Fiction spectacular, p.40
Fiction Spectacular, page 40
“What did you mean, straighten this out with Vartha?”
Maddox shrugged. “There are a lot of things we don’t know about yet. We can always compromise, if necessary . . .”
Jon would have replied, but his eyes caught sight of a group of men approaching. They were shuffling forward on thin emaciated legs that seemed as if they would buckle at every step. Their clothing, what there was of it, hung on them in tattered shreds. Their faces were sunken and haggard. Some of them had large red blotches on sickly yellow skin.
Slowly Jon and Maddox approached the group. There were three men in the group, and they stopped when they saw the two men approaching.
For long silent moments they stared at one another. Jon could feel the close scrutiny of feverish eyes. Then one of the men pointed.
“His shoulder—it is he!”
Once again attention had been called to the mark on his body. Jon looked closely at the men. “I have never seen you before, yet you seem to recognize me, even as Ogar Vartha did, and—”
Beside him, Karl Maddox stepped forward. “Do you know a man named Baltu Calthon?”
The name had an immediate effect on them. They glanced quickly at one another, and to Jon it seemed as if a ray of hope and gladness seized them.
“Follow us.” One of them suddenly spoke.
They turned and began walking toward a row of huts a short distance away. A tense excitement rose inside Jon. He knew that something important was about to happen to him, something that might shape the destiny of his life. A fear rose in him too. The thought of having a real father—alive somewhere, he had kept hidden from his mind. It had been too much to hope for, a dream. And now within the space of a few short hours, amid veiled threats, and the revelation of a girl who had been a part of his secret thoughts, whose name had come to him in a flash of memory, but who still remained a mystery, had come another name. Baltu Calthon. And the son of Baku Calthon. The son . . .
They stopped before a decrepit hut. The wooden walls were weatherbeaten and warped. A foul stench arose around it, almost sickened him. And the door of the hut opened.
A MAN stood in the opening. He was tall. White hair fell loosely on the back of his head. His shoulders were stooped, but still retained a semblance of proud carriage. On his left shoulder, blazing against the pale skin, was a sword with a haloed hilt of gold. His features were haggard, sunken, only the eyes alight with life. He wore a frayed and dirty pair of trunks.
“You are Baltu Calthon?” It was Karl Maddox speaking.
The old man nodded. “I am.” His voice was strong, the only thing about him that was.
Maddox pointed to Jon. “I have reason to believe this is your son.”
It was so easily said. Almost brutally. Jon swallowed a lump that was growing in his throat. This man, this wreck of a man—this was . . .
Baltu Calthon was staring at Jon. His lips had suddenly begun to tremble.
He stared from the mark on Jon’s shoulder, to his strong youthful features and waving blond hair. Then words tumbled from him.
“Jon . . . Jon! It is my son! My son!”
Feeble arms were suddenly embracing him. He could feel the tall figure trembling against him. Unconsciously his own arms tightened around the frail figure. There was a wetness rising in his eyes which he couldn’t force back. And with it came a throbbing fury. This was his father, a father he once had known but whom he had forgotten. What had happened to him? Who was responsible for his degradation?
Baltu Calthon stepped back. There was a simple majesty about his face and a burning fire in his eyes that Jon guessed had been absent for many years.
“Your mother, Job . . .”
Jon turned his eyes away. A choked feeling rose in his throat. He looked over at Karl Maddox as the words slipped from his lips. “She’s dead . . .”
He heard the weary sigh of pain that might have ruined years of hope, of waiting. “Tell me . . .”
Jon looked helplessly at Maddox.
“Perhaps I had better tell it,” Maddox advised, moving closer.
Jon listened. He listened again to the same story that had struck him cold with doubts, fears, and questions. The same story that had begun in the office of Dean Phillips. He wondered how many million years had passed since then. It seemed like an eternity had slipped by since that moment, as if he hadn’t begun to live, as if everything was to begin with that revelation. He knew the story by heart now, so he wasn’t interested.
But there were other things. The little girl with blue eyes and raven hair. The little girl that was now a grown, beautiful woman. The one connecting link that had remained with him. The one thing that somehow fitted into place, and yet, was somehow as far away as before. He thought of the name that had surged to his lips when she suddenly stood there before him. “Geryl . . .” He could see himself repeating the word. He could see the wonder—and fear, it seemed, in her eyes. Why had she seemed afraid?
He became aware that Karl Maddox had finished. There was silence about them. And Jon saw that their little group had suddenly grown. It seemed as if a myriad of haggard, emaciated men had suddenly surrounded them. He could see their eyes fastened on him.
A hand rested gently on his shoulder. Baltu Calthon’s lips were trembling.
“My son, almost I wish that you too had died in the wreck of the time globe. Perhaps it would have been ever better had Karl Maddox not discovered its secret. There is nothing left of the proud heritage you were once a part of. Nothing . . .”
THERE was bitterness in the words.
Bitterness and a cold despairing agony. Jon took the feeble hand from his shoulder and pressed it hard in his own.
“There are so many things I don’t understand—Dad.” That sounded funny. Automatically he glanced at Karl Maddox, the man he had grown to know as his father, the man, the scientist he had really never understood. But the man he had always called Dad—until now.
“Yes there are many things, Jon. I must tell you, even though it is now too late.” Baltu Calthon turned to Maddox. “You sir, as a scientist, may be interested, but . . .”
His voice trailed off. He seemed to be gathering strength for an ordeal that was painful in merely calling it to mind. They waited.
“Thousands of years ago our race was mighty and proud. The great land of Atlantis was the seat of culture and civilization of the entire world. Our science had brought knowledge to the as yet barbarian races of the other continents. There was only peace and happiness.
“Then came the great cataclysm. Forces within the Earth, forces unknown, unreckoned with, destroyed in a single day the civilization and culture that had been Atlantis for tens of centuries. It began with great tidal waves that swept in over the land. Our people were wiped out by the thousands, our cities engulged beneath the weight of the seas.
“Those who managed to escape the initial catastrophe fled to higher land, to the hills and mountains. But it was useless. The mountains became active volcanoes, stirred from their slumber of eons. They poured molten death and destruction down upon the fleeing Atlanteans. Our race was caught between two of the mightiest of nature’s upheavals. Our doom was sealed.
“Soon all that remained alive was a small band of refugees that had gathered on the highest plateau of the land. But even they knew that it was but a question of time, a few minutes, a few hours. For the seas poured onward toward the white hot lakes of molten rock that seethed from the erupting mountains. The sun was darkened, lost forever. Great storms sprang up, winds of uptold magnitude that threatened to blow the little band of refugees from the plateau.
“And then the seas met the flaming mountains. The forces of space were rent asunder. The continent exploded, the very world itself seemed engulfed. The last of our race gathered on the plateau resigned themselves to death. But they did not die.”
Baltu Calthon paused. Not a sound broke the silence around him. Jon stared in awed fascination, waiting. Then:
“Such was the power of the cataclysm that a rent was made in the ether itself. A great space-warp was formed around the plateau. A warp that caught the remaining Atlans and swallowed them up. We have since learned that they were caught in a rupture of the space-time continuum. At the very moment when death was imminent, in the very wake of the catastrophe, the few remaining members of our race on the continent were thrown into time.
“When their senses returned they found themselves in a verdant valley. There was peace and calm, nothing to indicate that nature had torn itself to pieces seemingly a few short moments before.
“And thus our race was saved. Laboriously, over a period of centuries the remnants of Great Atlantis strove to rebuild itself. It was not an easy task. They had nothing left but their hands—and memories. But our race had built itself up from nothing before, it but remained to accomplish this again.
“That was close to five thousand years ago. This is Atlans as it exists today, a civilization that was built gradually from the pitiful handful that remained. . .”
BALTU CALTHON’S voice trailed off. Jon glanced quickly from his father’s tired features to Karl Maddox. The scientist was standing rigid, his eyes intent, incredulous.
Jon cleared his throat. “But what about—us? . . .”
Baltu Calthon nodded slowly. “I was coming to that, my son. What I am about to say is not easy. I have tried to show the courage and determination of our people, the heroic sacrifice they offered themselves unto, the equally courageous efforts they made to rebuild their lost Atlan civilization.
“They did succeed. Our New Atlans was modeled after the peaceful race that had been their forbearers. We developed culture and our science was fast growing to the proportions it had maintained at the time of the great cataclysm. Our leadership for nearly five centuries now has been handed down to the Scientists of the realm, for government is nothing more than a science in itself. Thirty odd years ago I was chosen by the Grand Council to take over the administration of Atlans after my father, the Atlord, died.
“One of my closest friends was a man named Ogar Vartha. He was a member of the Grand Council and a man of great ambitions. He planned the celebration of my marriage which took place shortly after I took office. We were as close as men can be in friendship—I thought . . .
“Aside from my duties as Atlord, I had been experimenting with a theory that had grown to be an obsession. I had always been interested in the history of our race, and since nature itself had proven there was a space-time continuum, I knew I would never be satisfied until I perfected a machine that could also breach time.
“About this time I had a son—you, Jon. Ogar Vartha had never married, but his sister had and a child was born to her shortly after. Her husband died in an accident and he took the child and his sister in. We lived, both families, in the Atlord palace. I had dream3 of someday . . .
“But all this time I had been developing my time globe. I knew I had perfected my original theory and that time travel was close to achievement. I wanted to go back in time and see for myself the might that had once been Atlantis. But I did not reckon with the man I had called my best friend.
“Ogar Vartha had always been ambitious. As a scientist he had never achieved greatness, but he was a member of the Council and held a position of great responsibility. It wasn’t discovered until too late that Vartha had been secretly plotting against his own government with a minority group who sought power and domination. I should have known what was happening, but my work occupied all of my time.
“I had just perfected my time globe and was about to announce its completion to the Council, when Vartha’s plot was discovered. But by then it was too late. As a scientist he had developed a new weapon known as a vibro-sword, an implement charged with electrical forces controlled by the user. This weapon can kill a man instantly when used at full power. His minority group was armed with this when the revolt took place.
“The meagre military forces that were at my disposal—in a land that had never known war and bloodshed—were far inferior to Vartha’s with his new weapon. Within a few days he had taken over the entire city and had the palace surrounded. It was only a question of time before he would take that.
“He sent me an ultimatum. He offered me freedom and protection if I would turn over the secret of my time machine to him. He threatened to kill my wife and son if I refused.
“He would have done it, I knew then. He had been my friend only to gain my confidence and hide the dreams of conquest he held. I realized what would happen if I turned over the time globe to him. He would have used it to further his conquests on other races, in other time worlds.
“I could not let this happen. But I also could not sacrifice my wife and son. So I destroyed all the plans for my machine and sent my family into time—and I hoped, safety, in the one I had completed. I remained here myself, hoping to thwart Vartha’s plans, and eventually build another globe and bring back my wife and son.
“That was twenty years ago. Since then Vartha has ruled Atlans with an iron hand. The people are enslaved, and the small groups of loyal followers that fought with me and escaped capture, have banded in the hills, living as outcasts, hoping that someday they will have the power and leadership to strike back. I myself have been kept alive because Vartha knows that if he kills me the secret of the time globe will die with me. It has been twenty years of torture and agony, but up to now I, and the remnants of the Grand Council whom you see around you, have managed to remain alive—with only a dim hope for the future . . .”
SILENCE closed in on them. Jon could hear Karl Maddox breathing heavily. But Jon had eyes only for Baltu Calthon, his father. He saw pain and despair written on those features aged far beyond their years. And he saw something else . . .
“What about Ogar Vartha’s niece—Geryl . . .” Jon asked suddenly.
Baltu Calthon shook his head sadly. “Shortly after Vartha took power his sister died. Vartha raised the girl himself. She knows only what he has seen fit to teach her. She believes that Vartha acted to save Atlans from—me, and the Council. She has grown to hate the remnants of the loyal Atlan forces hiding in the hills. Every terrible thing Vartha had accomplished was skillfully made to look like part of the loyal Atlans.”
“I see,” Jon replied slowly. He was thinking of the look of fear and wonder that had crossed the girl’s face when she recognized him.
Beside Jon, Karl Maddox cleared his throat.
“Then there isn’t much hope left for—you?”
Baltu Calthon turned tired eyes. “We have no leadership—someone to inspire resistance. And Ogar Vartha is powerful.”
“Why resist any further then?” Maddox asked.
“I don’t understand,” Calthon said.
Maddox shrugged. “You have your son now. Why not give Vartha what he wants? Don’t forget, he has us to work on now . . .”
The old man’s hands trembled. “That is true . . . He would stop at nothing!”
Jon’s eyes flamed. “He can do anything he wants—he’ll never succeed!”
“Maybe,” Karl Maddox replied, looking away.
“There is a way!” Jon insisted, turning to his father. “You mentioned groups of loyal Atlans waiting in the hills for leadership!”
“That is true, Jon, but—”
“I will lead them.”
There was silence. Then Maddox laughed scornfully. “Aren’t you forgetting where you are? Look around—this is a prison, closely guarded by Vartha’s men. That fence—”
“It is electrically charged,” Baltu Calthon cut in.
“Exactly. To be of any use you would have to escape—and Vartha would still hold your father—and us! What do you think would happen then?”
Jon looked at his father! A sudden flame of hope had been born on the old man’s face, to quickly die as Maddox spoke.
“That’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Jon said grimly.” There must be a way. There must be!”
CHAPTER IV
THE stars twinkled down like jewels in a soft blue ceiling. Over beyond the hills there was a faint glow that grew brighter with each passing minute. The Moon would be peeping over the horizon in its dismal march across the sky. A soft cool breeze stirred, whispering in the silent night.
Jon sat wearily on the grass at the far end of the stockade, close to the wired fence that meant death at a single touch. Jon watched the Moon edging over the hills and wondered if the face that looked down from that glowing orb never got tired after thousands of ceaseless years of watching.
He welcomed the breeze that whispered softly about him. The inside of the hut had been more than he could stand. There was an odor of death there, death that was remorseless and cruel, death that fed on the sickness and poverty of the men still clinging to life. Out here in the night he could breathe, and think.
Jon’s thoughts were heavy. The story his father had told them earlier in the day had left him in a daze. He could still hardly grasp the fact, that he, raised in the modern atmosphere of the twentieth century, had been in the true sense of the word, an alien, an orphan of another race, another time. And now that he had traced his heritage he found only bitter disappointment, and tyranny at the hands of a power mad ruler. He shook his head sadly in the night. It was much the same wherever men banded together. There would always be Hitlers, even though their names were different.
Jon’s hand strayed to the haloed sword on his shoulder. His lips tightened. But this was different. He had a duty, a destiny. Vartha must be stopped, and . . .
He remembered Geryl. Something closed around his heart. In hurting Vartha he would be hurting her. She would be sure then that what she had been taught was true. . .
A sound interrupted his thoughts. He glanced up into the night at the wire fence a few feet away. The wind whispered gently.
It came again. The sound of a voice. “Jon . . . Jon . . .”
He squinted his eyes into the dimness of the night Then he saw a vague movement outside the fence. It grew closer, became sharp in outline.
