Collected short fiction, p.252
Collected Short Fiction, page 252
He touched something, and hidden mechanism whispered again. The green door closed ponderously behind them. He bent to the second lock.
“Never,” he wheezed abstractedly, “was my genius so fearfully tried. And never was it fired by such dreadful emergency. Ah, me! this day will mark the death of Giles Habibula! This mortal safe may well be his tomb.”
The green metal whispered again, and the Cyclopean mass of the inner door slipped aside. They followed the square passage into a small, square room at the center of the green, colossal sphere. It was flooded with the pale, strange radiation of the walls, and the passage was the only entrance.
The little chamber was empty, save for a massive, rectangular box of the scarlet metal, three feet long, fixed to one wall. The sides of it bore singular, hieroglyphic designs in silver and black. Upon the top of it was another triple circle of projecting rods.
Moaning under his breath, Giles Habibula applied himself.
As the inner door, also, closed behind him, Bob Star clung to the wall, regarding the box with a certain wondering doubt. Already he was a little disappointed. His vague expectations had included something more impressive than this red chest, so small that a man might have carried it.
“It’s no use,” he whispered. “No use!”
For what instrumentality within the box could defeat the tremendous power, the mysterious, hyperthropic science, whose awe-compelling evidence had surrounded them so long?
He went cold and rigid with alarm when another vibration whispered through the cold, green metal.
Kay Nymidee began to tremble. From her white, drawn lips came a strained, unconscious little cry. It was like an unwilling scream, forced from some helpless, tortured animal.
“That was the outer door,” said Jay Kalam. “They are coming!”
Even his usually controlled voice had fallen to a husky whisper.
“Ah!” gasped Giles Habibula. “Here! ’Tis open!”
Bob Star sprang apprehensively to his side, to help throw back the lid of the scarlet box. Anxiously, he peered within.
He hardly knew what he had expected to find. Something, of course, capable of destroying the luminous, half-material forms of the uncanny aythrin—of Stephen Orco. Perhaps some intricate mechanical weapon.
But his mouth fell open upon a voiceless cry of dismay.
The box was empty!
XXIX.
FOR A MOMENT Bob Star was numb and faint with consternation. Intolerable illness came back. The green walls of the small, square room spun about him. Quivering, cold with sweat, he clung to the edge of the red box.
“Jay. ’tis all in vain,” he heard Giles Habibula’s weary murmur. “There’s nothing in the mortal box.”
The old man’s breath went out with a melancholy sigh.
“Mortal me!” he wheezed. “Never did fate perpetrate such a fearful jest!”
Sorrowfully, he shook the yellow globe of his head.
“Nor did men ever struggle so, for a reward so miserable! We roved the frozen night of Neptune’s polar desert to find a ship, and fought a mad cannibal for it. We voyaged the perilous wastes of space until the shining monster met us.
“We dwelt amid the haunting horror of the asteroid, and entered the terror of the comet upon it. We plunged close to death in the purple sun. We traversed the fearful perils of the comet, to reach this alien planet.
“We were captured, and fought the hideous spawn of a dozen frightful worlds for our blessed liberty. We came fifteen thousand miles, into the core of an armored planet. We broke locks that were fearful difficult, and made our bodies into a living ship of space. Alas, poor Hal, who perished for us!
“We passed the menace of the mortal aythrin, with Jay’s machine of invisibility. And now old Giles Habibula has exhausted his precious well of genius, to break into the strongest safe in all tire universe.
“But ’tis all in vain. The mortal thing is empty! Empty——”
He choked upon a sob. Tears trickled down his purple nose. His voice was lost in weeping.
Recovering a little from his illness, Bob Star explored the interior of the red box with groping hands. Could the thing they sought be invisible?
He felt nothing but bare metal.
He looked up, bleakly, at Jay Kalam and Kay Nymidee.
Ghostly white, the girl was staring down into the empty box. Her bloodless face had gone flaccid with despair. Her eyes were wide, dull with the death of hope. Her body was limp, nerveless. Bob thought she would have fallen, had there been gravitation to cause it.
Jay Kalam, beside her, was rigid, silent. His lean face was ashen. He retained his expression of formal, grave composure. But it was leaden; something had died beneath it. His eyes were blank windows into vacant space; they had no light in them.
His lean, slender fingers were twisted together with a repressed and silent agony.
The girl’s dull eyes crossed Bob Star’s. But no warmth, no recognition, came into them.
She began talking as if to herself, in a dead, husky whisper. Jay Kalam interpreted her words; but it seemed to Bob Star that he did so like an automatic machine, without himself comprehending their meaning.
“I am the last of my people. For twelve generations we have dwelt amid the peril and the horror of the comet. We have lived, when death would have been welcome, for one thing—to destroy the aythrin before they could destroy mankind. My father lived and died for that, and all my people did.
“Now I thought we had a chance. But we have lost——”
His voice grew slow, and faded away, as if he had been a speaking machine, and the machine had run down.
Giles Habibula was still slumped over the empty box. He was weeping noisily, blowing his nose. His fat fingers were restlessly exploring the smooth red metal, in aimless search.
Straightening convulsively, Bob Star whispered: “There’s nothing—nothing else?”
Jay Kalam shook his head. His teeth had cut into his thin lip, and his lean chin was bright with blood. There was terrible contrast in the grave restraint of his face, and the horror of that scarlet stain.
“Nothing, Bob,” he said. “We had the one slender chance. It failed——”
He licked his lip, and seemed dully surprised at the taste of blood.
“We can only wait—for them——”
DAZED, hopeless, Bob Star stared vacantly into the empty box, or at the bare, green walls. They were doomed. The resistless truth coiled about him like a constricting serpent. The old pain throbbed, keener, more intense, within his brain. The ancient fear mounted in him; it would never die.
Sickness came back. He crumpled down beside moaning Giles Habibula, a heap of trembling, agonized despair.
He heard the remote whisper of the inner door. It was opening. The dry and voiceless gasp of Kay Nymidee drew up his eyes. He saw the Cometeers.
The two creatures were near them in the small green room. They were floating side by side. They were two ten-foot pillars formed of swirling, luminous, silver-green atoms. Each pillar rested upon a pulsating star of hot red fire, wrapped in a misty scarlet moon. Each was crowned with a star of frigid violet, beating like a heart of fire in the center of a violet moon. And each was ringed with a belt of massive, glowing emerald.
And, like a magnetic force, each of them radiated pure, tangible horror.
Out of the nearer came a low chuckle, of easy, indifferent triumph. It was the careless laugh of a reckless, immortal god.
Listening wearily from the apathy of utter despair, Bob Star heard the familiar, ringing baritone of Stephen Orco: “Greetings, Bob. Allow me to present my colleague, who is the nominal master of the comet.”
The violet star moved as if it made a mocking bow.
With a certain dim, lethargic interest, Bob Star stared at the shining lord of the comet. It, he supposed, was responsible for the monstrous joke of the empty box. Were the Cometeers, he wondered, indeed completely invulnerable? Had this tremendous, guarded vault been but a colossal hoax, maintained by the luminous being for the sake of prestige?
“Your remarkable enterprise,” said the easy voice of Stephen Orco, “has alarmed my colleague, who is going to take steps for its immediate termination. I regret your untimely passing, Bob, but your amazing indiscretions have made it impracticable for me to preserve your life any farther.”
If the voice had gibbered or whispered or shrieked, Bob Star thought, the horror of it would have been less. For there was a dreadful discrepancy between the terrible, mind-searing wonder before his eyes, and that careless tone of laughing levity.
“Before you die, Bob,” it said, “you would like to hear of your parents? They are quite near, you know—so near that your companion, Hal Samdu, was brought, upon his capture, to their prison ship. That is how I came to be aware of your extraordinary activities.
“Your mother, you will doubtless be relieved to know, is yet uninjured. But she has been displaying a foolish and useless reluctance to enter any discussion with me of the principles of AKKA—a reluctance which I have been devising means to overcome.
“Your mother will not live long, Bob, and I had planned for you and your companions to be present at the end. For she has asked for you, Bob. And she seems to hold affection for these men who used to be her guards. But the impatience of my colleague puts that out of the question.”
There was a little pause, and Bob Star observed an anxious, restless movement on the part of the master of the comet.
“It is a pleasure,” resumed the light, gay voice, from the nearer thing of frozen fire, “to be present at a crisis in universal history. And to judge from the apprehensions of my colleague, as we entered, this is indeed a crisis. His concern is rather astonishing.
“And it pleases me particularly, Bob, to be the instrument chosen to write the doom of mankind. I can’t say why I should so rejoice in the doom of humanity.
“But farewell, Bob——”
The farther being had moved again, impatiently. And Bob Star felt a prickling over his skin; a greenish mist obscured his sight——
This, he knew, was the ultimate moment. The finish—for him—for humanity—for Kay Nymidee——
The last agonized moment of consciousness dragged into bitter eternity and——
DIMLY, remote in the rushing that filled his ears, he heard Jay Kalam’s strained and husky voice.
“Wait, Orco!” he gasped. “Wait, and I can tell you why you feel yourself an alien—why you hate mankind!”
Bob Star was aware of reprieve. The tingling numbness receeded from his limbs; he could see again. The rushing faded from his ears. He heard the mocking challenge of Stephen Orco’s voice: “Well, Commander Kalam?”
Jay Kalam met the challenge, gravely. “Stephen Orco,” he said, “we first tried to enter the comet upon a small geodesic cruiser. A shining monster came aboard; it wrecked our generators and killed a man, Mark Lardo.”
“I am aware of the incident—none better,” said the voice, impatiently. Listening, Bob Star wondered vaguely at the commander’s purpose. He was fighting for time, obviously. But what, in this ultimate extremity of defeat, was the value of time? Then his wonder was lost, in his consuming interest in Jay Kalam’s revelation.
“We landed the wreck upon an uncharted transplutonian asteroid. It had been inhabited. Its people had been destroyed by the Cometeers. But there was a mystery left upon it. The master of the asteroid had been a scientist and an artist. Every feature of the little world proclaimed his extraordinary genius—and his amazing wealth. Why should such a man hide himself in a private world, beyond the system?”
“The answer,” inquired Stephen Orco, “is of interest to me?”
“It explains your difference from common men,” said Jay Kalam. “Your unusual gifts, your desire for superiority, your hostility to mankind.”
“Go on,” said the voice. “But be quick!”
And it seemed to Bob Star that the nearer shining thing made a restraining gesture toward the other.
“One remarkable feature of the riddle,” the quiet-voiced commander went on, “was a very complete biological laboratory, cleverly hidden beneath the dwelling.
“Another was the emblem of the mysterious master of the asteroid—the crux ansata and crossed bones, in red, upon a black background. You may recall that the same emblem—the symbol of life above the symbol of death—is associated with the mystery of your own origin, Stephen Orco?”
The shining being came a little nearer; the restless whirling of its green-and-argent pillar seemed to pause; Bob Star sensed its compelling interest.
“The asteroid was dragged into the comet with us——”
“Thank you,” said the voice. “My associates have been perplexed as to your mode of entrance. But go on!”
“The asteroid was flung into the purple sun,” Jay Kalam continued. “But not before I had solved its riddle. Its master,” he explained, “kept a diary in a secret shorthand, which I was able to read. The solution,” he added, “I have kept to myself until now, because of its unpleasant aspects.”
“Let’s have it,” demanded the voice. “My colleague will not submit to much longer restraint.”
“The master of the asteroid,” the commander went on, still deliberately grave—still, Bob Star realized, fighting, inexplicably, for time—“was a man named Eldo Arrynu. A native of Earth, he was educated there and on Mars in biological science.
“ELDO ARRYNU was peculiarly brilliant, in artistic as well as scientific directions. His early career was distinguished—until he was sentenced in disgrace to a Martian prison, for conducting illegal experiments.
“Within a year after his imprisonment, he was pardoned, in reward for a brilliant emergency operation, that saved the warden’s life. He vanished. And the legion was never able to find him again—although we had evidence enough of his diabolical activities.
“What he did, of course, was to take refuge upon this unknown asteroid. In prison, apparently, he had formed connections with a powerful ring of space pirates and interplanetary smugglers. He soon became the leader of it, evidently, and turned its criminal activities in a new and terrible direction.
“For, upon the asteroid, he became the ruler of the most insidious traffic that has ever disgraced the system, one which the legion has fought in vain to suppress. It is that traffic whose accursed reward transformed a barren rock into a hidden paradise, that was an artist’s dream of beauty made real and——”
“Be brief,” warned the voice of Stephen Orco. “Or die!”
“The illegal experiments of Eldo Arrynu,” Jay Kalam continued, still unhurried, “had been in the synthesis of life—repeated horrors long ago forced the council to outlaw such efforts.
“And upon the asteroid, he carried his forbidden work to a triumphant completion. The traffic that brought him such enormous wealth was the production and sale of androids.”
For a moment the nearer shining thing seemed frozen. Red star and violet star ceased their regular beat. And the misty spindle between them was congealed into a pillar of green-white crystal. Then it broke into quivering motion, and a startled word came out of it: “Androids!”
“Eldo Arrynu,” amplified Jay Kalam, “had come upon the secret of synthetic life. He generated artificial cells, and propagated them in nutrient media, controlling development by radiological and biochemical means.
“He was an artist, as well as a scientist. The genius of creation was a supernal flame in him. He worked in living, synthetic flesh. He achieved miracles—diabolical miracles——”
The commander’s lean face had grown dark and hard, as if with the pain of a festering memory.
“It is a sorry commentary upon human civilization,” he said grimly, “that a wealthy man should give half his fortune for a hundred pounds of synthetic protoplasm. But many did—enough to give Eldo Arrynu the wealth he desired.”
His hard jaws clenched suddenly, until they went pale.
“Nor can I blame them, altogether,” he whispered. His dark eyes seemed to stare into a terrible window of the past. “For there was one arrested by the legion for her owner’s murder. She was the spirit of beauty made real; she was a true artist’s dream of grace——”
His lean throat worked to a convulsive swallow.
“It was my duty to destroy her. But almost——”
His dark eyes looked suddenly, gratefully, at Bob Star.
“But for the memory of your mother, Bob, I might have brought disgrace upon the legion——”
He collected himself, and brought his eyes back to the restless, shining forms.
“The criminal activities of the ring did not stop with the mere sale of the androids,” he said. “For in the flawless, enthralling perfection of their bodies, these beings frequently embodied the most demoniacal criminal instincts. The luckless purchaser often found that the price included the remainder of his fortune, and sometimes his life.
“Eldo Arrynu wrote black pages into the records of the legion——”
“But,” the commander went on, “if he failed to ingraft in his creations any moral restraint, Eldo Arrynu seems to have had no difficulty in endowing them with extraordinary cunning—or even, sometimes, with an exceptional intelligence.”
JAY KALAM paused momentarily, and said, in a lower, more casual tone: “You must already have guessed what I’m going to tell you, Stephen Orco. You aren’t a man. You are a synthetic monster from the laboratory of Eldo Arrynu.”
The frozen violet star dipped as if it bowed. The light mockery of the voice spoke out of the misty pillar: “Thank you, commander.”
“Your case,” Jay Kalam added, still deliberately calm, “is fully discussed in the diary. Eldo Arrynu took exceptional pains with your creation. His sublime artistic genius had got the better of his practical instincts. He designed you as a perfect being, a true superman.
“Soon, however, after you emerged from his vats and incubators, he perceived the fatal flaw in you—the cold fiend, sleeping! He saw that his supreme effort had fallen short of humanity in the vital direction.
