Collected fiction, p.61
Collected Fiction, page 61
A movement nearby drew Mason’s attention. A man had risen to his feet, a brawny warrior with gray-streaked beard who was staring fascinated at the spectacle. Mason, following his gaze, felt cold horror touch him.
The girl on the dais was—changing! The skin beneath the innumerable glass cups grew red and inflamed. She screamed in agony, writhing against the metallic arms of the robots. Her naked body was no longer white—it was covered with dozens of crimson disks—
Mason understood. The air within the glass cups was being pumped out; powerful suction was wrenching at the girl’s flesh.
There were little beads of perspiration on Erech’s face. The Sumerian’s jaw was grimly set, but he could not disguise the fear in his eyes. Under cover of the low murmur that filled the room Mason muttered, “It’s trickery, Erech.”
The Sumerian turned doubtful eyes upon him, glanced back swiftly to the dais. From the corner of his mouth he whispered, “You are wrong, Ma-zhon. This is not the first time it has happened. I—I do not like being afraid, Ma-zhon!”
The girl shrieked, her voice knife-edged with pain. The frightful suction tore at her flesh. Blood spurted into the glass cups. Nerves and veins and arteries were ripped into ghastly chaos. Her body became a shapeless mass of puffy, bleeding meat.
Someone shouted. Mason turned his head in time to see a spear flash through the air, hurled by the gray-beard he had already noticed. Like a white flame the weapon flashed through the room, raced at the Master—and rebounded, fell clattering to the stones!
A beam of yellow light darted out from the dais. There was a shrill scream as the ray impinged on tender skin. It swung toward the gray-beard. The man shouted, toppled back, his face a blackened cindery mass. “Beware!” the disk roared. “Beware the vengeance of the Master!”
“I knew him,” the Sumerian muttered. “It was his daughter whom the Master slew just now—” He stopped as the murmuring of the throng suddenly died away.
IN the stillness the voice of the black disk sounded unnaturally loud. “Let Nine-Seven-Four come forward,” it said. Erech drew in his breath sharply.
Then, without a glance at Mason, the Sumerian rose and strode toward the dais. Just before he reached it he came to a stop, facing the Master.
“Where is the stranger who was in your quarters?” The voice came from Greddar Klon’s thin lips, not from the amplifying disk overhead.
Erech said loudly. “I do not know. He escaped from my quarters.” Mason knew the words were intended for his own ears.
So, apparently, did Greddar Klon. The Master’s voice rang out again flatly.
“I speak to you, stranger. Come forward.”
Mason did not move. A robot stepped forward. Its tentacle-arm coiled about Erech’s neck. The Sumerian’s hand leaped to the hilt of his scimitar, and then fell away. Amazingly the toneless voice spoke—in English, oddly accented but recognizable.
“I—mean you no—harm. Come forward, if you—wish to return to your own—time-sector.”
Startled, Mason involuntarily made a movement, hesitated, and then stood up quickly. After all, he had no choice. The tentacle about Erech’s neck silently warned him of the torture that would be inflicted on the Sumerian if the Master were not obeyed.
Mason hurried forward, the target of furtive glances, passing Erech without a word. The swarthy warrior stared straight ahead, his face immobile. Greddar Klon nodded, and the robot uncoiled its tentacle from Erech’s neck, twined it instead about Mason’s upper arm. There was no menace in the gesture—rather, it seemed as though the creature had taken his arm to guide him. Mason felt a gentle tug, and the robot urged him toward the tunnel mouth behind the dais. The weird, spherical metal head, with its strange, faceted eye, stared down at him blankly.
With a glance at Erech, Mason followed the robot past the still form of Alasa, motionless within her transparent prison. Again the elfin beauty of her caught at Mason’s throat. Then the green-lit depths of a passage swallowed him . . .
He was taken to the great room of the two monoliths. There he waited, still with the cold tentacle curled about his arm, till the sound of tramping footsteps came. Into the huge chamber came the two guardian robots; behind them Greddar Klon in his metal car. The Master stopped the vehicle, swung open a door, laboriously climbed out to the floor.
Now Mason had an opportunity to study the strange man more closely. He was short, his body dwarfed but thick-set, and the arms were slender, boneless, terminating in elongated fingers. The bowed legs were thick and strong. They had to be, in order to support that tremendous brain-case. A close-fitting black garment covered the stocky body, the shoulders of which scarcely came to Mason’s waist. The dwarf’s head was papery-white, blue-veined. Almost Mason could imagine it pulsated with the throb of the living brain within. The bones of the skull must be very thin—the thought stirred something in his mind.
The tiny, pointed jaw moved, and a shrill voice spoke in syllables Mason did not understand. He said, in English, “I am sorry but I do not speak your tongue.”
The other replied haltingly in the same language, “I—know yours. Have studied—records—” He lapsed into pure Semite, speaking more fluently. “Let us speak the root tongue. I have had reason to speak it much of late, though at first it gave me difficulty. You are from the future. So am I—but a future far later than yours.” He nodded. The tentacle unwound from Mason’s arm. The robot paced away, returned with a heap of furs. Greddar Klon dropped upon them, and the robot brought more furs, threw them in a heap beside Mason. He, too, sank down.
“Let me explain. In my day I built a time-machine, a projector which hurled me back into the past. There was an error in my calculations, almost fatal. I had intended to move only a few days into the future. But the time current was very swift . . . I emerged in this ancient city. And I had no way of returning. My time projector was not, of course, in existence. It would not exist till I built it, far in the future.”
THE cold eyes dwelt enigmatically on Mason. “I rebuilt my device. This time—somewhat differently. For I do not wish to err again—I do not care to go back to the Pliocene, or on to a dying, airless world. I have not yet finished my experiments. Do you know why I have told you this?”
Mason shook his head. Cameos of muscle ridged on his jaw.
“Not friendliness—no. I want your brain. Your intelligence. The robots will obey—but they are mindless. There are certain delicate operations and calculations . . . in my own time I had capable assistants, but I cannot use these barbarians, of course. You can help me. Your mind is undeveloped, but the rudiments of scientific knowledge are there. I wish your aid.”
He watched Mason for a moment and then went on, “It is the only way in which you can return to your own time. Do not let emotion sway you. These people here are nothing to me. Nor are you, save that I can use you. Help me—or die.”
The archeologist hesitated. He did not doubt that refusal would mean death, or, at least, torture. He must play for time . . . until he understood more of this alien, enigmatic world.
“Very well. I’ll help you,” Mason spoke weariedly.
“Good.” Greddar Klon peered closely at Mason. “You are tired. You must sleep now, and when you are refreshed we can begin.”
A robot came forward. It took Mason’s arm, urged him toward a passage.
The voice of the Master came, flat and ominous.
“Remember—I do not trust you. But I think you understand that treachery will mean your death!”
CHAPTER IV
THE CONSPIRATORS
FOR seven hours Mason slept dreamlessly, on a mound of furs in one of the bare apartments of Al Bekr. Once he roused at an unfamiliar sound to go to the door and open it. Outside the portal one of the metal robots stood motionless on guard. Smiling wryly, Mason returned to his couch and relaxed in sleep.
The next time he awoke it was to find a hard, calloused palm clamped over his mouth. Startled, he fought desperately for a moment, and then paused as he heard the urgent whisper of Erech.
“Quiet, Ma-zhon! Be silent!”
The Sumerian’s swarthy face was glistening with sweat. He took his hand from Mason’s mouth, said, “We must be quick. There’s a journey you must make before the Master sends for you.”
“The robot—” Mason nodded toward the door. Erech’s thin lips broadened in a grin.
“I’ve taken care of him. With this—see?” He brought out from the folds of his cloak a curious egg-shaped contrivance, milkily luminescent. “I got it from Murdach.”
Murdach! Mason remembered—the man from the future whom Greddar Klon had imprisoned in the vaults of Al Bekr.
“How—”
“Murdach is wise—and powerful, though he’s in chains. I visited him—after the Master had punished me for hiding you.” The Sumerian rubbed his back gingerly, wincing. “I do not love the lash’s kiss—no! Well, I told Murdach of you, and he has made a plan. He gave me this weapon against the metal men, and asked me to bring you to him. And Alasa, too—for the Master intends to slay her.”
“What are we waiting for?” Mason asked. He sprang lightly to his feet, moved toward the door. His hand strayed toward the dagger at his belt, but Erech merely chuckled.
“No danger—so long as we move quietly. Murdach’s weapon is powerful.”
The Sumerian opened the door. The robot stood silent across the threshold, its faceted eye blank and dull. It made no move as the two men passed it. Erech said:
“It’s under a spell.”
Mason lifted quizzical eyebrows. True, to the superstitious Sumerian this must seem magic indeed, but the cause of the robot’s paralysis could be guessed. The egg-like weapon of Murdach, perhaps, emitted a ray which temporarily short-circuited the energy that activated the robot. How long, Mason wondered, would the metal man remain thus?
“Come on,” Erech said, leading the way along the corridor. Silently the archeologist followed. Through green-lit, empty tunnels they went swiftly, and at last came out into the great room of the dais, where Greddar Klon had tortured and killed the Semite girl before the assembled multitudes of Al Bekr. The chamber was vacant now, save for the glass coffin that hung in empty air. Erech ran lightly toward it, Mason at his heels.
From a tunnel mouth a robot came striding. The Sumerian flung up his arm, the luminous, enigmatic weapon of Murdach’s gripped in his thick fingers. From the shining object a pencil-thin beam of light sprang out.
It struck the robot’s body. It spread, crawling over the metal surface like liquid. Suddenly the robot was a glowing figure of living light.
The monster stopped in mid-stride, tentacles rigidly outstretched. It stood frozen.
The light-beam died. Erech hid the weapon in his garments.
“Now for Alasa,” he growled. “Murdach told me how to free her. If I can remember—”
The Sumerian touched the opaque coffin, ran his hand lightly over its surface. He cursed softly—and then caught his breath. Beneath his fingers something clicked; there was a high-pitched, strange sound, as though a violin string had abruptly broken.
The coffin sank down, opening as it dropped. Within it lay Alasa—unmoving, asleep.
MASON leaned forward, his eyes intent on the girl. Alasa’s beauty seemed scarcely earthly as she lay there, and for a moment Mason feared that she would not awaken.
Then the long, dark lashes lifted; warmly golden eyes looked into the man’s. In that gaze a queer understanding came, and Alasa—smiled. No longer goddess—but human indeed!
Fear came into her face. She arose with a lithe motion, and looked around with the wariness of a hunted thing. In Semite Mason said:
“Do not be afraid. We come to free you—not to harm.”
Alasa eyed him doubtfully. The Sumerian said:
“That is true. You know me, I think—and you know how I fought when the Master first came.”
For the first time Alasa spoke, her voice low, a little husky, as though her vocal cords had not been used for long. “Yes, I know you, Erech. I trust you, But—tell me, how long have I been in this prison.”
“Thrice four moons,” Erech said. “But come; we’ll talk as we go. There’s no time to waste.” He turned to the coffin, closed it, lifted it into the air, where it hung unsuspended. “The Master may not discover you’re gone for a while, anyhow.”
The Sumerian led the way. He seemed thoroughly familiar with the intricate maze of Al Bekr, though more than once Alasa’s eyes widened in wonder at sight of her transformed city. Glancing aside at her, Mason felt his pulses leap at the girl’s strangely elfin beauty. Once she looked at him with undisguised curiosity.
“You are from a distant land, I think,” she observed. “Men of Al Bekr are either strong or handsome, but seldom both. You are not very handsome—” she chuckled, golden eyes lighting with mirth—“yet I like you!”
Before Mason could answer a shadow flitted past in the distance. It was the white leopard of Nirvor. It paused, eyeing the group inscrutably. Mason felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The creature was only a beast, of course—yet in its stare was a deadly malignancy and a queer spark of intelligence . . .
The leopard slipped away and was gone. Erech whispered, “It is a demon. Bokya, the black one, is a killer—but white Valesta is like Malik Taus, peacock-devil of the eastern tribes. Hurry!”
The way led downward now, along steeply-sloping ramps, deserted, lit by the pale green radiance. Once they encountered a robot, but Erech’s ray-weapon swiftly reduced it to immobility. Down they went, into the hidden depths beneath lost Al Bekr . . .
And fear crept at Mason’s heels, stalking him. A dread he could not suppress had risen within him ever since the white leopard had appeared. An inexplicable certainty that danger was drawing closer . . .
Without warning disaster struck. From the gloom of a side passage a black bolt of lightning sprang—the black leopard! Right at Erech’s head it leaped, and the Sumerian would have died then beneath grinding fangs had not Mason, almost without thought, lunged forward into the man’s back, hurtling him aside. A razor claw raked Mason’s arm. He felt fur brush his cheek, so close did death pass. Then the leopard seemed to turn in midair, green eyes blazing.
But Erech had drawn his scimitar. With fury no less than the beast’s he crouched, teeth bared in a savage grin.
“Back, Ma-zhon! Guard Alasa! Your dagger is shorter than my blade—let me deal with this hell-spawn.”
Mason thrust the girl behind him. He drew his dagger. The leopard advanced on Erech, tail switching erratically. And—
Darkness fell.
The green-glowing bars blinked out. Intense blackness shrouded the passage.
THE nearness of doom sent inspiration lancing into Mason’s mind. He cried,
“The weapon, Erech! Murdach’s weapon—”
Whether the ray would paralyze the leopard Mason did not know. But, at least, the glowing egg would provide light—light enough so that the leopard could not kill unseen in the blackness.
Whether Erech heard Mason did not know. The floor trembled beneath his feet. It shuddered and sank down as he fought for footing. He felt Alasa’s soft body cannon into his, and then the two of them were plummeting down into the abyss.
They did not fall far, and a mound of furs saved them from injury. In the stygian gloom Mason heard the girl’s unsteady breathing. He put out an exploring hand, touched the warm softness of an arm.
“Are you all right,” Mason asked.
“I think so. But—Erech?”
Mason called the Sumerian’s name. There was no response.
Light blazed into the room.
They were in a tiny cell, twelve feet square or less, walled and roofed with bare metal. Mason stood up, gripping his dagger.
A voice said mockingly, “Though Bokya fail—I do not. I am wiser than my leopards.”
The voice of Nirvor! The Silver Priestess!
Mason looked around quickly. The unseen woman laughed softly.
“You cannot escape, either of you. You will die. Nor will the Master know I slew you. For when the centaur feeds, he leaves not even bones.”
Even at that moment Mason found time to wonder why Nirvor bore him such hatred. Then he remembered his words and his shocked revulsion at the alien horror he had sensed in the eyes of the Silver Priestess. Nirvor remembered—and, to her, the offence was beyond forgiveness.
“I followed you,” the cool voice went on, “till you reached the trap above the centaur’s den. If the Master is too confident to guard himself against treachery, I shall guard him. For Greddar Klon has promised to bring back the glories of Corinoor under Selen, and you, who are his enemies, shall die—now!”
The floor tilted sharply. Once more Mason and Alasa dropped through space, alighting sprawled on a carpet of crackling straw. They were in a dim-lit chamber, high-roofed and huge. It seemed empty, though a black huddle loomed in a far corner.
Nirvor’s voice came again. “Soon the centaur will waken. When you see him, pay homage to the Master’s skill. For the centaur was once a man of Al Bekr, a fool and a murderer, who was bestialized in body and brain by Greddar Klon’s science. He is not fed often. Nor are maidens often thrown into his den. And he is still partly human . . .” Ironic laughter died away into silence. Mason glanced at Alasa’s white face.
“Buck up,” he said, lapsing into English, and then in Semite, “Have courage. We’re not dead yet.”
The girl’s lips were pale. “Yet I fear—this is magic!”
“I’m quite a sorcerer myself,” Mason jested with an assurance he did not feel. He had noticed that the dark bulk in the corner was stirring. It arose. Slowly it came forward into the light . . .
Icy horror chilled the man. A centaur—living, breathing, alive—stood before him, a monster out of mythology sprung to sudden life. The Master’s surgery had created it, Mason told himself, yet he could not force down his repulsion. The creature was monstrous!
