Read The House of Doors - 01 Online
Authors: Brian Lumley
The House of Doors - 01 (13 page)
H
ow long Gill’s nightmare descent of the escarpment lasted, lodged like a sheep tick on the back of the hunting thing and clinging there for his life, he would never be able to say. Long enough that he thought his arms were going to tear free of their sockets, but that even if they didn’t, it would make no difference for he’d never again be able to unclench his bloodless, nerveless fingers. Long enough that he lost all sense of direction and orientation; so that when he did finally succumb, lose his grip on the stinger, and slide unresisting down the curve of the thing’s segmented flank, it took some little time for the fact to dawn that instead of falling through space he had flopped down on his back in thick moss, and that the alien stars overhead were paling now in the fast-spreading light of a new dawn.
ow long Gill’s nightmare descent of the escarpment lasted, lodged like a sheep tick on the back of the hunting thing and clinging there for his life, he would never be able to say. Long enough that he thought his arms were going to tear free of their sockets, but that even if they didn’t, it would make no difference for he’d never again be able to unclench his bloodless, nerveless fingers. Long enough that he lost all sense of direction and orientation; so that when he did finally succumb, lose his grip on the stinger, and slide unresisting down the curve of the thing’s segmented flank, it took some little time for the fact to dawn that instead of falling through space he had flopped down on his back in thick moss, and that the alien stars overhead were paling now in the fast-spreading light of a new dawn.
For the fact that he still lived, Gill hoarsely breathed his thanks to whichever gods applied here, before gritting his teeth and forcing his throbbing muscles to answer his call. From high overhead as he tremblingly, groaningly sat up, he could hear the ringing, echoing cries of his fellow castaways, calling down, “Halloo! Halloo!” But he hadn’t the wind or the spit in his dust-dry throat to try for an answer. Later, maybe … if there was to be a later.
For as he looked all about in the still-faint but rapidly improving light, he became aware of a massed cracking of twigs and dry branches, and he sensed the presence of some large bulk moving in the dawn. The short hairs stood up on the back of his neck as the sounds grew louder, apparently heading in his direction, and instinct told him that nothing remotely human made them. It could only be that something had sensed him here and was even now closing on him.
Gill got to all fours, tensed himself, held his breath. To the east a rolling bank of ground mist was gradually clearing, and this was the source of the sounds. In another moment something solid formed in the mist, taking on mass as it moved towards him. Then … Gill’s talent reasserted itself; he knew what the thing was; his gathered breath
whooshed
out of him and he slumped a little, gasping his relief. It was only the hunting machine, scuttling this way and that, proboscis to the valley’s floor, for all the world like some awesome hound tracking a scent. And the idea took hold: that was precisely what it was doing. Haggie’s scent, of course—and Angela’s.
whooshed
out of him and he slumped a little, gasping his relief. It was only the hunting machine, scuttling this way and that, proboscis to the valley’s floor, for all the world like some awesome hound tracking a scent. And the idea took hold: that was precisely what it was doing. Haggie’s scent, of course—and Angela’s.
Finally the thing turned towards the near-distant forest; its antennae moved atop its head, locking on something Gill could neither see nor hear; its faceted eyes glinted in the new, misty light and blinked away a film of moisture. And then it moved with renewed purpose, scurrying out from the shadow of the escarpment and towards the faintly stirring, dew-laden canopy of alien foliage. Heading, in fact, in the direction of the mansion, which Gill had little doubt was yet another manifestation of the House of Doors.
He climbed achingly to his feet.
Where you go, my friend
, he silently, grimly vowed,
there go I!
Where you go, my friend
, he silently, grimly vowed,
there go I!
Keeping a low profile and running through grass and soft mosses on legs which astonished him with their strength (where by rights there should be none), he gained on the alien machine until he was right behind it. Finally he was able to reach out, grab hold and cling to an armoured plate, draw himself up onto its back, and—
—the thing stopped dead in its tracks!
Eye stalks swivelled with all the agility of a chameleon, turning the faceted eyes through one hundred and eighty degrees and directing them to gaze upon Gill. Whether the thing recognised him or not it was difficult to say: it must have memory banks, he supposed. But if not as a person—and one it had seen before—certainly it recognised him as an unnecessary burden. It reared first to one side, then the other, tilting its carapace like some alien, crustacean bronco, trying to unseat him. Had he been some large clod of earth or a fallen tree, then the thing might have succeeded; but he was a thinking being and the hunter’s motions were too mechanical and contrived to fool him; he simply shifted his centre of gravity and stayed put. Now he would see how this creature (no, he reminded himself, this machine) coped with an intelligent clod of earth.
He did see, and at once. The great scythe stinger swivelled in its socket, bending its tip down towards him where he clung to the hunter’s plated back. Gill twisted his neck to look up and back at the stinger as it elongated itself towards his spine, and he thought:
God, is it going to kill me?
If so, he would guess that it wasn’t because the thing found him especially distasteful; and since he hadn’t threatened it, he could hardly be considered an enemy. Therefore, it could only be that he was an encumbrance, an impediment.
God, is it going to kill me?
If so, he would guess that it wasn’t because the thing found him especially distasteful; and since he hadn’t threatened it, he could hardly be considered an enemy. Therefore, it could only be that he was an encumbrance, an impediment.
Jesus!
he thought.
I’m going to die because I got in its way once too often! Why the hell didn’t you do it back there, when we were coming down the damned cliff?
But of course, the thing made no answer.
he thought.
I’m going to die because I got in its way once too often! Why the hell didn’t you do it back there, when we were coming down the damned cliff?
But of course, the thing made no answer.
He released the base of the stinger and tried to throw himself from the thing’s back. But his jacket had snagged on one of its spiked plates. Tugging his sleeve until the material tore, Gill wrenched himself over onto his back. The tip of the stinger was now poised just six inches over his heart. Thick as Gill’s thumb, the chitin-plated point was indented at its tip like a navel. As his bulging eyes watched, the “skin” of the navel peeled outwards like the petals of a flower unfurling—and a hypodermic needle emerged, squirting liquid even as it stabbed home!
The needle passed through jacket, shirt, and vest, and into Gill’s chest. But the agent it used was so quick that he didn’t even feel its sting … .
It didn’t ditch me on the cliff
—Gill’s resurfacing mind was still working on the problem—
because it knew that to do so would be to kill me—which wasn’t its purpose. Its job concerns Haggie. Only
Haggie.
—Gill’s resurfacing mind was still working on the problem—
because it knew that to do so would be to kill me—which wasn’t its purpose. Its job concerns Haggie. Only
Haggie.
And carrying his logic a step further:
So if it didn’t desire to kill me then, why should it do so now? Answer: it shouldn’t. It hasn’t. Ergo, I’m not dead!
So if it didn’t desire to kill me then, why should it do so now? Answer: it shouldn’t. It hasn’t. Ergo, I’m not dead!
“Is he dead?” Varre’s voice with its faint French accent got through to him. Which was all the corroboration Gill needed. Someone was fumbling with his jacket; a hand groped around in the region of his heart, touching the sore spot where the needle had gone in.
Gill opened his eyes on blinding light, gurgled, “No, I’m not!” But his mouth felt like something had died in there.
They helped him to sit up. Varre, Anderson—who had been examining him—and Clayborne … but where was Turnbull? And where was Bannerman? Anderson saw the question written in Gill’s eyes, said: “Turnbull’s okay. He’s coming out of it. We found an easy way down, took turns carrying—or dragging—him. He’s a big man.”
Gill felt a sudden nausea welling inside. He gulped and a little bile entered his mouth, causing taste buds to react and fill it with sweet water. He spat the whole lot out. Then he looked around and saw Turnbull propped against the bole of a squat tree. He was still out but his colour had returned almost to normal.
“Where’s Bannerman?” Gill asked.
Anderson shrugged. “Gone missing. Haven’t seen him since last night when we got our heads down. What about Haggie and the girl—and that bloody nightmare?”
Clayborne helped Gill to his feet and he told them what he knew. Especially about the hunting machine. “So it’s just as Haggie said,” he finished. “It’s after him. Don’t ask me why, but it is. It’s not a bit interested in us. I would have been easy meat but it just put me to sleep.”
Turnbull woke up with a start and said, “Eh? Sleep?” He squinted and looked dazedly around. His eyes were bloodshot in their dark sockets. “I was,
uh,
dreaming!”
uh,
dreaming!”
Gill went to him. “You’re not quite awake even now.” He grinned. And then he sobered. “Something bit you, remember?”
Turnbull glanced at his hand, which was now more nearly its original shape and size. “God, yes!” he breathed. “What a monster!”
“I could tell you a few things about monsters.” Gill nodded.
Meanwhile Varre had been examining some green and red fruits on a thorny shrub. They looked very much like apples. He bit into one and held the portion in his mouth, carefully tasting it. Then he chewed, but hesitantly, and finally smiled. “Hey,” he called out. “These are good!”
Anderson and Clayborne went to him, leaving Gill and Turnbull on their own. Turnbull jerked his head, indicating that Gill should come closer. Gill went down on one knee. “What is it?”
“About Bannerman.” Turnbull kept his voice low. “There’s something not quite right about that bloke. I’ve suspected it from square one, and even though I’ve got no proof, still I’d bet my life he’s weird.”
Gill looked at him. “He saved your life,” he answered. “Got you down off the cliff after you’d been bitten.”
Turnbull frowned. “Then that’s twice he’s saved my life,” he said. “But God only knows why! The way I have it figured, he’s the one who tried to nail you that night at your flat.”
Gill stiffened. That was the other thing that had been worrying him about Bannerman: where he’d seen him before. “But he has both of his hands,” he answered, after a moment.
Turnbull nodded, shrugged. “It’s got me beat,” he said.
“You’re probably right anyway.” Gill let him off the hook. “I smelled something funny about him, too. And not funny ha-ha. But … this is between you and me?”
“Sure.”
“I’m not even a hundred percent certain he’s a man!”
“What?”
Turnbull sat up straighter, groaned, and would have slipped to one side if Gill hadn’t grabbed him. “God, I’m dizzy as a doped cat!” he said. And in a voice even more hushed: “Did you say Bannerman isn’t a man? You mean he’s an alien?”
Turnbull sat up straighter, groaned, and would have slipped to one side if Gill hadn’t grabbed him. “God, I’m dizzy as a doped cat!” he said. And in a voice even more hushed: “Did you say Bannerman isn’t a man? You mean he’s an alien?”
“Yes,” Gill answered instinctively. “I mean, no—not unless they’re machines.”
“He’s a machine?” Turnbull couldn’t accept it. “But that’s … crazy!”
“Sounds that way, doesn’t it?” Gill was suddenly unsure. “But anyway, that’s my best shot. Oh, he wouldn’t be any kind of machine we ever met up with before, but …” He shrugged. And before Turnbull could begin to argue the point: “Anyway, he’s disappeared. Went in the night.”
“The night? What night?”
Gill saw the others returning with some of the fruit. Lifting his voice a little, he said, “Yes, he vanished last night. You were unconscious, of course.”
Turnbull flexed his arms, legs, said, “Help me up.”
Gill got him on his feet, told him, “I’d take it easy if I were you.”
Turnbull looked around, squinted into the blue sky where a blazing orb moved towards its zenith. “I don’t see Haggie and the girl,” he said.
In the presence of the others, Gill repeated what had happened. As he was finishing, Varre bent double and threw up. It was quite the most sudden, most violent upheaval Gill had ever seen, and in the middle of it the Frenchman fell to the grass and rolled there, obviously in agony. Anderson and Clayborne looked at each other with horror written on their faces, and in another few seconds they’d joined Varre.
“P-poisoned!” Varre gurgled through his vomit.
And Clayborne added, “God, what a hellhole! You and your fucking fruit!”
Gill and Turnbull could do nothing. For another half hour they simply sat and watched the three purging themselves … .
W
hen the Bannerman construct firmed back into being, Sith observed it with something approaching distaste. He had enjoyed the all-too-brief period of physical freedom here in the synthesizer’s vast control room. It was sheer luxury after the confines of the construct. But in fact, even the control room itself was mainly synthesised: a projection of space within space. It was one of many projections, even of entire worlds. But they were transient things, hyperspatial as the faster-than-light continuum whose configurations formed the mainly hypothetical boundaries of the universe. The synthesizer stored them in its memory banks, for reproduction at Sith’s will.
hen the Bannerman construct firmed back into being, Sith observed it with something approaching distaste. He had enjoyed the all-too-brief period of physical freedom here in the synthesizer’s vast control room. It was sheer luxury after the confines of the construct. But in fact, even the control room itself was mainly synthesised: a projection of space within space. It was one of many projections, even of entire worlds. But they were transient things, hyperspatial as the faster-than-light continuum whose configurations formed the mainly hypothetical boundaries of the universe. The synthesizer stored them in its memory banks, for reproduction at Sith’s will.
He had discovered
many
worlds in his voyage of search and discovery, and all were stored unedited within the memory of the synthesizer. He would store reproducible memories of Earth there, too—but not until after planetary restructuring. He would not want some future Thone scientist wandering about in the synthesizer’s memory banks and perhaps discovering that in fact the peoples of Earth had been worthy.
many
worlds in his voyage of search and discovery, and all were stored unedited within the memory of the synthesizer. He would store reproducible memories of Earth there, too—but not until after planetary restructuring. He would not want some future Thone scientist wandering about in the synthesizer’s memory banks and perhaps discovering that in fact the peoples of Earth had been worthy.
But were they worthy? Really? The question gave Sith pause for thought. He attempted to justify the coming destruction of mankind, and of all the thousands of lesser species inhabiting this world.
Worthy? In what way?
They possessed what to them must seem a haven, a beautiful world. And to the Thone (after modification) it would be even more desirable. And yet these “men” seemed in large part to be trying to destroy it. Internally as well as externally! They tore out its guts, mining it to extinction. Then they burned the produce of their mining, poisoning the planet’s atmosphere with their smoke and gaseous by-products. They polluted the oceans with their own wastes and the machine wastes of their cities, and razed oxygen-producing forests to make room for their own heedless, headlong expansion.
Perhaps all of this were pardonable if, like the Thone, they had other worlds to replace this one when they’d reduced it to a corpse. But they didn’t. With their solid- and liquid-fuel engines they had only succeeded in journeying to their own satellite—and that for no good purpose that Sith could see. To use as a staging post, a launchpad? To where? The rest of this system’s planets, which were plainly uninhabitable by men? To the stars? Out of the question! Even at the (quite incredible) rate their technology had advanced in the last hundred years, still it would be at least a thousand before they could possibly develop anything like the synthesizer, or some other mode of FTL travel. No, they ran before they could walk, these creatures.
But to use liquid—to
burn
and thus destroy liquid—as a fuel! That were sacrilege. Given another millennium, perhaps they might have come to recognise that liquid, in itself, could be an engine.
burn
and thus destroy liquid—as a fuel! That were sacrilege. Given another millennium, perhaps they might have come to recognise that liquid, in itself, could be an engine.
And barbaric? There could be no doubting it. They warred, not against warlike alien races (they’d not yet encountered such)
but against each other!
They killed each other—mass murder, attempted genocide—in their wars. And in so doing, they destroyed even more of their planet. What sort of creatures are they who, when gifted with a beautiful house, immediately turn upon each other and in their fighting knock out the very walls from within?
but against each other!
They killed each other—mass murder, attempted genocide—in their wars. And in so doing, they destroyed even more of their planet. What sort of creatures are they who, when gifted with a beautiful house, immediately turn upon each other and in their fighting knock out the very walls from within?
Half of the planet stood at odds with the other half, each of them possessing the means to burn off the atmosphere and reduce the entire surface to rubble many times over; and yet constantly increasing their arsenals, if not of one type of weapon, then of another. As for the lesser nations: no corner of the planet was at peace. Small wars were waged everywhere!
And in their use—their misuse—of nuclear fission … here they did not merely run before they could walk, they raced before they could even crawl! They had no notion of safety, no conception of how to dispose of or neutralize their nuclear wastes. Atomics were a primitive, wasteful power source at best, but even
knowing
they erred, still these monsters proceeded to experiment and improvise, and gradually destroy themselves and their world in the painfully slow process of what they called progress.
knowing
they erred, still these monsters proceeded to experiment and improvise, and gradually destroy themselves and their world in the painfully slow process of what they called progress.
They
were
indeed destroying themselves—so why shouldn’t Sith help them along their chosen route?
were
indeed destroying themselves—so why shouldn’t Sith help them along their chosen route?
But
(his inner being, his conscience, spoke to him)
you examined this race, and found it worthy. According to the rules, Thone rules, it was worthy—before your own ambitions got in the way. Before you felt the wonder and the power of personal glory within your grasp. Now who is unworthy?
(his inner being, his conscience, spoke to him)
you examined this race, and found it worthy. According to the rules, Thone rules, it was worthy—before your own ambitions got in the way. Before you felt the wonder and the power of personal glory within your grasp. Now who is unworthy?
Not I!
Sith told himself.
My worth is proven: I am accepted as an aspirant to the crystal pedestal!
Against which his conscience had no argument. Or if it did, he stifled it unuttered. But to be doubly sure of his ground, Sith produced yet more evidence against the human race, this time by examination of their own mores, beliefs and taboos.
Sith told himself.
My worth is proven: I am accepted as an aspirant to the crystal pedestal!
Against which his conscience had no argument. Or if it did, he stifled it unuttered. But to be doubly sure of his ground, Sith produced yet more evidence against the human race, this time by examination of their own mores, beliefs and taboos.
Given that they were bisexual (a loathsome condition at best) and that for the greater part their religions dictated one woman for one man and vice versa, then their appetites—their lust, along with an enormous capacity for ignoring the law—seemed unquenchable. The promiscuity of their young, even by their own standards, was appalling! As a race they were a mass of sexual contradictions and perversions; and this description applied not alone to their sexuality but to all other aspects of their lives.
Sith had recorded a recent American TV programme, aimed (ostensibly) at the prevention of certain diseases and addictions, in which the principal message had been: CARELESS SEX KILLS! DOPE KILLS! SMOKING KILLS! DRINK KILLS! And yet one of the programme’s young presenters had admitted that he himself had “tried out” all of these things, and on occasion still did. Indeed, the overall picture seemed to be that in certain sections of society these known killers were generally considered to be the “in thing” to do-and if done to excess, then so much the better! Approximately two-thirds of the planet’s population was killing itself through self-willed wars, excesses of addiction, self-inflicted disease (very often sexually transmitted) as a result of grossly inadequate personal hygiene, and senseless industrial contamination—to name a few.
One of their religions, Christianity, extolled the observance of ten laws called commandments, which by definition had to be the most defiled laws in the world. A majority of so-called Christians actually lived by the nonobservance of these laws!
Nor were Sith’s observations a mere overview, for in his studies he’d gone from macro to micro, from the masses down to the individuals of human society. And it was his belief that if he searched from now until forever, he would not find one—not
one
—entirely moral or ethical man or woman. Each one of them thought in terms of “I” and not “we”. Each wanted to be at least “as good as” the next step up in their pecking order—or to bring down the one who occupied that step to his own level. Which meant that any real advancement of the race as an entity must be either (a) an accident, or (b) … the sheerest flight of fancy! Man did not seek to advance his race but him
self
—and any benefits his brother might derive were entirely coincidental.
one
—entirely moral or ethical man or woman. Each one of them thought in terms of “I” and not “we”. Each wanted to be at least “as good as” the next step up in their pecking order—or to bring down the one who occupied that step to his own level. Which meant that any real advancement of the race as an entity must be either (a) an accident, or (b) … the sheerest flight of fancy! Man did not seek to advance his race but him
self
—and any benefits his brother might derive were entirely coincidental.
And so it went; the list was long; the objections of Sith’s conscience were gradually eroded and dispersed. To put a final seal of approval on his plan for the race’s extermination, he looked one last time at the most puzzling of all human attitudes: their conceit. How might one explain it—except as perversity? What did they have to be conceited about? Physically grotesque and diseased (some even from birth) their minds, too, were wont to break under the pressures of their chaotic existence, or at best warp until their view of reality was twisted and fearful. And as a direct result, their mental illnesses were legion.
Take for example the group of specimens Sith had trapped for testing.
Anderson, for the greater part of his life, had been a winner, a leader of men, a figure of authority. He’d thrived on it. Here in the entirely alien environments Sith planned for the group, the Minister would doubtless endeavor to go right on leading. But only erode his authority, let it be seen that outside of an armchair in a modern office, or the leather upholstered seat of an expensive car with a telephone hidden in the armrest, he was incapable of leadership … and how long would his facade stand up, his veneer of sophisticated authority remain intact? Not very long, was Sith’s guess. And because men in authority were wont to be ruthless—to possess what human beings called “the killer instinct”—how long before that more basic instinct surfaced? At his own level of society, the circles in which he had moved, Anderson need only snap his fingers and his bidding was done. But here, where he must do for himself? In what direction would his “killer instinct” lead him when the result of any amount of finger snapping proved negative?
Then there was Varre, who believed that if it couldn’t be bought, begged or stolen, (a) that it wasn’t worth having, like honour; (b) that it should be sabotaged, destroyed, so that no one else could have it; (c) that it could only be entirely beyond his understanding and should be given a wide berth. Currently he could neither buy, beg nor steal anything. The old values were gone, reality steadily crumbling, the Unknown closing in—like walls closing on his being. Did the Frenchman realise, Sith wondered, that his claustrophobia wasn’t so much a fear of being denied space as a fear of being denied? He was a procurer, but here in the synthesizer he’d find nothing to procure. Take away his ability to wheel and deal, and what then? How long before the invisible walls of his phobia closed in and squeezed him into raving lunacy? Already he showed a measure of contempt for his fellows—whom he deemed worthless because, like he himself, they were helpless—and a growing frustration with a universe in which no bargains could be struck.
As for the woman: she was threatened by her own sexuality. One woman marooned in an alien universe with six men—seven, if Sith included Bannerman? Already Haggie had menaced her, making it plain that if he got the chance he’d not hesitate to press home his advantages of physical superiority and mental degeneracy. Whatever else the girl might or might not fear, she must certainly be aware that physically she was the least of them all, and that any one of these men—or all of them—would have the power to abuse her if (when?) they so desired. Except perhaps for Gill; and here Sith’s thoughts narrowed like human eyes, speculatively.
For Gill was the one with the talent—the awareness, the machine-mindedness—which made him not only unique but perhaps even a little dangerous. Apart from anything else (indeed, set against almost everything else) that talent alone might have been the saving of his race, if the circumstances were different. No Thone examiner-invigilator could ever relegate to extinction a race which had produced the likes of Gill. Or at least, none before Sith. But then none had ever been in his position.
The man Gill, yes …
There seemed very little wrong with his mind. Quite apart from its uniqueness, it appeared to house no illnesses. Unlike his body, it was mainly healthy. Oh, Gill was short-tempered and he had his frustrations, but nothing which might be termed a phobia or even a specific fear. Unless it was the fear of death itself. If so, then he’d suppressed it—put it out of mind, so to speak. Perhaps he’d grown accustomed to the idea of death; if not contemptuous of it, certainly the familiarity of its gradual encroachment had bred phlegmatism. To a point.
At least he didn’t seem to fear it for himself—but for the woman? Ah, but here in the synthesizer, things other than death could be arranged for her. Yes, it would all hinge upon the woman; but Haggie’s criminality—his lack of principle and superfluity of undisciplined lust—might not be the only trigger to set in motion the chain reaction of Gill’s disintegration.
Haggie was here as the result of a mechanical imbalance in the synthesizer. When the machine had corrected itself, he had been trapped here. And having spent some little time here his instincts, criminal even before he’d been taken, were now grown so coarse as to reduce him to the level of a hunted animal. He believed, not unreasonably, that he was hunted; and in a way he was, though not in the way he believed. But having degenerated (or adapted?) so rapidly did not make him any less intelligent. Quite the opposite: his wits had been sharpened. Moreover, he now had the freedom to use them more fully, and to more basic ends. He no longer feared reprisal: where there is no law except the law of survival, there can be no justice. It was down to the survival of the fittest. Dog eat dog.
Being what he was, Haggie had very quickly come to recognise these new parameters. In many ways they suited his mentality. Especially now that he had others of his own kind to prey on. But … how long before the others caught on? And where the woman was concerned, how long before their civilised trappings fell free, and they began to look at her not so much as someone to be protected but as legitimate prey? Oh, yes, there were interesting times ahead, Sith was sure.
Turnbull was still something of a mystery. He seemed fearless, but Sith suspected this was a front. If it covered a mental disorder, then be sure it would be an unpleasant one. To have been buried that deeply, it must be. But there was no denying that Turnbull had size and strength, and a certain quickness of thought and response. That had been proved only too graphically on the night Sith had set out to eradicate Gill, when but for Turnbull the man had surely died. Sith had been overanxious that time: Gill had not been that much of a threat. It was simply that Sith had feared his interference—that perhaps he would sense the synthesizer’s preparations and cause men to be kept back from it, beyond its perimeter of expansion—at the very time he’d set for the trap to be sprung. That and the fact that Gill was aware, which had made him the principal objection to Sith’s plans. He had been the one mote in the eye of Sith’s conscience. Remove him and … there’d be no further reason why Sith should not proceed. No more obstacles along the route to the crystal pedestal.
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