried to focus on her, without much success. “Coarsh! Woodnt tushit. Forshd ush.” His mouth and throat were bruised, so there had been a struggle.

She turned to Maisie in dismay. She had not expected that the men would have been liquored up, also. She herself was happy and slightly dizzy, but the soberest of the three of them. It took a lot more than two goblets of that watery wine to get her sloshed. Jerry was having trouble standing upright. Drunk as a lord; they must have poured gallons into him— why? Just to slow him down? Killer had said it was a sort of national sport, the Minotaur stakes. Why slow the runners?

The Oracle had said that Ariadne could help. Well, she was an alcoholic, and the others were not. She would not be capable of driving a car, but perhaps only she would be capable of doing anything at all. She thought she could probably carry Maisie, or perhaps drag a staggering Jerry, but certainly the others must fend for themselves.

Why this enforced drunkenness? Was it only a kindness or was there some other purpose? Were sober victims a threat to the Minotaur?

The crowd roared.

She turned to look at the tunnel, but there was no sign of the other two. She looked into the Labyrinth and saw the cause of the excitement— the Minotaur was taking a pee. Big deal.

Then came a louder roar, and she turned once more to see Graham reeling out of the tunnel ahead of the guards. The applause was halfhearted; evidently the spectators disapproved of big ones— slow runners? Much to her surprise, she felt sorry for him. His second marriage was doing him no good— he was developing a paunch. He was huge and hairy and the top of his chest was painted black, about the only color they could have used on him. He looked pathetic and rather hideous. He hit the rail beyond Maisie and doubled over. For an instant she thought he was going to topple straight down into the Labyrinth, but he was merely throwing up. That might help, if it got rid of some of the wine.

Poor Graham— the end of a promising career in crooked law. He had at first refused to come on this crazy surrender mission, arguing that it would be better to flee off to the hills, or perhaps to the other side of the island to build a boat. He had declined to remove his twentieth-century clothes until Killer had drawn his dagger; and he had finally come with the rest, bringing the obedient Maisie, only because he had known that the two of them could not survive in the wilds and were better off clutching at the thin straw Killer offered than drowning without it.

They had been a strange company, trekking down the valley in their simple wraps and loin cloths towards arrest and captivity. Jerry had looked all right— not bad at all, actually— and probably she and Maisie had been passable. Carlo’s extreme skinniness had seemed unhealthy, although he was a wholesome brown color; but Graham in a loin cloth had been only marginally less ridiculous than Graham now in a wreath of flowers, his tan ending at his neck and elbows, hairy, out of shape, and flabby. Fortunately their strange on-hold suspension had also made them immune to sunburn, or they would all, except Carlo, have been broiled that day. Jerry’s tan had proved adequate, although he had become badly dehydrated.

The crowd roared

The Minotaur was moving. It strolled away along the side of its pen and vanished behind it.

Coming to inspect the goods! Her knees wavered, and her hands started to shake horribly. If it got here before they were thrown in, then it would be waiting down there for them Then the roar grew even greater and Carlo came reeling out, his chest smeared with white. Tremendous ovation! She wondered if that was because he looked more like a runner than the rest of them? Or because he was so skinny that the Asterios would leave him till last? He blundered into the rail beyond Jerry and shook his head a few times.

Asterios had appeared again, coming towards her, one wall away from its pen now, and the crowd was beginning to get excited. Up in the royal box, someone was singing a hymn.

How far did Asterios have to walk?

Did the monster know the correct way? Did it have the intelligence of a man or of a bull or of something in between, she wondered, and decided even a bull could probably learn the route in time, or follow it by scent.

Carlo belched and sagged to the ground. Two soldiers came forward and hoisted him to his feet again, leaned him against the rail. “F’off,” he muttered and closed his eyes.

“Get a grip on yourself!” she whispered urgently. “We’ve got to do some running soon.”

Eyes still closed, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth, forming the words carefully. “I’m not as pissed as I look.” That was bad. Anyone who thought that was usually a lot drunker.

The Minotaur had turned a corner and was moving, presumably, across her line of sight; she could not see it when it was going that way. There was movement in the crowd, and suddenly she understood why there were no seats in this amphitheater— the spectators would move around to keep watch on the players! Those Labyrinth walls were about ten feet high, pointed on top, and even the huge Minotaur was only visible to someone looking along the length of whatever walkway it was in.

“Ariadne,” said Maisie, who had been trying to hold a conversation with Graham without success, “why are we all color coded?”

“I don’t know, dear,” she lied. Obviously it was for gambling— ten talents on the white to be last to die; four talents that he rapes the blue before the green Then the Minotaur appeared briefly, coming through a gap in a wall and then continuing on in the same direction as before.

Oh my God! That was how she could help— that was why they had all been doped! She could figure out this infernal Labyrinth! Without that information they would be running blind with a fifty-fifty chance of error at every branching, while the Minotaur probably knew every stone in the walls. And the men had been drugged more heavily because she and Maisie were only women and therefore too stupid to worry about. From here she could see the whole thing. The monster had come out and turned right and then it must have turned left and then…

She shook her head to try to clear it. That wouldn’t work! She would never be able to remember the sequence and then reverse it so that they could know the order they would need; and she hadn’t watched to see if it had bypassed any turns The monster’s pen faced towards her, and she could see that there was a wall all the way around it, with a gap in the far side… but the walkway didn’t go all the way around. If the monster had turned left from its door it would have met a blocking cross wall.

“Wash th’ell shappening?” demanded Jerry, swaying and looking as though he might be going to throw up also.

“Shut up, I’m thinking!” she snapped. Then… “You feel like puking?” He nodded miserably.

“Then do it! Stick a finger down your throat.”

She went back to studying the Labyrinth, catching a glimpse of the Mino-taur heading away from her in the distance, its horns just visible over a wall.

Concentric boxes… the pen in the middle and a group of concentric boxes, each one having a single gateway through it, none of them opposite another, so far as she could see. Nine boxes? Count again. Ten. No! Nine it was. The opening to the first one was at the far side, so to get to the middle, if you started from just below her, you went… right— the left way led to a dead end just around the far corner. The next gateway you went… remember you’re coming this way, so reverse hands… left? No, right again.

The hymn had ended, the crowd was beginning to shout for blood in one continuous roar. And there was the Minotaur, three walls away from its pen now, standing looking towards her, studying the situation— counting its breakfast, if it could count to five— seeing how the ceremony was coming on. Then it started to move again, faster now, striding along like a man out walking a dog.

A troop of guards holding short swords came running out of the tunnel into the prisoners’ enclosure, and the din increased once more.

Right, right, left… Right…

She would never remember a list of nine of them, or would it be ten? Did nine walls make ten walkways? No, nine gates were what mattered.

Jerry threw up disgustingly over the rail, and she ignored him. Graham had sunk to the ground and passed out. Maisie was weeping.

She needed a pencil and paper

The soldiers had raised a bronze plate from the floor, exposing a shaft. She needed a notebook. She had nothing except a wreath of flowers. Pull petals? He loves me, he loves me not. She had fingernails— could she scratch the initials into her arm?

Better than that— she had this Bronze-Age fingernail polish! It wasn’t very hard, probably just a wax since it had been hot when they put it on her. It would rub off on the rail easily— scratch for right, no scratch for left.

Start with the right pinkie, scratch. Next finger, scratch again. Right, right…

She found the third wall, found the gap in it, traced it around— walking on the inside, remember— left that time. Fourth finger, fourth wall…

The guards dragged Graham over to the shaft and dropped him in, keeping a screaming Maisie back with their swords, while the crowd booed and booed: too much wine. Graham came shooting out in the Labyrinth below Ariadne, right where Jerry had just vomited— tough. Fifth wall…

Maisie shrieked horribly, was drowned out by the crowd, and vanished into the shaft, thumping into Graham’s prostrate form below. Left thumb.

She was next!

She ducked quickly past Jerry and Carlo. Where was she? Left thumb… Jerry went quietly, not staggering too much, but she hardly noticed until she heard him below her, pulling Graham out of the way.

Seventh wall…

Carlo was next. He paused at the top of the shaft, waved to the crowd, and got an ear-hurting roar, while the soldiers stood back and grinned. Then he made a grab for one of them, but they were too quick for him, or else his reflexes were slowed by the wine. But the crowd cheered once more as he was tossed roughly and headfirst into the shaft. So he truly was more sober than he had pretended— sneaky!

Eighth wall… and she had no more time. The soldiers did not drive her with their swords— hands were more fun. For a moment she almost squirmed loose, oily and slick with the sweat of fear, but then she, too, was dropped into blackness. She shot down a long, greasy, bronze slide and out into the corridor below, with its stench and unspeakable filth. The hatch cover clanged shut above her.

A loud buzzing next to her ears… ugh! Obviously no one ever came into the Labyrinth to clean; the floor was thick with excrement and rotted flesh and offal, crawling with insects. Her stomach heaved, and she scrambled hastily to her feet, coated with the disgusting ooze and standing ankle-deep in it, brushing off nasty crunchy bugs, her head swimming with the foul air. There was the skull she had noticed, tooth marks obvious on it at this distance.

She looked at her companions. Jerry and Carlo were trying to get Graham to his feet. Maisie was leaning against the wall with her eyes closed and her lips moving, praying again.

Start by going right. “This way!” she shouted, grabbing Maisie’s arm. The other two had pulled Graham up and had his arms over their shoulders— they almost filled the width of the corridor and they swayed horribly. “Run, damn it!” she shouted, and they started reeling along ahead of her.

Speed! They must move! They had to get into the Labyrinth proper before the monster reached this outermost passage, or it could simply drive them back into a dead end. “Faster!” Maisie fell. Ariadne dragged her up again and slapped her face, hard. She opened her eyes very wide, white in a filth-coated mask of a face, and the two of them hurried on after the three men. Graham’s feet were starting to move. It was horrible stuff to run in, slippery, soft goo with hard lumps in it— probably bones because some snapped, some rolled, and some were sharp. They careened round the second corner and the first gateway coming up on their left. Now she had to make a decision— did they keep on towards the center and the approaching monster, or did they duck up the blind alley and wait for it to go by? Always assuming that it would work its way to the outside first and not play the same game and just wait for them?

There was the gate— check the first finger. “Right!” she said.

The triple-header stopped, and Jerry disentangled himself, leaning Graham against the wall. “How d’you know?” he demanded blearily. He was recovering— the exercise and fear were cutting through the wine.

“I know! Trust me!” she begged him. “I’ve got more capacity for liquor than any of you. Move!”

They moved, and now Graham could manage better, although he kept falling and having to climb up again. They raced along that endless corridor, and, while it was unspeakably foul, at least it was cool and damp, not like the heat-baked platform had been. The two stone walls stretched out ahead to the corner, and beyond that rose the much higher wall that led up to the stands— and above that a narrow wedge of the stands, with spectators running in from both sides to watch their progress.

They rounded the corner— another empty and endless passage ahead. They were making too much noise… but surely the din of the crowd would drown it out?

Another corner, and this time she grabbed at shoulders and stopped everyone, then crept ahead and took a quick peek around. Empty. “Come on, then…” Here was another question— how far had the Minotaur come? Was it still advancing, or was it standing in the right-of-way, waiting for them, or had it gone down a blind alley to let them pass so it could drive them to the center? They wanted to get past it— perhaps it wanted the same thing. Most of its victims were only interested in hiding for as long as possible and would not want to reach the middle of the Labyrinth, as she and her companions did; the magic door to Mera was for them only.

Then they reached the gateway, and again she called a halt and crept forward alone to reconnoiter, to poke her head through for a quick glance left and another quick glance right. No monster.

Which way? Right was right if they were going to the center. She led them left and heard the crowd boom with excitement.

They reached the corner, turned it, and stopped at the sight of a dead end.

“Wrong!” Jerry said. “Come on!”

“No!” she said, and managed to stop them— they were all wide-eyed and too tensed up or drunk to think straight. Graham had his eyes open, but could barely stand without support. Jerry and Carlo were better, but still confused.

She made them stay where they were and went back to the corner they had just turned. She lay down in the filth. She dug out a small hole for her head and looked back with one eye showing, her innards heaving and roiling at the stench and the creepiness of the bugs. The surface was very uneven— she hoped that the Minotaur’s eyesight would not be good enough to notice half a head at ground level.

She played the waiting game… waiting… waiting

Then she noticed the crowd noise, rising and then falling again. The sacrificial victims were not moving, so the spectators were reacting to whatever the Minotaur was doing.

And there it was! It had come around the corner at the far end of the corridor she was watching and was advancing towards her, all its obscene ugliness revealed by the stark sunlight. Lord! It was huge, seven feet tall, maybe eight, broad and hairy and with that enormous head and deadly horns It plodded up to the gateway she had come through and stopped. The crowd grew silent. It stepped into the gateway and looked to its right, then to its left. It backed up again and rolled those great animal eyes in her direction. It took a step.

The crowd roared.

Bastards! Bloody bastards! Asterios could get clues from the crowd! The Minotaur stopped, and the crowd fell silent. Then the monster turned towards the center of the Labyrinth and reached up with those impossible arms, gripped the top of the wall, and pulled itself up, walking its human feet up the stones. It peered over into the corridor it had left behind. Then it dropped back down again, splattering filth, and once more paused to look in her direction.

It knew they were there.

It had guessed from the crowd reaction, perhaps could even see her watching it.

Then the monster turned, walked back to the gateway, and went through it, out of sight. Now it was she who could listen to the crowd noise— low… lower… rising again. So the Minotaur was still playing its hesitation game outside the gate, pretending to be making up its mind whether to go left or right.

It likes to play with its victims.

Lying there in the cool, foul sludge, with sharp bones sticking in her, she waited. It wasn’t fair! The Minotaur could look over the walls; she had not thought of that before.

What else had the Oracle told Killer— that Minos liked to put in many victims at one time? Surely the crowd would not get so excited if this spectacle happened every three days. What was special about five victims, apart from the opportunities for gambling?

The Minotaur’s head appeared in the gateway again, checking once more. So it was still there, playing with them, and the crowd was loving it.

She waited until it was facing in the opposite direction, then wriggled back and stood up. She put a finger over her lips to warn the others and she pointed at the corner of the dead end.

Graham was still by far the most heavily drugged, but he was persuaded to stand by Jerry in the corner, making a ladder of their hands and shoulders. Maisie was over first, then Ariadne followed, wriggling and cursing on that nastily pointed top. For a moment she could look over the whole expanse of the Labyrinth, see the tiny square roof in the center that was life— if Killer was telling the truth— see the clumps of people in the stands, yelling their filthy heads off at this new development. Then she was down beside Maisie in the third box.

There was an interminable pause; she should not have left those three drunkards by themselves. Then Graham came next, landed heavily, and took his time getting up and back against the wall so that Jerry had something to stand on when he pulled Carlo over. Then they were all in the third box, past the Minotaur.

“Which way?” Jerry demanded, rubbing a scraped and bleeding chest. “Same again,” she said, pointing at the wall.

So they went over the next wall— and the crowd boomed once more— but a flat wall was harder to manage than a corner. Graham slipped to the ground as she climbed on his shoulders, and they fell in a heap. Jerry slapped Graham’s face as she had slapped Maisie’s, and at the next try they made it.

Then the next wall, and as she went over that one, catching a brief glimpse of the whole Labyrinth once more, the Minotaur’s head appeared in the distance, and the two of them stared at each other across a wide expanse. Then she dropped down, and probably the Minotaur did, too, for then it bellowed— that same dreadful, earth-shaking noise she had heard in the cottage, and loud enough to drown out even the insane yelling of the crowd.

If it could look over a wall so easily, it could probably climb over one, also. They tackled another wall, but now they were getting more skillful, and the men were certainly sobering. All five of them were filthy and slick with muck, scraped and bleeding from the stones, but they were starting to perform together like a team of acrobats. How many walls was that? Why was the crowd quiet? Why was the crowd yelling? Where in hell was the monster? Was it racing around the passageways towards them, or was it also scrambling over the barriers?

Jerry was suffering the most, because he always had the job of pulling Carlo up, which meant being doubled over the wall with Graham holding his feet. Ariadne suddenly saw that the effort of climbing was probably no longer worth it— the inside boxes were small. “Let’s run!” she said.

But her fingers were too filthy, the nails too scratched, for her notes to be any use now, and they started the wrong way, came to a dead end, reversed, and retraced.

The running was even harder now, hard on bare feet, for there was less filth and more bones— long piles of ribs, shattered skulls, and limb bones along the sides of the passages, with only a narrow track down the middle for running. Evidently both the Minotaur and its victims had preferred to do their defecating away from the center of the maze— and surely they must be almost at the center now?

Then it saw them. They had just turned a corner when the Minotaur’s head loomed over a wall ahead— not the one which ended the passage, but the next beyond. It bellowed and started to scramble over. Maisie stopped in horror, and the others cannoned into her.

“Keep going!” Ariadne shouted.

“Damn right!” Carlo yelled and gave her a shove, so they all ran forward once more. They had just reached the corner when the great hairy hands appeared on the ridge of the wall above their heads. Jerry stopped and selected a couple of skulls as missilies.

“You go on!” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As the other three raced away, Ariadne picked up a largish thigh bone and smiled at Jerry. “Lift me?” He was almost sober now, and he turned his filthy face to her and grinned “Give him hell!” he said. He backed up to the wall and cupped his hands. She clambered up onto his shoulders just in time— the monstrous bull head rose on the other side of the wall, the huge bovine eyes looked into hers. There was a pause, for the monster’s hands were gripping the coping stone, and it could not grab for her; then she swung the thigh bone as hard as she could at the leathery black nose. Bulls’ noses were particularly sensitive, weren’t they?

Evidently this one was; a roar of pain boomed out, both head and hands vanished. There was an audible crash of smashing bones as the Minotaur fell backwards, and then the noise of the crowd drowned out anything more. She almost toppled also, was steadied by Jerry’s hands against her legs, scrambled and slithered back down, and found herself standing with his arms around her.

“I would kiss you if you weren’t so disgustingly filthy,” he said. “I bet you tell all the girls that.”

He laughed and said, “Come on!” and they ran off along the passage toward yet another gateway, She did not know which way to turn, but as she hesitated the other three came running in from her left. So they all went right, and two more corners brought them to the front of the Minotaur’s pen.

There was a very low and nasty-looking black entrance. For a moment no one seemed to want to go first, and then they heard the crowd noise rising to frenzy— the moment of truth was fast approaching, Asterios closing in— and with a scramble they all dived for that doorway, to find out how much of what Killer had said was true.…