Free Montezuma Strip by Alan Dean Foster Page A

crimson eyes.
    The flashman spoke again, louder this time. A third time. The psychomorph swelled out of the wall, looming over Hypatia. She
     lay on her back staring up at it. It ignored her as it concentrated on the flashman.
    “No. That was the key.” He turned toward the federale and Cardenas saw stark terror in the man’s eyes. “I took it off the
     filament. THAT WAS THE KEY!” He screamed the words into the vorec. They were the right words, the proper inflection. Then
     he threw the Scrambler at the opaque shape and turned to run.
    The psychomorph bit off his head.
    As a psychic convergence it was the most realistic Cardenas had ever seen. The decapitated body stood swaying. Blood appeared
     to fountain from the severed neck. Then the corpse toppled forward onto the floor.
    He stood without moving, uncertain whether to run, shout for Security, or reach for the petitpoint. The psychomorph turned
     slowly to face him. It was a thousand times more real, more solid than any convergence he’d ever seen. He thought it stared
     at him for a moment. Since it had no pupils it was hard to tell. Then it whooshed back into the wall, sucked into the holodepths
     that had given it birth. As it vanished, the tunnel collapsed on top of it.
    It was quiet in the office again. The wallscreen was full of harmless, flickering symbology. The speakers whispered of mystery
     and nonsense. On the floor behind the desk the flashman lay in a pool of his own blood, the expression on his face contorted,
     his eyes bulged halfway out of their sockets. His ragged nails showed where he’d torn out his own throat. Cardenas searched
     through bloodstained pockets until he found the applicator he needed. Then he turned away, sickened.
    The applicator contained debonder for the secrylic. First he dissolved the gag, then went to work on Hypatia’s wrists. She
     spat out tasteless chunks of the pale green putty. She was crying, brokenly but not broken. “Jesus, Angel, Jesus God, I thought
     he was going to kill me!”
    “He was. Would have.” He ripped away sagging lumps of putty and carefully began applying debonder to her bound ankles. “After
     he’d finished his transferring. Nothing you or I could have said would have mattered. He couldn’t leaveany witnesses. He knew that.” He glanced up at the innocuous wallscreen. “You saw it?”
    “Saw it?” She sat up and rubbed her wrists, then her chest where the Scrambler had been applied. There was a painful red welt
     there but no permanent damage. She was breathing in long, steady gasps. “It was right on top of me.”
    “What did it look like?”
    “It was a psychomorph, Angel. The worst one I ever saw. The worst one anyone ever saw.” She was looking past him, at the torn
     body of the flashman. “Talk about tactile. It really got inside him.”
    He finished with her ankles. “Don’t try to stand yet.”
    “Don’t worry. Jesus.” She moved her legs tentatively, loosening the cramped muscles. Behind her was harmless holospace. If
     you put out your hand you’d touch solid wall. Or would you? Could they be sure of anything anymore? Could anyone?
    “Another trap.” Cardenas too was studying the wall. “The last trap. Why’d he kill Charliebo? He said he didn’t.” He found
     he couldn’t look at the pitiful gray shape that lay crumpled alongside the desk.
    Hypatia inhaled, coughed raggedly. “He didn’t.”
    That made him look down at her. “What?”
    “He was telling the truth. He didn’t kill Charliebo. The tunnel did. Or the subox working up the tunnel. I don’t know.” She
     rubbed her forehead. “The psychomorph was the last trap, but there was one inserted in front of it. It—it was my fault, Angel.
     I thought I knew how to protect myself. I thought I was being careful, and I was. But there’s never been a tunnel like that
     one. Part of the tunnel, before the psychomorph.
    “I was worried about you, Angel. I thought maybe you were working too hard, too