"Yeah. But what else could we do? By cooperating, at least we save our own alternates, maybe. I'm sorry if we have to go against our duplicates who didn't make it there -- but in the end, it's every world for itself. And with the pattern-ent.i.ties right here on the circuit -- well, so much the better."

"If those patterns don't spot us and transport us right out of the network."

"Yeah. Let's get on with it."

They got on with the search. But now Tamme knew: She had picked up the wrong Veg. This one was traveling the other way and had been through at least one alternate -- the "bazaar" -- that she hadn't. And some sort of agreement, or treaty, had been made there involving other alternate Vegs and Tammes.

She had been right: Herself, from another alternate, was her enemy. And it was herself, for Veg would have known the difference immediately had his companion been a male agent.

Every frame for itself. Her Veg would not have agreed; this Veg did.

Ironically, she preferred the att.i.tude of her original Veg. He had more conscience; he cared. Meanwhile, he was with the other Tamme.

She had to complete the subloop and get back to the Jungle gym before that enemy Tamme caught on. The b.i.t.c.h would not be slow, either! So long as that other did not locate the projector, her search pattern would continue, and there would be little interaction between the agent and the man. But if they found it and had to wait for the recharge, there would be time.

And if they found the shirt tied at the point of arrival... there would be two shirts, one from each Veg. A dead giveaway! Why hadn't she thought to recover that shirt?

It had, after all, been sheer luck, her finding the projector first. She had figured a pattern based on her two sightings of the opposition -- and at least one of those sightings had actually been of her own man! No science in that! But the same sort of coincidence could bring the other Tamme to the same projector. The enemy Tamme would have to wait while this Tamme could move -- if she found the projector on this frame soon.

Maybe it would be better to avoid contact entirely and go on. No -- that would be deserting her Veg and bringing along one who would surely turn uncooperative when he caught on. And she was trapped on a subloop; there was no way out but through the Jungle gym frame.

The projector on this subloop would probably be charged. She might complete the trip around within one hour and catch the enemy completely off guard. That would be best. Her vision would not be much improved within that time, but the element of surprise was more important.

What about this Veg? No need for him to know. He had already served to alert her, and he was no threat.

"Hey, these aren't the same," he commented, watching a swirl of sparkle almost under his nose. "See, they're smaller, and they don't fade in and out. This one's staying right here in this alternate, as though it doesn't know any better."

"You study it," she said, casting about for the projector. "The information could be valuable." Maybe it would keep him occupied and innocent.

He watched it. "You know what I think -- this is a primitive one, like a three-dee R Pentomino. It just rides on a few elements, maintaining itself, not doing anything fancy. Maybe this isn't the sparkle home-alternate, but a fringe-alternate, with animal-patterns instead of advanced-sentient ones. They must have a whole range of states just as we do -- some hardly more than amoebas, others superhuman. Superpattern, I mean." He chuckled. He certainly had been to places she hadn't. R Pentomino? He seemed to have a much better grounding on the sparkles. It showed in his terminology and his att.i.tude. "Maybe you can work out the whole sequence of patterns," she suggested. Where was that projector?

"Yeah. How they start as little three-dimensional swirls across the elements, like wind rattling the leaves of a poplar, and then begin modifying things to suit themselves. How some turn into predator patterns, gobbling up others, until the good patterns learn to shoot them down with glider guns. But then the bad ones start shooting, too, and they just keep evolving, dog eat dog, only it's all just patterns on energy-nodes. Finally they achieve higher consciousness -- only they don't even know what it is to be physical. They think that the only possible sentience is pattern-sentience. And when they finally meet up with sentient material beings, it's like a nightmare, like monsters from the deeps, impossible but awful. Yeah, I think I can see it, now. Too bad we can't talk with them, tell them we understand..."

Tamme paused in her search, listening. The man was making sense! Could that be the rationale of the mysterious pattern-ent.i.ties? The machines called them enemies, but if it were really just a monumental case of misunderstanding...

Then she spotted the projector and put aside irrelevant conjecture. "Let's go, Veg!"

One step to the --

-- orchestra, then another back to --

-- the Jungle gym.

"I have your man captive," the other Tamme said, indicating the direction with a minimal nod of her head. "Do you yield?"

Rhetorical: To yield was to die. But it was true: Veg was efficiently gagged and bound with the two shirts, his legs tied so that he hung by his knees from a bar.

"What's this?" the free Veg asked, amazed. "Why'd she tie her own companion?"

Tamme glanced at him. "I am the other agent. I have not been to the bazaar."

The expected spate of emotions ran through him. A stranger he was, yet he was very much Veg, slow in certain ways, n.o.ble in others. "Then why didn't you -- ?"

"Tie you? What purpose? She is the dangerous one."

"But she tied me -- and you didn't!"

"I may have known you longer," Tamme said. And gotten soft! "Though it was not you I knew, precisely." Of course, she should have put him more obviously under her control, as a counter to the alternate-Tamme's threat. Yet another mistake.

The free Veg looked from one Tamme to the other, disconcerted. Then he spoke to the other. "Listen: I changed my mind. I'm not fighting anyone. This isn't right."

"Then go untie your double," Tamme said, realizing that her human error had converted to an odd kind of advantage: The alternate-Veg had been neutralized. "You men are basically gentle; she and I are not so hesitant."

"Yeah." The free Veg went to help the bound one, pa.s.sing between the two women. Then he halted, facing his own: "Okay -- I can't stop it. But maybe I can make it fair. Get rid of your power weapons."

"Get out of the way," Tamme Two said. She held a laser in her hand.

"Or shoot me first," Veg said. "Use that, and you'll sure as h.e.l.l have to shoot me sometime because I won't work with you anymore."

He was serious; the signals were all over him. It was a trifling threat to an agent. Still, Tamme knew what was going through the other's mind because it was her mind, too -- her mind as it had been a few days ago when she was tougher, less corrupted by individual sentiment. Veg had been more than neutralized; he was now sympathetic to the Tamme he had not known, more gentle than his own. Liability had become strength. Tamme Two could dispense with him -- but the man had commendable qualities and was proving more useful than antic.i.p.ated. Why antagonize him needlessly? Especially when she had the advantage, for the other had evidently been injured in the face...

Tamme Two dropped the laser. Tamme One drew and dropped hers. Because they were agents, they could read each other -- well enough, at least, to know whether a given weapon was about to be dropped or fired. The lasers fell almost together down through the endless shaft of cubes.

"And don't use any others," Veg Two said. "Just your hands, or hand-powered stuff. Okay?"

Tamme Two nodded. She would make the sensible compromise to retain his good will, minor as its value was. He moved on.

Then both girls were moving. Actually, the laser shot would have been risky because it lacked power for instant effect, and there would have been time for both weapons to be used. Direct combat would be more decisive.

Tamme One swung around her bar, getting out of the direct line of vision. She had the disadvantage, and they both knew it; she had to use evasive strategy, hoping for the break that would reverse the odds. She ran along the topside of another bar toward her opponent.

But the other had antic.i.p.ated her. A hand came from below to catch her ankle. Tamme One leaped into s.p.a.ce, jackknifing to catch Tamme Two's hair. The other jerked aside and countered with a high kick.

Tamme caught a bar and swung around it and back to her feet. Tamme Two dived at her, pressing her advantage. Tamme raised a knee to catch her in the chest, but Tamme Two caught her shoulders and sat down suddenly. This was an old judo technique, yoko wakare or side-separation throw. Ordinarily, it was performed on the ground; in this case, there was no ground and no firm footing beyond the bars. The pull was tremendous. Tamme fell forward, somersaulted in air, and caught Tamme Two's ankles.

Then the telescoping sword manifested. Tamme Two's hands were free; Tamme One was momentarily exposed. The first slash caught her on the side, cutting open her clothing and severing the flesh through to the ribs. Her inferior vision had betrayed her; she could have countered as the sword was being drawn had she seen it in time. Now she was wounded, and the advantage was shifting from marginal to gross.

She let go and dropped, taking a moment to cut off the flowing blood by will power. But Tamme Two dropped with her, slashing again with the sword. Tamme drew her own and whipped it at her enemy -- but her reflexes were slowed by the regenerative effort, and Tamme Two parried easily.

Tamme reached out and caught a bar one-handed. The wrench was terrible, but her body was brought up short.

And Tamme Two stopped with her, kicking the sword from her hand and simultaneously stabbing for the heart. Tamme twisted aside, too slow, and the point missed by two inches, piercing her left lung instead.

Never before had she realized how devastating an opponent she was, how implacable, how efficient. Tamme Two was an agent at par; Tamme herself was an agent at eighty per cent vision, caught by surprise, with diminished sense of purpose. Any one of those differences was critical, and now she was done for. Could she take the other with her into oblivion?

It took Tamme Two a moment to yank out the sword, for the power of the thrust had projected the point entirely through the body. Tamme took advantage of that moment to club Tamme Two on the side of the neck, preparatory to catching her in a literal death grip.