Barely in time, Burke dived aside. Desperately, he scrambled past the central tank, searching vainly for some weapon. When he stumbled over a low stool, he snatched it up, glad for anything that he could use to strike a blow. Another bellow. The monster launched a new charge. Burke swung the stool. But even as the blow descended, the Minotaur brought up huge hands to stop it. Catching the stool by the legs, the creature jerked it up, trying to wrestle it away from Burke. For an instant, then, they struggled, toe to toe, fighting for possession of the stool. But only for an instant, for Burke knew without question what the outcome would be; must be. No ordinary man could stand against this hideous freak of nature. It simply was too much to hope for. Yet unless he won, what would happen to Ariadne? Fiercely, he threw all his weight onto the stool, swinging by it, completely clear of the floor. Then, savagely, he slashed a foot down, so that the edge of his shoe raked his opponent's shin from knee to ankle before it hit the instep with smashing force. The Minotaur half doubled over. A hoarse gust of pain burst from its throat. Burke let go the stool. With all his might, he struck straight upward, between the monster's outstretched arms to the great bull-jaw. New sounds of anguish--almost human, this time. The creature lurched forward flat-footed, off balance. Burke leaped back. Catching the huge horns, he gave them a tremendous wrench, with all his weight behind it, the way he'd seen bull-doggers handle steers at rodeos. Something cracked, so loud Burke could hear it even through the tumult. He wrenched again, harder. A tearing sound, this time. The next instant, Burke tumbled to the floor. And that didn't make sense, because he still gripped the Minotaur's great horns. Spasmodically, he threw himself to one side and over. Across the room, the whole length of the tapestry was in flames now, blazing and crackling. Eddies of fire danced along the cypress beam above it, and the door-frame. In front of it stood the Minotaur. Only now, the Minotaur had no head. At least, not the great bull's head. That was gone, torn away, left to lie like a hideous mask on the floor midway between Burke and the creature. Where the bull's head had been, atop the monster's mighty shoulders was now, instead, a human head ... the tiny, distorted skull of a microcephalic imbecile. And on top of that head--eyes glittering balefully; tentacles hugging it tight to its host's skull--squatted what appeared to be a jet-black octopus slightly less than the size of a bowling ball. Yet it was no octopus sprung from Earth's own waters. Burke knew that the instant he saw it; knew it by the way the creature's eyes fixed on him; knew it in the chill that shook him as the thing's evil intelligence lanced forth to lock in mortal combat with him in his own brain.