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Not Gandalf.

  In fact, the whole stampede disaster was to my advantage: there was no one left to stop me from finding the fabricator.

  ...In theory. In practice, I had little doubt that not all life had come to the surface - and, after all, something had driven it to the surface. All I needed to be sure of that was to ask Claptrap's opinion and hear him say, "Don't worry, boss, it'll be all right - it's definitely safe!"

  - Boss, it's definitely safe now!

  ...Shit. Maybe we should wait and come back here in a week or two...?

  I shook my head. As tempting as it was, no. The fact that new beasts would come here, including carrion, was all right, but after the territory was cleared of the population, there might be others who wanted to get their hands on the factory. They'll probably find some, if they don't come after it on purpose, they'll just try to mine it, and they'll find it. And I've already done too much work to back out.

  Okay. I looked at the vacuum cleaner.

  - What are you gonna do next? - I turned to it.

  - It's all dust and decay, but it's time for a cleanup - he said. - First the cleaning, and then we'll see. Hmm, maybe we can sell some of the meat and hides ...

  - Good luck with that, - I nodded. - Do you have a name, by the way, or some sort of designation?

  - Partially Armoured Special Tactical Original Robot - he said. - They call me Pastor.

  - How do you call the boat... - I muttered. - Seriously, who even comes up with names like that...?

  Suddenly, I got an answer. And not even from a vacuum cleaner.

  - Vladoff's names are invented by someone named Schnitzel. A murky person, some even believe that he is an agent of some "Great Ancients", probably Eridians, or global special services - said Angel, whose hologram appeared above the vacuum cleaner.

  - Begone, devil's vision! - he shout with indignation.

  "Incoming call," the ECHO reported, and I took it, sighing. The hologram above the vacuum cleaner disappeared, but appeared in my augmented reality.

  - To what do I owe the honor? - I asked. - And yes, thank you for the information, though it was useless.

  - I'm glad to help, - the AI replied, ignoring the sarcasm. - I would like to inform you that I have established the exact location of what you are looking for... more or less accurate.

  - Trying to earn reputation points? - I snorted. - All right, spill what you got.

  It's kind of stupid to be distracted when you're sneaking around an area with potentially dangerous beasts, but curiosity is a thing. Plus a couple of turrets is a pretty good argument.

  In short, I couldn't stand it any longer, and I went online to check the information Angel had given me. I mean, the one about the name maker.

  Well, what can I say? It checks out. Although the information was a pile of information - "Brand-master, designer of names, known as "Shitt" and "Schnitzel", whether either of these is a surname, or both are nicknames, is unknown". Who he is - unknown, who allowed - unknown, i only found a mediocre quality photo, showing a portly man with a sniper in his hands, wearing a baseball cap, which shows something very similar to the "kawaii"-ed Cthulhu.

  Well, that's enough to solve the mystery: through these titles, he's sacrificing the brains of poor users to the Great Ancient One. Heh.

  Having satisfied, at least partially, my curiosity, I digitized the turrets back into materials and headed for the target. The path was known... Roughly.

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  It came out... combined with this one in general. I originally had an old map of the mines, but it was an old one, since then both new passages had been dug and old ones had been blocked - even after the Dahl had left, the local robots were still mining something. But the vacuum cleaner who'd stayed upstairs helped, sharing the map he had - though he warned that it was also a little out of date. And Angel overlaid on it the coordinates of the triangulated signal from the fabricator, which she had somehow managed to detect (and which I would have to remember to disable or shield when I put my hands on my beauty).

  After half an hour, I already had the distinct feeling that this hill was considerably larger on the inside than it was on the outside. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised by that either - Pandora... But still, it's probably just the constant curves of the mine's corridors.

  And yes, there were still some creatures here, but single skags and varkids weren't a problem. Still, I tried hard to suppress the thought that this would be an easy walk. On Pandora, you don't joke around with things like that, as Claptrap had recently demonstrated.

  Although, in fact, he had demonstrated the exact opposite. But the point remains.

  Frowning, I looked at the door, a large unlocked metal door to the mine where, according to the map, the fabricator should be, and recalled the wisdom about a dungeon without monsters and the last door, behind which they all hide. On the other hand, this dungeon was not quite without monsters, and there is a simple and obvious explanation for their absence - they are all up there, in the stampede. Everything is logical and understandable, why wind yourself up?

  Indeed, why make a fool of yourself, if you can make a turret.

  Or better yet, two.

  ...No, two would be enough, the place is awkward.

  I gently pushed the door open, and it opened almost without a creak. Behind it was a large, generally domed room with a more or less level floor, but rough, untreated walls. And at the far end stood some sort of machine... though at a glance it could be mistaken for some sort of throne assembled from a pile of trash. I looked around, but there were no monsters in sight. A step forward, another.

  ...Of course.

  From somewhere above, out of the darkness that obscured the ceiling even in my enhanced vision, a creature burst into flames with a roar. A massive six-legged figure covered in thick fur, no wings, but large horns. One and a half times larger than the previous BalRog.

  The creature, grinning a huge mouth with teeth of the appropriate size, rose on its hind legs and stabbed itself in the chest with its four front legs, as thick as my torso; sparks of fire flew in all directions.

  "Balrog of the Depths," the ECHO reported. - "We told you it could always be worse."

  I raised the gun - and at that moment, the floor beneath us crumbled.

  I started firing while still falling, and the flashes of gunfire, combined with the Balrog's fire, made it obvious that I couldn't see the bottom.

  But I could see a ledge in the wall. And there's old Newton on my side.

  I fired, and fired again, but not at the bullywang-Balrog, but to the side and down away from him. The recoil of the shotgun... well, not that great, but enough to throw me aside as I fell and slow my fall slightly. I hit the wall, bounced, and fired again to correct my fall.

  - Newton's Third Law, bitch, - I said as the Balrog continued to fall. - Gandalf didn't have a shotgun.

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