Prison of time, p.9
Prison of Time, page 9
Carver barked out again, stentorianly:
“Slaves of Phoryx! Arise and kill your masters. Take all weapons you can. Those of you near anti-aircraft guns, take them over. Do not shoot the ships of Shorraine. Blast those of Phorox. Those of you near the Spot area converge on the defenses at that point. Take over all guns and positions you can. Shoot down the ships of Phorox. Fight, slaves, fight—for freedom. And for Earth!”
“Here they come!” cried Tyson. The doors which he had closed and locked by a bolt mechanism rang with repeated blows. Blasts of telekinetic force ripped out gaping holes.
Carver aimed his gun at the telepathy-machine’s panel and swept its charge down the line, blasting out the studs one by one. His last command to the mind-slaves would be the last they would hear for a time to come. Back of the panel, the throbbing ceased as connections broke.
Then Carver turned, waiting calmly for the demon-people to blast their way in. There was no chance of escape this time. He only wished he could know, before he went, whether success had rewarded his efforts.
Suddenly a wall screen spangled into a television view. Sha-tahn’s dark, evil face peered out at the two besieged Earthmen. He leered satanically, as Earth mythology represented his astral alter ego.
“As I thought,” he spoke, peering sharply. “Barry Carver, despite the disguise. You will die for what you have done—horribly. Not by gun, no.” He gave a command at the side, then turned back. “No. You shall suffer slowly, for weeks, perhaps months. A little astral being will perch in your brain and keep screaming, screaming, till you go mad. But then it will keep on!”
THE noises outside the door ceased. And down from the ceiling darted a black shadow. Carver knew there was no use running. The shadow enveloped his head, probed with its psychic forces, and a faint scream sounded within Carver’s brain. It kept on steadily. Carver knew it would drive him mad, but before them he would—
He gasped. He tried to raise his gun to his own temple, but some force prevented him. He could not will his own death!
“You see?” snarled Sha-tahn. “You will suffer, and—”
At that moment, shouts sounded. Strange wild shouts that seemed to come from all directions. Human shouts I Sha-tahn’s face vanished from the screen, with a startled look upon it. At the same time, the astral tormenter over Carver’s head disappeared.
Tyson had sprung to the door, looking out of a gaping rent.
“The slaves!” he shouted, joyfully. “They’re out in the hall, fighting the satyrs. Barry, it worked—”
Carver leaped for the door, opened it. The satyrs were backed against the wall, shooting it out with a party of men swarming down the corridor. It was over in a moment and with bloodcurdling screams of triumph the Earth-people surged toward Sha-tahn’s room.
“Let’s get in on that!” cried Carver. He was only partially aware of the blood dripping down his sleeve, from his torn shoulder. He and Tyson were with the party when it swarmed into Sha-tahn’s presence. A withering barrage of gun-fire met them. But the rest crowded forward eagerly, madly, screaming revenge. Carver realized that very few of them were sane. He had loosed a pack of demented monsters among the demon-people, who had made them so. Somehow, it was divine justice.
Sha-tahn’s party retreated. Then piercing cries from the back of them and they were trapped between two fires. In desperation, they made a break for it, past Carver’s party. Somehow, Sha-tahn was there across sights. He pressed, and watched the ruler of Phoryx fall, a corpse.
Carver was in a daze. His shoulder pained agonizingly. Was it possible that he had just killed the monster who for thousands of years had worked his way into Earth history as—Satan? Was this all a mad dream? He was so confused, and so weak. It couldn’t be true. It was all a terrible, impossible dream. And then a tidal wave of darkness swept him off his feet . . .
BARRY CARVER stood at the prow of the sleek ship as it rose gracefully over Shorraine. He had one arm around Plelene. The other was in a sling. His shoulder wound had nearly healed.
They had told him later of the full destruction of Phoryx, after his delirium and fever were gone. How the uprising Earth slaves, obeying his telepathic commands to the letter, had demoralized Phoryx’s fighting forces. They had stormed every position, wrested away guns, shot down the demon-people’s ships. Shorraine’s aerial forces had been able to land within the city and take over more guns. Before the end of that day, the enemy was isolated in various sections, besieged. Most of their great fleet was destroyed.
In three more days, the city had been practically leveled. Those of the satyrs still alive had raced to the dark lands. Their power was broken.
CARVER’S ship, piloted by Tom Tyson, maneuvered into the Spot. At its nose, a magnetic machine thrummed powerfully. They felt a slight wrench, no more. The bluish light around them gradually faded into a soft yellow glare. It brightened to tropical harshness as the sands of the Sahara spread to all directions.
Earth! Carver took a deep, satisfied breath.
Pie looked back. One after one, ships followed. The line began to stretch out like a string of beads, over the hot desert. Five thousands ships were his to command. Armed ships, superior to any fighting force of Earth. Carver thought of the Jap army and gripped slowly, in anticipation.
He looked further back, at the dancing, shimmering image of a ghostly city suspended over the rolling sands. Shorraine—City of the Mirage! It had been the scene of incredible adventure, fantastic from start to finish. He would never forget a minute of it. Nor would time mist his memory of the enigmatic, lovely creature who, unwittingly, had assured the destruction of Phoryx.
The ship sailed on, into the wide skies of Earth. On its prow was the legend: “Elsha—Queen of Mu.”
Eando Binder, Prison of Time
