The former Magic User was caught by surprise. His aura went red at shoulder, thigh, stomach. He was forced to the ground, where the Lore Master performed butchery.

Next to Griffin, Holly Frost gasped as a red slash spread on her left arm. He deflected a stroke for her while she regained her poise. "Owe you," she said between clenched teeth.

Alex took a wound in the calf, and Oliver a slashed scalp. The animated corpses died in droves; their bodies hampered move­ment, and now and then one would clutch at an ankle. The action was being forced along the rock spit, toward the sea, toward the Fore priests.

Perhaps they realized it. There was a cry, high and wavering, like the caw of an eagle. The zombie facing Griffin stepped back a pace, and turned.

In shock, Alex saw that the entire mass of Undead had stepped away from the beleaguered Garners, retreating in a semicircle, to­ward the trees.

Acacia gasped, "Now what?"

Griffin looked at his wrist. For a moment the watch imprinted on his sleeve seemed foreign, entirely magic, unreadable. Then, "Six minutes to go. We can't follow... the zombies, but..."

Frankish Oliver turned and began to clamber up the rocks. "We can still... get the priests!"

Alex felt that if he stopped moving he would never start again. He pulled himself up behind Oliver, who was not exactly sprint­ing. Rocks rolled underfoot. He reached the top, to see beaver-dam hair styles disappearing down the other side.

Oliver was clambering along the top of the spit. He stopped. He pointed with his sword, seaward. As Alex came up beside him, he found breath for one word. "Boats."

They stood panting, watching. The three small boats were ar­chaic enough, but they weren't native to New Guinea. There was English lettering on the sterns. Each boat held one Fore priest, standing, and one zombie seated at the oars.

Chester and the other Garners had found the strength to join

them. Together they watched the three boats tie up beneath the door in the flank of the Spruce Goose. The Fore climbed a dan­gling rope ladder. Their Undead oarsmen remained in the boats.

And then the sea and the huge plane faded into darkness, though the beach was still in twilight. When Alex looked at his watch it was ten o'clock.

They climbed down from the rocks in time to see Gina rise up to join her tindalo. Chester watched her go. When he turned back to them the defeat in his face was impossible to ignore. "He's still dragging it out. Tomorrow..."

Acacia swallowed air and clicked her sword into its sheath. Her hair was matted with sweat and sand, and she looked as if she had dug ditches all day. "More likely he's worried, Chester."

At first Chester seemed not to hear her; then he turned. "Worried why?"

"What will the I.F.G.S. think about an assault like that?"

He scratched his stubble, eyes worried. "I don't know. We sure as hell had plenty of warning..."

Acacia seemed alarmed. "Chester! What is the matter with you? You're on our side, remember?"

The Lore Master sank down in the sand, looking out into the darkness. "Hasn't done you much good, has it?" He turned over, face down. He sounded horribly tired. "Maybe we should have gone back for more black fire. Scatter it in the loam on the forest floor. Rot is slow fire, it should burn backward. Let the zombies come at us there... it might have stopped them.

The Garners shifted around uncomfortably, watching Chester brood.

Alex dropped beside him on the sand. "At least we finally know what we're after. It's right out there on the water, Chester. We even know where to find the boats!"

Chester nodded. He lifted himself on his elbows to glare into the darkness that hid the Spruce Goose. "Make camp," he said abruptly. "Tomorrow's another day. When the priests come back to finish us off, we'll get ‘em. Thanks, Griffin. God, I'm tired. But tomorrow..."

Griffin dropped his pack. He was unable to find any emotion to hang his fragmented thoughts on. He looked down at himself, for wounds. The red glow of hologram-delivered wounds was gone.

The bloodstains left by solid zombie weapons looked like paint. The day was turning unreal.

Ollie dropped into the sand next to him. He mumbled some­thing Alex couldn't quite hear.

"What?"

"I wish it was over." The Thief had to bend low to hear him. "I just wish it was over." He looked like an old man, the muscles in his cheeks slack, jowls hanging. A single tear ran glistening down his cheek.

A pat on the back was the only answer Griffin could find. He moved his pack away, over to a rock large enough to sit on. He huddled there, watching the tides turn off. Eight Garners left. The Game was, indeed, almost over.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

THIEVES IN THE NIGHT

"Get me Marty Bobbick, please."

"Yes, sir."

Alex sagged against the shadowed back of a dune. The sand was cooling now; it felt good against his skin. He could feel the fa­tigue, but it seemed apart from him. His mind was racing. The Garners were camped on the other side, a fair distance away. Alex listened, but tonight there was no singing, no laughter. He heard Margie and Chester talking, but couldn't make out the words.

"Hail the Griffin, slayer of the undead!"

Ha ha. "Go ahead, Marty, get it out of your system."

"Chief, I'm at least half serious. I never dreamed these Games could get that rough. If you weren't in top physical shape we'd be carrying you out. How does a sweet little old lady like that Margie Braddon keep going?"

"Sheer chutzpah. The rest of us are ready to lie down and die.

I'm really worried about Ollie. I guess Gwen needed the points, but the last thing in the world he needed was having to kill his woman. Damn, but at least we know our target now! And it's a whopper, Marty. Tomorrow-"

"It? Not a he or a she?"

He or she? Oh. Alex was too tired even to be irritated with him­self. "Sorry. Jumped tracks again. It's a he, Marty. You know, I went into this with entirely the wrong idea-"

He heard a faint scuffing from above. A few grains of sand pat­tered down around him. It stopped almost at once.

Alex rolled over and stood up, without obvious haste, while he kept talking. "I thought we must be chasing an experienced Gamer. Someone who knew the ropes so well that he could find extra time somewhere to creep off and do some work on the side."

"It looks to me like nobody would ever know that much."

"Damn right. The better you are, the more you know, the harder you work at not getting killed out. There aren't any ropes to know. Each Game is a whole new ball of snakes." He might have imagined that sound. A gust of wind could have blown that sand down on him... but under a dome? Alex felt himself becoming one gigantic ear.

"What are we looking for, then? A novice?"

"Right. And he gave himself away a couple of times." Alex looked up, without turning his head. The shallow curve of the top of the dune had a bump on it. It could be the top of a head. Better not gamble on it. If it wasn't, then a known killer might be coming around the dune.

He'd hear boots on sand. Wouldn't he? Alex had left his ma­chete beside his bedroll, and now he regretted it. The Game was in abeyance, and so were the Game rules governing physical combat.

He should have made this call from the middle of a nest of Garners. Secrecy was meaningless now. Couldn't be helped. All right, let's lure him down.

Marty's voice snapped, "Well?"

"He was too tired on the second day. This guy is in excellent condition, and he could barely climb a wall. He'd been up very late the night before. At the volcano, he was sure the bomb was a piece of misdirection. While the rest of the team was trying to move it out, he kept looking around. He must have already seen the Goose. And it's too big; it must be a fair part of Lopez's budget. It's an important part of the Game, and we hadn't got