Ker-jon found himself in a wild melee. Needle-guns zipped; men fell. But always others surged forward, and the defenders' ranks thinned.
Ker-jon saw one of Flam-harol's lieutenants fall, mortally wounded. Three mutants took his place, and one of them had retrieved a needle-gun from a fallen guard. Other weapons appeared among the mutants, guns, knives, make-shift clubs. Nothing could stop them.
For himself, Ker-jon fought only half-heartedly. The swarm carried him forward against the defenders, but he struck out only when pressed. Strangely, he felt an odd detachment. He wasn't really a part of this carnage; no, he'd been swept into it, helplessly, and now he watched. It all seemed anti-climactic, pointless. Why? He asked himself that over and over again, turning once more to the battle when he found the answer. Did the meeting with the old albino mutant somehow hold the clue? Did it? Now there was a ridiculous notion!
The wave after wave of mutants pushed forward, and Ker-jon hovered close to Cluny-ann, protecting, shielding, diverting any foe who might single her out. She was a spit-fire, he knew, for all her small size—he'd seen her cut loose in the female gymnastic tournaments. But he could sense that she hung back, even as he did—unwilling to enter the fray. Had she once said something about this not being the final answer? He wondered how she'd have fared in a discussion with the old albino....
And then it was over. They pushed through a final portal, came upon a large apartment with strange, impossibly antique furniture. In a far corner cowered a little man, a little old man—smaller and more ancient than the albino. He cringed away from them, his limbs trembled. He babbled, "I surrender, I surrender, I—"
Flam-harol laughed once, then cut him down with a needle-gun. The end of the Mutant-maker, the man who controlled the destiny of all those within the Ark. Simple, no theatrics. Smile and cut him down with a needle-gun. Could that one gesture usher in a new era? Ker-jon did not know, but more and more the words of the albino returned, swirling through his brain. Just a reversal of roles....
Flam-harol sat down on the plushly upholstered chair. "Will some of you take your clubs to the Chamber of Change and smash it? I'm a little tired—"
A week later. Flam-harol had taken the dead Mutant-maker's quarters for his own. Now he sat there with his lieutenants—two mutants, ridge-head variety, and Ker-jon—issuing directives.