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then withered back like dying flowers.
    He blew again, longer this time, holding out until his chest screamed for air and he had to stop and suck violently for breath before continuing.
    The beast leaped, crashing short again, unsteady. Its massive legs seemed to vibrate like jelly. It tried to run, wobbled sideways, and fell down clumsily on its rump.
    Guil blew and blew.
    The dragon shook its head again, ears slapping loudly against the sides of its skull, and struggled to its feet The process was slow and arduous, but it managed to raise itself again. The engineers fighting to hold the mobility pattern of the configuration must have let out a small cheer at this final rally of their robot When it was erect once more, it started after the boy, wobbling drunkenly, obviously on its last legs.
    This is too easy
, Guil thought Still, he blew the whistle, always backing, his eyes fixed to the tremendous jaws and the saberlike teeth of his adversary—and to the feet that were as big around as the stumps of felled oak trees.
    The dragon tried to leap once more, but it could not cope with the sound-sedative whistle and fell onto its side. Ashcan lids slid oily down its gargantuan orbs, and it fell into sleep.
    There was appreciative applause from the galleries.
    Guil was reluctant to believe the monster had really ceased to battle and was not just playing a shrewd game of possum in preparation for jumping up and gouging Gull's heart from his chest. He continued to sound the whistle. His cheeks ached, and his eyes felt as if they would pop out of their sockets and roll across the floor to become lost in the cream and black swirls splashing the copper. An unwilling Oedipus. He had a fleeting vision of everyone crawling around on the arena floor looking for his eyes, the tests momentarily suspended until his vision could be restored.
    Finally, the dragon emitted belches that tried to emulate snores. A touch of comedy by the sound engineers.
    Guil dropped the whistle from his mouth, let it slap back against his chest, and worked his lips to rid them of a cramped sensation. Proudly, he turned toward the section of the tiers where his father would be seated with his entourage. As he did so, turning his back only fractionally on the arena, the crowd screamed…
    Guil whirled, his mouth open, choked, and started to run. Then he remembered that he was in an arena and that running could take him to no place of safety and could only tire him instead. He stopped and turned to stare at what had frightened him. The body of the dragon was shredding along the spine, disfigured now with seven and eight foot slashes as if it were a Chinese paper construction. The skin flapped open and rustled, curled back and showed dark holes boring away into the body. There was something innately sinister about those dark tunnels, something ugly and disgusting. He was reminded of worm burrows in rancid meat Then, from these holes came the devils.
    That was the only fitting term he could find for them: devils. They stood four feet tall, were two-legged, had triple-elbowed arms that dragged on the floor. They were extremely hairy, their heads warty, greasy, four-eyed monstrosities slashed by wide mouths that had been cram-jammed full of razor-honed yellow teeth that splayed over green lips and dripped drool. Their chests were barrels under thick, short necks, and they were powerful runners if their overly-muscled legs were any indication. Guil thought he could have laughed had the situation not been so perilous. These were creatures out of some test master's nightmares, not things that could possibly ever exist on their own. He stifled his laughter with little trouble, however, for he knew these things could kill—laughable or not.
    He counted ten.
    He stuffed the whistle back in his mouth and blew hard.
    Absolutely nothing.
    The devils did not cease in their exit from the dragon's body, did not blink their eyes, did not show a single sign of weariness.
    Of