He turned and lurched toward the Matrix. The scientists were standing in shocked frozen stances. The filaments about Mahra's body were still cold. Her strangely bright eyes remained fixed on Alhone's. Moljar staggered around, shaking his head, fighting the whirling darkness that threatened to choke out the light. The Princess Alhone's eyes were wide, staring, as though hypnotized. Her body was leaning forward in a taut arc. Her hands were spread outward as though attempting to ward off some invisible power. Her mouth was open, twisting, but only faint unintelligent gibberish spattered out. But there was still a mad fanatic fire as she sprang at him, her taloned paws outspread, slashing at his face. He scooped up a long sword as she screamed. "The Matrix! Turn it on and go. Send the girl to hell alone!" He swung her arms aside, agony lancing his bleeding shoulder. As she twisted off balance, he wrapped one arm about her, and swung her off her feet, just as another detail of Guards hurtled toward him. "Tell them to get out," he said. "Or I'll kill you." She knew he would anyway, but she preferred less immediacy. He lifted his other arm, thrust the dripping sword point against her breast. She coughed something from her straining throat, and the Guards retreated hastily. The panel closed behind them. "Tell your scientists--" he began, and stopped as her mewing laughter interrupted him. He looked into the Matrix. The filaments were glowing purple. But the scientists were gone! He dragged Alhone's writhing body after him into the mass of equipment. A gigantic maze of meaningless tubes, wires, bulbs, dials, buttons and switches and coils. He cursed blindly. He could not turn off the Matrix! "Mahra! Mahra!" Her body was faintly stirring beyond the now singing and vibrating filaments. Between peals of piercing whistling laughter, Alhone was shrieking, "She will go to the seventh plain! The she-devil!" Moljar could destroy the Matrix, but only a burning cataclysm could result from such an act. At least, even in the seventh plain, she would be alive for awhile, and perhaps he could bring her back. Mahra was on her knees, now on her feet, swaying. She turned. Moljar flinched. Those eyes. They blazed, and held. She had gone mad. With a savage roar of pent up blind hot rage, Moljar clutched Alhone's neck and began squeezing it slowly. All his suppressed hate, his frustration, the years and perils of his long, long quest, his longing for revenge, was in the terrible strength of his fingers ... but, without any logical reason, a thought entered his mind, restrained his hands ... a faint far sound, but one of screaming urgency.... _Don't, Moljar. Let her live._ * * * * *