The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPlanet of DreadThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Planet of DreadAuthor: Dwight V. SwainIllustrator: W. E. TerryRelease date: September 17, 2021 [eBook #66328]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLANET OF DREAD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Planet of DreadAuthor: Dwight V. SwainIllustrator: W. E. TerryRelease date: September 17, 2021 [eBook #66328]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Planet of Dread
Author: Dwight V. SwainIllustrator: W. E. Terry
Author: Dwight V. Swain
Illustrator: W. E. Terry
Release date: September 17, 2021 [eBook #66328]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLANET OF DREAD ***
Surrounded by its many suns, Lysor scornedFederation rule and plotted the destruction of ourgalaxy. So Craig Nesom came in a starship to this—PLANET OF DREADBy Dwight V. Swain[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromImagination Stories of Science and FantasyFebruary 1954Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Surrounded by its many suns, Lysor scornedFederation rule and plotted the destruction of ourgalaxy. So Craig Nesom came in a starship to this—
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromImagination Stories of Science and FantasyFebruary 1954Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Face slack, eyes glazed with terror, the Baemae wench came forward through the gate into the walled ring.
An appreciative murmur ran through the crowd. As one, the assembled Kukzubas barons and their ladies pressed closer about the pit-rail, tense and eager with anticipation.
High on his dais, Lord Zenaor chuckled. "A pretty thing, is she not, Vydys?" he queried of the woman who sat beside him, dark vision of sinister beauty.
Hot with strange passion, the woman's eyes clung to the cringing figure in the pit. The pink tip of her tongue flicked at her lips. "If you can see your way to calling any Baemae woman pretty. For my part, I prefer her in her proper role, as prey here in the games."
"So—?" Lord Zenaor raised a mocking coal-black eyebrow. "No wonder they call you 'Vydys the Cruel' behind your back, my dear! If you had your way, there'd soon be no Baemae left alive to serve us."
Visibly, Vydys stiffened. Her head came round—dark eyes flashing, jet hair ashimmer; and when she spoke her words were edged with fury. "Have a care, Zenaor! I've no taste for taunts, even from the chief of barons."
"The truth is no taunt." Zenaor gave not a fraction. "Because pain is your passion, you drive our serfs to rebellion."
"Rebellion—!" The woman's eyes glinted like crater diamonds. "How many of the Baemae have flown south with their cursed discs already, off to the djevoda ranges? There lies your rebellion—and only torture will stop it!" Her laugh rang gall-bitter. "Or perhaps, like that Narla, you believe we should free them?"
"Keep your tongue off my daughter!" It was a command that brooked no discussion. "As for the free range, the discs, cross them off. They'll soon be no menace."
"Oh?" Vydys' lips twisted, mocking. "No, doubt you have a plan, my lord Zenaor—"
"I have a plan indeed." Zenaor's tone was icy. "One word too many, and you'll die as its first step."
Vydys faltered.
"You see, my dear, our goals are different." Zenaor clipped, smiling thinly. "You lust after pain, I after power. As chief of barons, I mean to have it—and that means holding down the Baemae. But I'll waste no time on half-way measures. When I strike, it will be in my own way, and it will win. And"—now he leaned forward, close to Vydys—"and even one lovely as you shall die if in that moment she plots against me."
Vydys' nostrils flared. But before she could speak, the chief of barons turned away. He raised his voice till it echoed through the great vaulted hall. "Wench! Are you ready?"
Below him, in the ring, the Baemae girl's lips moved in a soundless agony of panic.
A ripple of laughter rose from the crowd. Packed bodies shifted and pressed tighter. Hungrily, mercilessly, a thousand eyes appraised the evening's victim.
Zenaor said, "Wench, tonight you meet the Lady Vydys' roller. If you survive, I'll make a place for you in my own harem. If not...." He shrugged: turned back to Vydys. "My dear—"
Vydys' high, proud breasts rose on a quick-drawn breath. Lithely, she twisted in her seat. "My helm, serf!"
The rawboned Baemae youth who wore her livery lifted the ornate metal headdress from its case; stepped forward. His face was pale, sweat-beaded. His hands trembled.
Vydys' eyes distended. "Why do you shake so, carrion?"
The youth's voice quavered. "She—that girl...." He floundered, groped. "She—she is my sister, Lady Vydys."
"Your sister!" The mask of anger fell away from Vydys' face. "You mean she is of your blood? You love her?"
Mutely, the serfman nodded.
"And you would suffer were she to meet my roller?"
Again, the liveried Baemae's head moved in silent affirmation.
A light gleamed deep in Vydys' eyes, all dark and evil. Once more, she ran the small, pink tongue along her lips, as if savoring the tension of the moment.
"You—you will spare her—?" The youth's words came out a hoarse, cracked whisper.
"Spare her—and spoil the evening's entertainment?" The Lady Vydys' ripe lips curved in a small, slow smile that was straight from hell. "Surely, serf, you would not ask that of me!" And then: "Place my helm upon me."
A new tremor ran through the serving-serf. Wordless, he slid the shining metal casing down over the jet hair, seated it carefully upon the woman's head.
Approvingly, she nodded. "Now, seat yourself before me—here, where I can watch your face."
Stiff-lipped, the youth obeyed.
Vydys laughed softly; turned to Zenaor. "You see, my lord? Down there in the ring will be the wench, pitting herself against my roller; while here close by me sits her brother, suffering with her. It offers a new kind of titillation!"
Zenaor shrugged. "As you will it."
Eyes sparkling, Vydys leaned forward. "Let in the roller!"
An iron gate lifted. A faceted four-foot sphere bowled slowly out of the shadowed passage into the walled ring.
The roller.
A strange creature, in any evolutional pattern. Its surface was completely covered with leathery, inch-wide octagonal pads, each centered with a third-inch cup that served as combined mouth and mode of movement. For through these cups it both took nourishment and pulled itself in whatever direction it sought to go by applying differential suction to the surface on which it rested.
Now, in the center of the ring, it hesitated; paused there, teetering, like some great ball come to rest.
The Baemae girl caught her breath, the sound rasping over-loud in the sudden hush that had fallen upon the crowd. Eyes wild and wide, she shrank, back against the wall, hands splayed out flat against the polished duroid surface.
Still smiling, Vydys spoke to her victim—gentle, coaxing: "This is a game wench—a game betwixt you and me. Do not fear the roller. In itself it is harmless, a mere ball of flesh with so little brain that it barely knows enough to feed. But through this helm"—she touched her headdress—"my thoughts can project waves that stimulate its nervous system, so that it moves wherever I may will it. You understand?"
The girl below gave no sign that she had even heard.
Vydys pressed on: "So, now, I'll spin the roller at you, while you try to dodge it. That is the game. To win, you have only to leap atop the thing and scale the ring-wall."
Among the barons, someone laughed aloud, harsh and explosive.
The Baemae youth who was the victim's brother buried his face in his hands.
Still the girl in the pit said nothing. She seemed to have eyes only for the roller.
Zenaor's black brows drew together. "Get on with it!"
Vydys murmured, "The game begins...." Her face set in a mask of concentration.
Down in the ring, the roller began to move once more. Slowly at first, then faster, it bowled around in a long curve.
The girl slid along the wall, keeping space between her and the creature.
Vydys' lips parted, peeled back over sharp white teeth. Her fingers wrapped tight around the throne-arm.
The roller swerved sharply. Gathering speed, it hurtled towards the girl.
She darted sideways.
The roller struck the wall with a meaty thud. Then, rotating so rapidly its pad-facets blurred, it raced along the pitside, close on its victim's heels.
The girl gave a small, shrill cry of panic, and fled across the center of the ring.
Again the roller spun; lanced after her.
The girl threw herself aside barely in time. The roller missed her by scant inches. Racing on, once more it struck the ring-wall, even harder than before ... caromed off like a huge ball bouncing ... hurtled back, straight at the girl.
She stumbled to the left, seeking desperately to dodge it.
The roller veered.
The girl screamed; twisted.
But not quite far enough, nor fast enough. One side of the speeding roller ticked her; knocked her backward. She sprawled in a heap on the ring's floor.
The crowd roared; strained forward.
Up on the dais, the Baemae youth surged to his feet—fists clenched, face working.
Vydys laughed aloud ... a throaty chortle, somehow hideous, more befitting fiend than woman. "Ah, Zenaor! Was that not well turned?" Her features shone with strange, evil radiance.
The chief of barons shrugged, face wooden.
Down in the ring, the roller came to rest. Panting, shaking, the Baemae girl scrambled to her feet.
Vydys' smooth brow furrowed. Slowly, the roller began to move again—in a spiral, this time, circling and converging on its fear-straught prey.
Sobbing, the girl tottered backward.
Swiftly, the roller changed course ... spun towards her.
The girl fled, running off wildly at right angles, not even pausing to look behind her.
Veering once more, the roller raced to intercept her. Too late, the girl threw a mad glance back over her shoulder.
But now the roller was upon her, striking at her legs even as she tried to spring aside. There was the brittlecrackof a femur snapping. A scream—high, shrill, alive with surging terror.
The crowd shrieked its delight.
Only then a new voice slashed through the uproar: "No—! No!"
The roller thudded against the wall; lay still. Heads came round, searching for the shouter.
They found him on the dais, with Vydys and Zenaor. It was the Baemae youth, the downed girl's brother. "Curse you!" he shouted, face white with fury. "Curse you all, you vermin!"
He turned as he yelled; started towards Vydys.
She went rigid. Beside her, the Lord Zenaor brought up his hand in a quick, tight gesture.
Guards lunged forward, weapons drawn and ready.
The youth whipped a knife from beneath his livery. Slashing, he leaped back, eyes rolling wildly.
But there was no escape ... only the closing circle of hard-faced guards with their leveled fire-guns.
The youth's face set in a sort of feverish desperation. Whirling, he charged down from the dais, straight for the walled ring.
Curses rang from the barons, shrieks from their ladies. Bellowing, trampling, they threw themselves clear of the flashing blade.
The youth reached the ring-wall. For an instant he poised atop it, wavering. Then, tight-lipped, he leaped down into the pit itself and stumbled to the side of his fallen sister.
The crowd breathed again.
On the dais, Vydys tensed and gripped the throne-arms till her knuckles gleamed white as djevoda ivory. The scarlet lips quivered in a grimace of hate.
Below, the roller lurched into motion. A thousand crushing, crippling pounds of flesh and gristle, gaining momentum with every second, it spun across the ring.
The youth leaped to meet it. Savagely, he slashed at the thing's leathery outer hide.
But the pads turned away his blade. Ball-like, not even slowing, the sphere knocked him aside as, moments earlier, it had the girl.
Then, while he still fought for balance, it was past him, hurtling ever faster ... thundering towards the spot where his sister lay in a huddled heap upon the floor.
She tried to rise. Failed.
The rocketing roller cut short her scream.
Then the creature was bowling to a stop on the ring's far side. A hush fell over the great vaulted hall.
Stiffly, the rawboned Baemae youth dragged himself up from the place where he had fallen. Wordless, shambling, he crossed the pit to where the crumpled, broken thing that had been his sister lay; he knelt there beside her for a moment.
Then he arose again and stared up at the packed, engulfing mass of Kukzubas barons and their ladies ... looked on beyond and above them to the dais—to Vydys and to Zenaor.
The silence echoed.
Thick-voiced, he spoke, then: "You've killed her, curse you—you filth that call yourselves Kukzubas barons!"
"True, carrion." This from dark Vydys. "And now you die beside her!"
She concentrated. The roller turned, wending its blood-trailing way out from the wall once more.
But incredibly, the youth who wore Vydys' black-and-silver livery gave the gore-drenched thing no heed. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, his shoulders shook till he burst out in a wild gale of laughter.
"So I die!" It was the mirth of a madman. "Go on, you fools! Kill me! But I die holding a secret that spells your doom, also!"
Up on the dais, Lord Zenaor stiffened. He caught Vydys' arm. "Wait! Hold back the roller!"
The youth raved on: "Our day is coming, you cutthroats—the day of the Baemae! We have summoned one who will sit in judgment on you, a man from the far Federation! Already, this moment, his starship approaches—"
Zenaor surged from his seat. His bull-roar filled the hall: "The night's games are over! I, Zenaor, decree it!" And then, to his guardsmen: "Take that serf to my chambers!"
The crowd swirled in tumult. Dark Vydys turned on him. "You cannot—!"
"I can, and I do!"
For a moment their eyes locked ... a taut, vibrant moment.
Then the woman looked away. "If you will it...." The words came out sullen.
But already Zenaor was turning, striding off through the light-wall that served as backdrop for the dais, away to the force-shift that led to his quarters.
Out again at the seventh level, he stalked into the living-chambers.
His daughter, Narla, seated by an antique scanner unit, looked up as he entered, grey eyes cool and speculative. "What—? Is the evening's butchery over already?" Scorn was in her voice.
Zenaor's fists knotted. "Once too often you'll tempt me to violence, daughter." Pivoting, he stepped to a wall-stand, slopped taxat into a bor-glass, and drank it down.
The girl's brows drew together in the slightest of frowns. Rising in one smooth, graceful motion that set her flaxen hair to shimmering in the caron-light, she followed the chief of barons into the next room. "Is something wrong, father? Were Vydys' tastes more than usually hideous tonight?"
The shaft-bell clanged before Zenaor could answer. Stepping around his daughter, he strode back to the entrance.
Already, guards were dragging in the rawboned Baemae youth from the pit. Blood smeared his right cheek. Shackles hung heavy upon him.
"Good," Zenaor nodded. "Leave the serf with me, and return to your quarters."
The guard in charge stared. "Leave him with you—alone?"
"Alone."
The guard shot the Lord Zenaor a quick, sidelong glance. Then, saluting smartly, he about-faced and left the chambers, followed by his fellows.
Curiosity flickered in Narla's grey eyes. "Father—"
He turned on her, stony-faced. "You, too."
"I—?"
"You go to your chambers—and stay there. I wish to be alone with the prisoner."
The girl opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Flushing slightly under her father's cold, impassive gaze, she stepped through the light-wall into her own quarters.
Now, at last, Zenaor faced the shackled Baemae.
"You know, of course, that you are doomed to die?"
Mutely, the youth nodded.
"Yet there are ways and ways of dying. Slowly, painfully. Quick, clean, easy."
The serf said nothing.
"There are things I would know—things that have to do with Baemae treason." Zenaor's lips drew thin. The black eyes were never colder. "What is this nonsense of someone coming from across the void, from the Federation? You know there are no grounds—that the Federation holds no jurisdiction!"
All the fire seemed to have gone out of the youth. He shrugged sullenly. "All I know is that a one called Tumek learned of some new weapon you planned to use against the free Baemae in the djevoda lands to the south. Secretly, then, he sent word to the Federation, saying that if you ever used the thing you planned, it would imperil all other worlds as well as ours."
No flicker of emotion showed in Zenaor's lean, high-boned face. "And do you believe him?"
"Who am I to know or judge? Baemae are only good for dying!" The youth gave vent to a bitter laugh. "But at least the far Federation thought the peril was worth a starship."
"And the man—the one they send to weigh the facts here?"
"His name is Craig Nesom. I know no more than that about him."
Silence. An eddying sort of silence that crept in from the walls and up from the floors and down out of the ceiling.
Then, abruptly, the Lord Zenaor laughed.
"So you'll die," he clipped. "But at least you shall go knowing that you're the only man, Baemae or baron, to learn the truth about my weapon. You shall judge it for me with your dying breath—prove to me that it can truly give me power and strength for conquest...."
He was striding away even as he spoke—striding across the room to a wall set off with a delicate interlay of panels.
One slid aside beneath his hand. Beyond lay a chill, bleak laboratory chamber.
Still smiling, Zenaor led the shackled Baemae forward ... shoved him through a port-like door into a transparent cubicle mounted on a stand.
"Now ... one moment...." With quick efficiency, the chief of barons closed the cubicle's door and sealed it. Then, taking a tiny glass ampule from the nearest bench, he dropped it into a slot atop the cubicle and brought down a crusher valve upon it.
The ampule splintered. For an instant light glinted on sparkling, dust-like grains descending, floating out in lazy spirals through the sealed cubicle's still air.
But only for an instant. For then, suddenly, the grains were growing, uniting, multiplying, melding. In a finger-snap, grey slime began to form on the unit's glistening, sterile floor.
A slime that swirled and crawled and eddied....
The shackled serfman screamed.
Not that anyone could hear it. The cubicle was far too skillfully designed for that.
With grim satisfaction, cold appraisal, the Lord Zenaor watched the slime-tide rippling higher. Carefully, he noted reaction time ... the victim's grimaces and contortions and frantic terror.
So preoccupied was he that he didn't even hear Narla approaching till her voice rang out behind him, raw with sudden shock: "Ourobos—!"
Zenaor spun by instinct.
His daughter's lovely face showed stiff with horror. "Father...." She choked; retched.
Cold-eyed he waited till the spasm had passed before he spoke: "So ... you find my secret shocking?"
"Shocking—?" The girl's eyes held disbelief. Then: "Father, not even Vydys would do such! To bring those horrors here from Xumar—" She shuddered. "You would not! You dare not—"
"I dare not?" Zenaor laughed harshly; gestured to the cubicle, and the dying serfman engulfed in slime. "I have already done it!"
"Then—you would destroy our world—the Baemae—?" The girl's voice was queer, choked.
"Are there only Baemae, then, on Lysor?" Anger carved Zenaor's jaw-line deeper, sharper. "I am of the Kukzubas, Narla; the barons! My loyalty is to them, for from them I draw my power."
"Your power!" Narla came erect at the word. "There is the answer, father! Your loyalty is not to the barons or to Lysor, but to power alone. You live for it. You bow before no other god."
"And so?" Zenaor stood inflexible as duroid.
The girl gestured helplessly. "What can I say, when not even the fate of our world can touch you?"
"Our world—this puny dot that men call Lysor?" Zenaor laughed aloud. "This planet of ours means nothing, Narla! By using the slime-things, the ourobos, I can reach out across the void till even the far Federation's chiefs will tremble! Nothing can stop me! Nothing!"
"I see." Narla's face was pale now, and her lips quivered. But she stood proud and erect. "Then I have no choice, father. My loyalty is to Lysor. I shall fulfill it."
"Even against me?"
"Even against you."
"So Vydys was right...." The chief of barons' coal-black eyes gleamed hard and bitter. "Very well, then. As of this moment you shall be treated as a prisoner—"
The clang of a com-box bell cut in upon him. Zenaor left his sentence hanging; flicked the switch. "Yes?"
"My lord, a starship seeks to land here."
"A starship—?" Zenaor stiffened.
"Yes, my lord. The message says it bears an envoy from the Federation."
"His name?"
"Craig Nesom."
Slowly, Zenaor straightened. Cold-eyed, he glanced to the glassite cubicle ... the dead serfman, swallowed up in the pulsing slime-mass of the ourobos. He was hardly aware that Narla was stepping quietly from the laboratory chamber.
Again, the voice from the com-box: "My lord...."
Harsh-voiced, face set, Zenaor threw back his answer: "Let them land." And then, beneath his breath: "But blasting off alive will be another matter!"
CHAPTER II
She was the loveliest creature Craig Nesom had ever seen.
Or perhaps that was only the hunger gnawing in him—the Earth-hunger, the aching loneliness that comes to all men who dare to roam the far void to the stars.
Yet here he stood, on this strange, mediaevalish world of Lysor.
And hereshestood before him, smiling.
Suddenly, to Craig Nesom, it didn't matter that they were met in an alien city called Torneulan, or that she was Narla, daughter of Lord Zenaor, whose rule here he had come to question. The crowd's clamor, the bizarre costumes, the twin suns blazing like green balls of fire against an emerald sky—what did they count now? For gazing into this slim girl's eyes, he could almost forget duty and the Federation and the starship, the darkling dreams of friends and homeland.
She said, "Tarata, fodal.... Welcome, voyager," and he was glad that she paused and smiled and spoke ... glad for the psychmen's hypnoscanner treatment that let him understand her words, her meaning.
He matched her pleasantry. "This drink called taxat—will you join me for one?"
"A taxat—?" Her eyes danced. She took his arm. "Of course."
Only then, though her lips still curved, the grey eyes seemed to shadow. Her voice dropped and now, all at once, it held a note of bitterness, of tension: "If death stays its hand long enough for us to drink it."
He stared. "What—?"
The shadow vanished. His companion laughed softly; tossed her head in a gesture old as woman, so that the shimmering blonde hair swirled and rippled. Only in her whisper did the dark undercurrent still show through: "Please, come! Do not let your face betray us!"
For the fraction of a second Craig hesitated, weighing her with his eyes. Of a sudden he was acutely aware of alien sounds and smells and voices.
Only then the girl whispered, "Please...." again. Her eyes held mute entreaty.
Stiff, wordless, Craig let her lead him through the throng and din of the assembled barons and their ladies ... out of the emerald sunlight, along the shadowy porticos of the tower itself.
The Central Tower. The Tower of Zenaor.
The girl darted a quick glance back over her shoulder, then whispered, "Hurry! We must get out before they realize that we are missing!" Catching Craig's hand in hers, half-running, she pulled him through the nearest door, into the massive building.
There were corridors, then, and stairs and ramps, all leading downward, till at last they moved along a dusty, dim-lit passageway that seemed to stretch forever, echoing and empty.
Abruptly, Craig pulled the girl up short. "It's time for explanations," he clipped flatly.
The grey eyes rose to meet his, cool and steady. "You came to Lysor on complaint of Tumek, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And he charged that my father planned aggression that might endanger even your Federation?"
Again, Craig nodded.
The girl leaned close. "Do you realize what that means, Craig Nesom? Can you imagine to what lengths the barons will go in order to keep you from reaching Tumek?"
"But—"
A sudden echo of distant voices cut short Craig's answer. The girl went rigid.
"Quick!" Her voice hissed taut, now; ragged. "This may be your only chance to contact Tumek—if it is not too late already!"
After that there was no more time for words; only a hurrying through the silent passage, till at last a ramp loomed before them and they came out into the day once more.
Here the tower loomed distant and forbidding, a stark shaft lancing up like a spear-head into the emerald sky. Here were the slums, the quarters of the Baemae, with noise and filth and sweat-drenched bodies that stank rank enough to turn the stomach of any Kukzubas baron.
Wordless, still gripping his hand, the girl who was Zenaor's daughter led Craig into a low, cramped wineshop. Dirt scuffed up under his feet. Boisterous voices rang out in shouts and curses, and the stench of stale liquor hung all-pervasive. A couple reeled past, clinging to each other for support. The woman's brief halter hung loose. She was laughing drunkenly, and her near-naked body shone slick with sweat. Beyond her, a man prodded a huge, weird, spider-like lifeform into a shuffling dance atop a table.
Craig's jaw tightened. What was he doing in a place like this? How foolish could even a Federation agent get?
But the girl's grey eyes still pleaded. Tense, raw-nerved, Craig, followed her through the crowd and din to a table in the wineshop's farthest corner.
A gaunt, stoop-shouldered oldster paused beside them. He wore the tabard of the serf-class. "Yes?"
"Taxat." The girl spoke for Craig. Her fingers pressed hard against his arm. Her whisper held a note almost of panic: "Quick! Smile, Craig Nesom—before the baron's men suspect the truth and sweep down on us!"
Craig flicked a glance across the room. For the first time he became aware of the presence of solitary loungers—cold-faced, tight-lipped men who stood close by the walls, nursing stale drinks.
Their eyes were on him.
The back of his neck prickled. He bared his teeth in a thin, bleak grin. "I might play better if I knew the game," he murmured beneath his breath.
"Oh—?" the girl exclaimed, too loudly. She shot Craig a low-lashed, coquettish glance and pushed closer, sliding her hand over his. Her lips barely moved. "Later, you madman! For now, look at me as men look at woman!"
She drew back as she spoke, flaunting her slim young body's charms before him in a sinuous, sensuous motion. Her face was a pale oval cameo of loveliness. Temptation, incarnate, came to life in the lithe twist of her torso.
Craig caught his breath. "You devil—!"
The red lips quivered. "You see? You learn quickly!" The girl relaxed, leaned against him. "Make love to me, voyager. Your arms—put them about me. Kiss me...."
A numbness gripped Craig. His hands trembled.
But the girl's bare leg and hip pressed hard against him. Her hair brushed his cheek, soft as perfumed silk, and her skin was smoother than any satin. "Are you afraid of me, then, Craig Nesom?"
"Damn you!" he choked.
Only then her cool fingers slid beneath his uniform jacket, and all at once his heart was pounding, pounding. The room, the noise, the cold-eyed loungers—they faded till he could think of nothing but the ripe lips and their invitation.
It was the loneliness, he told himself; the old Earth-hunger.
And here was this woman, Zenaor's own daughter, the antidote, his for the taking.
He would have strained her to him, then, in spite of all his doubts and thoughts of Federation rules and duty. But now the serving-serf was back, bearing twin silver cones of taxat.
The girl pushed away from Craig, smoothing her tousled hair. Her face was flushed. Her eyes dodged his.
A sort of senseless fury gripped him. "It's you who are afraid!" he lashed. "You bring me here. You tempt me. But then you push away again—"
The girl's eyes flashed. Once more, she leaned close. Her voice was suddenly edged and brittle. "My task is to help you get to Tumek, Earthman. To that end, and in order to help dispel suspicion, I have no choice but to act like any Kukzubas woman who would rendezvous with a lover in the Baemae quarter. But it goes no further. Now that I have brought you here, a courier will take you on to Tumek. When he comes—"
She broke off sharply, eyes flaring sudden panic. "Craig—!"
Craig half-turned in his seat.
A man stood framed in the wineshop's doorway—a tall broad-shouldered man who wore a high-crowned metal helmet like none that Craig had ever seen before. His sweeping shoulder-cape bore the blaze of brocaded heraldry of Lord Zenaor's service, and his eyes, his mouth, were cruel and grim.
Now he paused on the wineshop's threshold, sweeping the place with a glance that held no mercy.
A hush fell over the echoing, low-ceilinged room—the hush of fear. Men's faces paled, and women shrank back as if to hide behind their partners.
Beside Craig, Narla whispered, "That man—he is my father's chief of guards, the master of the rollers! They must already guess you're on your way to Tumek—"
Once more, Craig glanced round at the doorway—and found himself staring straight into the guard-chief's eyes.
For a taut, vibrant moment the silence echoed. Then the man in the doorway lashed, "On your feet, Earthling!"
Craig felt Narla's nails dig into his arm. Her whisper hissed so faint it might have been imagination: "Window—room behind this...."
A knot drew tight in Craig Nesom's belly. Stiffly, he rose ... side-stepped out from behind the table.
The hush of the room was deafening now. The wineshop revelers sat like creatures frozen.
"You die now, Earthling!" snarled the guard-chief. "Here, beneath the rollers, by Lord Zenaor's own orders."
He stepped aside as he spoke. A great, bulbous sphere rolled slowly past him through the doorway.
Instinctively, Craig fell back a step.
"Stop him!" barked the guard-chief.
The words crackled. Two hard-faced loungers by the rear wall sprang forward.
Inside Craig Nesom, something snapped. It came to him, of a sudden, that here lay the answer to all his tension and loneliness and homeland hunger. Here, channeled into rage and bruising violence....
With a curse, he smashed a fist square into the face of the foremost of his assailants. A hoarse cry of anguish burst from the man's throat. He crashed back across the nearest table.
Like lightning, the hand of the second flashed to an ornate belt-dagger.
Craig lunged for him in chill, surging fury. Savagely, he drove his elbow into the soft flesh below the other's rib-casing.
The man reeled—retching, knife forgotten.
Craig caught him from behind by belt and shoulder ... half-hurled him into the path of the roller that now spun forward.
Man and sphere came together with a thud of flesh against flesh.
Man went down, screaming.
But now other guardsmen were charging in. Whirling, Craig dashed for the door to the back room. In another instant he was through it, racing for the window.
A bolt of green fire seared past his head.
He ducked.
But in the same instant, something struck his shoulder a hammer blow from behind. He sprawled on his knees. Through a strange, blurred haze of pain, it dawned on him that now his right arm hung limp and useless.
Only then hands gripped him and dragged him forward, on to the window. Incredulously, he discovered that it was the serving-serf, the grey, stoop-shouldered oldster who had brought the taxat.
"Hurry—!" the man panted. "Climb up! I am not strong enough to lift you...."
With a tremendous effort, Craig dragged himself erect. Clutching the high sill, he tried to pull himself up to it.
The panting serfman heaved and boosted. "Hurry! Hurry—!"
A final surge. Momentarily, Craig sagged on his belly on the sill.
The serf tugged up the hanging legs and swung them through the opening.
From behind Craig came a crash of splintering timbers, a ring of curses. He threw a dazed glance back.
Someone—the serf, perhaps?—had slammed shut a heavy door between this rear room and the wineshop proper.
Now its bolt tore loose. The door burst inward. One of Zenaor's men clawed past it, whipping up a weapon that might have been a pistol.
The old serf threw himself upon the guardsman.
Green fire blazed. The serf fell back.
Craig dropped from the window-sill into an alley. The haze of pain was clearing now. He could run again, though his right arm still trailed useless at his side.
Desperate, a hunted thing, he plunged off down the passage.
More cries behind him. More green fire blazing.
But these ancient alleys were like a maze, a rabbit-warren. Given ten seconds' lead, a man had at least a gambler's chance to lose himself, find safety.
And Craig had ten seconds ... ten seconds a grey-thatched serving serf had bought with his own life.
The knowledge brought new sickness surging through Craig—a sickness that drew no fragment from the pain of his wounded shoulder.
But he had no time for thoughts or bitterness or brooding. Not now. For him, there were only the shouts behind and the blackness of the alley.
Only then, from his backtrail, a new sound rose ... the whisper of a roller's leathery pads spinning over the cobbles.
Craig whirled.
Running blind, caroming from wall to wall as it sped through the narrow alley, the sphere raced towards him.
Craig threw himself into the angle of the nearest doorway.
The sphere missed him by inches; hurtled on beyond.
Sweating, shaking, Craig stepped out once more.
But now the shouts came closer as guardsmen ran towards him, following up the roller.
Pivoting, Craig stumbled on once more.
Before he had taken a dozen steps, the whispering of the roller drifted to him.
The sphere was hurtling back again.
Panting, Craig wedged himself into the chimney-like shaft between two buildings.
Again, the roller passed him. The guards' shouts echoed ever-louder.
It dawned on Craig that the crevice in which he stood stretched upward, clear to a tiny wedge of emerald sky.
At least, up there, there'd be no rollers.
Wincing with pain at each movement of his wounded arm, bracing himself with feet on one wall, back against the other, he worked his way slowly up the shaft.
The roller again. Guards below him now.
Craig held his breath.
But they passed on without an upward glance. Painfully, he worked his way still higher, till the emerald wedge widened into a shining vista.
Then—of a sudden, it seemed—he was out on a flat, sagging roof, drinking in air in great, greedy gulps.
In the same instant, a shout hammered at him. He whirled.
A guard was running towards him across one of the nearby roofs. While he watched, another appeared, then another.
Ring-like, they surrounded him, hemming him in with a circle of death.
And him with no weapon but the rooftop rubble.
Savagely, he cursed aloud—Zenaor, and Lysor, and the Federation, and his job, and duty, and the girl called Narla; baron and Baemae, Earth-worlds and aliens.
Why should he die here, alone and forgotten?
Yet die he would: he knew that now.
But at least, it would cost them.
He fumbled up a brick-sized stone ... took his stand against the roof-edge, spraddle-legged.
The guards closed in—warily, now, but moving ever closer.
It was in that moment that the shadow fell across him.
At first Craig thought it was a cloud that had drifted between him and the twin emerald suns.
Then he glimpsed the guards' faces, and knew it was not.
Dropping to one knee, left arm held high to shield his face, he stared up at the thing now skimming towards him.
It was a disc—a shining, circular chip somehow suspended in the sky. A man in a Baemae tabard balanced lithely on it.
Now, while Craig watched, the disc tilted and raced towards him.
A guard shouted. As one, he and his fellows lunged forward.
Craig hurled his stone. By more luck than good judgment, it caught the foremost guard square in the forehead.
The man went down like an axed ox. His fellows stopped short.
In the same instant the disc whipped round in a tight spiral close by Craig's side. "Get on! Flat between my legs...." The rider's voice rasped raw and urgent.
Craig threw himself aboard.
Angry cries from the guards. Green fire spurting.
A shout from the discman: "Hold tight!"
Barely in time. Craig caught the disc's rim.
For as he did so, the disc's Baemae rider shifted weight sharply. With startling suddenness, the saucer tilted to a forty-five degree angle.
Another shift. The disc cartwheeled round in a fast spin that had Craig clinging with teeth and toenails.
Then the strange craft was climbing and spinning at once, faster and faster. Even the Baemae pilot dropped to his knees and gripped the disc's edge.
They cleared the roof ... peeled off in a wide arc that carried them out and away from the building, still climbing.
The guards' shouts welled to a furious chorus of frustration. Craig glimpsed more streaks of flame.
But they burned out far short of their target. The disc wheeled on, the whole of the ancient Baemae quarter spread out below it.
The serf's fingers dug into Craig's shoulder. He was laughing now—a fierce, bubbling chortle of triumphs. "You see, Earthman? These discs will free Lysor of its thrice-cursed barons! With your aid, Craig Nesom—"
Craig started. "You ... know my name—?"
"Did you think I came here to save you by mere chance?" The discman chuckled. "No. I was your contact, to help take you to Tumek. But Zenaor's guardsmen got to you before me. So I stood by and waited, in hopes I could save you."
Craig nodded slowly. "Then you can give me some answers, too—about this whole business."
"A few." The discman straightened. "But that can wait till we have landed...."
Skillfully, he guided the disc off, away from the city; brought it down on a tiny, brush-clotted river island. Stepping clear, he helped Craig up and gripped his hand. "They call me Bukal."
"And you know me already."
They both laughed. Then the discman's broad, bronzed face sobered. "You seek explanations...."
"At least, they'd help me," Craig nodded, grinning wryly.
"Then they must be brief. That Zenaor's a devil. He'll trace us in minutes, on a daylight landing." Bukal kicked the disc. "Do you know what this is?"
Craig eyed it curiously. Flat, polished, of plastic or metal, it measured a good six feet across. Beyond that, he could tell little, save that it had neither moving parts nor control equipment, so far as he could see.
"It flies, and it saved my neck," he said finally. "That's all I know about it."
Again, Bukal laughed. A grim laugh without mirth. "Then I'll tell you rover. This thing is a weapon—a weapon of peace, one that can't kill; yet it's going to break the cursed Kukzubas barons' power forever."
"But how—?" Craig groped for words.
"How does it work, you mean?" The bronzed, stocky Bukal chuckled. "Magnetic waves—you know about them?"
"Yes, after a fashion."
"Then think of them flowing from pole to pole like some great river."
Craig stared. "You mean—these discs of yours ride the current—?"
"As chips ride a stream," the other nodded. "The secret lies in the alloy's basic pattern, its molecular structure. It serves as a filter—a trap that catches enough wave-power to lift and carry."
"And to maneuver—"
"You tilt the disc. That breaks the flow-pattern." Shifting, Craig's rescuer peered out through the brush that fringed the river's edge. He gestured. "When our visitors get closer, I'll show you."
Craig followed the other's movement: saw a boatload of men in guards' regalia cutting swiftly toward the islet from the river's near shore.
"They're quick," he acknowledged. And then, prompting: "You said discs were weapons."
Bukal's eyes went dark, brooding. "How much do you know of our ways here on Lysor?"
"Only that you have two groups, barons and Baemae—"
"Do you know how the barons hold their power?"
"No."
"They do it with a weapon—a barrier ray, they call it—" Bukal's mouth had a bitter twist—"It sets up zones of death around the cities, the great estates—binds us to our serfdom."
"And the discs—"
"They give us a bridge across the barrier—a highway to freedom to end our thousand years of bondage!" Of a sudden a tight wolf-grin wiped the bitterness from Bukal's broad face. He surged to his feet. "Here. Let me show you!"
A cry of excitement rose from the guardsmen out on the river. The boat arced towards Craig and bronzed Bukal.
The Baemae laughed aloud. Bending, he seized the disc and lifted it on edge. "You see? It is light!"
Craig brought up his own hand beneath it. For all its size, the thing seemed hardly heavier than balsa.
Gesturing him back, Bukal swung the disc clear of the ground, holding it waist-high, plate-flat. "Now, I spin it...." He whipped it round as if its center were mounted on a pivot, pulling through with his right hand, guiding with the left.
The boat was almost to the island now. The guards were readying their weapons.
Faster, till the wave-flow catches.... The disc was spinning like a top now, parallel with the ground.
Craig threw a quick glance at the guard-boat. A trickle of sweat rilled down his spine.
He looked back to Bukal and the saucer.
Suddenly, there was the slightest of jerks. The disc seemed to vibrate.
Bukal dropped his hands. For a moment the disc hung in the air, spinning free.
And then, incredibly, instead of falling, slowly it began to rise!
Open-mouthed, Craig stared, still not quite believing.
But already, Bukal, was moving. Nimbly, he threw himself forward, flat on the disc.
The plate stopped spinning. As if by magic, it hung suspended in the air, swaying gently.
Bukal clambered to his feet, balancing on the polished surface as a bather might upon a surfboard. Tilting skillfully, he sideslipped the strange craft down a fraction lower. "Get on!"
Sucking in a breath, Craig slid aboard.
Bare yards away, the boat beached. Guards swarmed ashore, cursing and shouting.
Nonchalantly, Bukal threw them a salute, and brought the disc round in a lazy, climbing spiral.
Green fire, falling short. Fuming rage, wild curses.
"You see—?" The elation of triumph rang in Bukal's voice. "It's the end of the barons, Earthman! How can any barriers hold back the Baemae, when with discs like this we can sail above them? To the south, there's the whole djevoda range and freedom! Already, we've colonies of our own down there, free colonies, spread out so the barons can't strike at them. We're turning out these discs by hundreds—emptying the cities, stripping the estates to their last serfman—"
Frowning, narrow-eyed, Craig stared down at the panorama spread out below them, then off to the glittering towers of Torneulan.
"Why send for me, then?" he cut in on the other. "Who's Tumek? What made him call for help from the Federation?"
The discman's face sobered. "Why—?" He shrugged. "That I can't tell you; it's still Tumek's secret."
"And ... who is he?"
"Tumek?" Light came back to Bukal's bronzed face. "Call him genius: that says it."
"But—"
"A statue-caster by trade; old, now; one of the free Baemae craftsmen. These discs—he devised them. The colonies, too—they're part of his plan."
"Yet he sent for help...." Craig's frown deepened.
"He heard rumors of some new scheme of Zenaor's." Bukal shifted, glanced up into the darkening sky. Tilting the disc, he crept it in towards the outskirts of the city's bleak Baemae quarter. "When the green day suns, Boh and Koh, set, and night comes, I'll drop you off near him. He's hiding in the shop of a friend, Notal, in the Street of Arts, waiting for you."
Craig nodded slowly. Thoughtfully, he looked away to the west, where the nose of the starship showed above the buildings like a slim silver lance-tip. "Good. Meantime...."
"Yes?"
"Meantime—"
It was a sentence never finished. Suddenly, out of a gap in the roof of a ruined building below them, a blurred bulky mass vomited towards them. Spreading as it hurtled upward, it stretched into loose-patterned cordage.
Bukal went rigid. "A net-gun—!" He sideslipped the disc. It careened low over the hovels.
But green flame speared up in their path—a great, roaring gout of it, ten times the size of the blast that might come from any hand weapon.
Bukal jerked back. The disc spun crazily.
Then they were falling, men and disc alike, clinging precariously. Barely in time, the craft leveled off a fraction, then tilted once more to spill both Craig and Bukal to the ground, a jarring, ten-foot fall.
Guardsmen lunged up from cover, converging upon them.
Craig lurched to his feet, trying to shake the haze from his eyes.
But Bukal was ahead of him—shoving him bodily back into an alley. "Run for it, you fool! I'll hold them—"
Staggering, half-falling, Craig fled into the shadows.
The starship. That was the answer. If he could only reach the starship! This thing was beyond any one man's handling....
Panting, he crawled up a crumbling stair, searching the skyline for some glimpse of the silver prow to guide him.
Then there it was, off to the west.
Craig's jaw tightened. That slim silver craft represented the strength of the whole Federation. One word from it, and a fleet would come roaring down upon Lysor.
But first, that word must be spoken.
He phrased the message in his mind: "DETAILS LACKING BUT NO DOUBT OF ZENAOR AGGRESSIVE INTENTIONS AS SHOWN IN ATTEMPTS TO KILL ENVOY...."
He started to turn, to make his way back down the stairs.
But in that instant the sky went suddenly bright with a blaze of light ... a light so dazzling that it left Craig blind and shaking.
A light that centered on the starship.
Craig clapped his hands across his eyes. A wave of sudden panic gripped him.
Grimly—desperately, almost—he fought it down.
Slowly, his vision cleared. He let his hands fall.
Then he wished he had not.
For now the starship's silver prow no longer stood silhouetted against the distant western sky. As if by magic, it had vanished, its passage marked only by a slowly settling dust-smoke haze.
So this was Zenaor's answer to the Baemae challenge. He had destroyed the Federation starship.
Craig Nesom stood on Lysor alone....
CHAPTER III
The Street of Arts. Narrow and winding, lined with the small, cramped shops of skilled craftsmen who wrought wondrous things of wood and leather, glass and metal. Here you could buy the finest filigree of silver... paintings on porcelain or plastic ... figurines carved from djevoda tusks ... fabrics that glinted with threads of Xumarian thril and Odak's orlon.
And here hid Tumek.
Tumek, the statue-caster. Tumek, the sculptor.
Tumek, genius of the Baemae ... the man who had devised the flying disc and harnessed the power that surged through his world's magnetic waves.
Yet even Tumek had cringed before Zenaor's sadistic schemings and pleaded across a million drals of void for Federation aid.
Now, on Bukal's word, he lay in hiding here in the shop of his fellow caster Notal, waiting for the Federation's envoy to arrive.
At least, Craig Nesom hoped so.
Pausing in the shadows across from Notal's shop, he hesitated for a moment, studying the darkened front with its display of busts that peered out, wan and ghost-like, in the blue night-sun Roh's dim light.
Somewhere at the back of the shop, a gleam of yellow flickered.
So there was really someone there. Taut-nerved, Craig started forward.
Only then, off to his right, metal clanged on metal.
Craig froze again.
More sounds crept to him ... sounds of shuffling feet, of men in movement.
Silent as any spectre, he drew back against the building behind him ... slid left along it till he was lost in the pitch-black angle where the next shop joined it.
The shuffling feet drew nearer. Craig caught the hiss of whispering voices. Shapes took form—the shapes of men stalking stealthily, skulking in the shadows.
Warily, Craig edged forward a fraction and peered along the front of the shop to his left.
But here, too, shapes were emerging from the murk. A stray blue beam glinted on what might have been a weapon.
Craig slid back into his angle.
The two groups met in mid-street, scant yards out from him. There was a buzz of whispered consultation. Then, silently, both groups drew back. The men spread out, ranging themselves along the wall on his side of the street.
Craig held his breath.
But already one figure was shuffling towards him, slouching against the wall bare inches from his shoulder. "A curse on the Baemae and their plots!" the intruder muttered. "Night's a time for wine and wenches, not for raiding."
Craig grunted wordless affirmation.
The stranger turned, peered at him. "Who are you, friend? Which company?" And then, in sudden shock: "You! You're not—"
With all his might, Craig slashed a stiff hand-edge across the other's windpipe, his Adam's apple. The man's voice cut off in mid-syllable.
Craig crashed the heel of his hand up under a stubbled chin, thanking the stars that his shoulder was no longer stiff. The intruder's head snapped back against the stonework. Hard.
Then his knees were buckling. He started to fall.
Craig caught him, held him erect.
In the same instant a whistle shrilled. The other shadow-skulkers leaped forward from their hiding places, converging on the shop across the street where Tumek had his refuge. They made no effort at concealment now. There were shouts; a splintering crash as the door burst in.
Icy sweat drenched Craig. Shaking, he eased his unconscious prisoner to the ground in the shadows of the angle and stripped him of the weapon in his belt—one of the pistol-things that blazed green fire.
Inside Notal's shop, another door went down. Craig glimpsed struggling figures silhouetted against a backdrop of yellow light.
All along the street, windows swung wide and doors opened. Lights flared. Voices rang out in a startled babble.
A man appeared in the entrance of the shop before which Craig stood, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What—?"
In three quick steps Craig was beside him—jamming the fire-gun against his fat belly; shoving him back on his own tracks into the building; slamming and bolting the door behind them.
Fear flared in the fat man's button eyes. His blubbery face went slack.
"Quiet!" Craig stabbed the pistol against him harder. "One sound and I kill you!"
The other's mouth worked, but no words came. He tottered backward and slumped down onto a bench.
Craig opened the door a crack and shot a quick glance out.
The raiders were leaving Notal's shop now. They dragged a captive with them, a short, balding man whose face showed the wrinkles of age.
Craig turned back to his own prisoner. "Who is that?"
The fat man's voice shook: "He is called ... Tumek."
Tumek....
A chill shook Craig Nesom.
Across the street, the last of the raiders inside the shop paused by the display window. Deliberately, he picked up one bust after another and smashed it. The last he hurled through the window itself, then swaggered out to join the others. Their laughter echoed raucously.
Then someone barked a command. The laughter ceased. With chill efficiency a group fell in, formed a double rank facing Notal's shop.
Another command. Two of the guardsmen caught the prisoner by the arms and jerked him forward, slamming him back hard against one of the uprights of the shop-front. Then, quickly, they stepped aside.
Again, the harsh voice of command.
The double rank raised weapons.
Inside the shop across the street, Craig went rigid.
Out there, mere feet away, stood the man who'd brought him to this planet, the Baemae genius, Tumek.
Tumek, the one man who could tell him the things he so needed to know—the baron's plans; the dreams and schemes and power of Zenaor.
Only Tumek stood before a firing squad. Ten seconds more and he'd be dead.
Craig acted by instinct, then; not logic.
Quite coolly, he brought up the fire-gun he'd taken from the guardsman ... leveled it with grim precision at the squad's commander.
The man passed some remark to Tumek. But the oldster only shook his head and stood the straighter, face calm, serene ... almost spiritual.
Craig corrected his aim a fraction.
The firing squad's commander pivoted ... sucked in air to give the final order.
Craig squeezed the fire-gun's trigger.
A green shaft of flame lanced out. It struck the squad chief square in the chest. He slammed backward—face contorted in a death's-head grimace; already toppling.
The squad seemed to freeze in its tracks. Then, as the spell broke, one man started to whirl, whipping round his own weapon.
Craig dropped him where he stood.
Chaos descended on the guardsmen. Frantically, they lunged for cover.
Crouched, shadow-silent, Craig slipped from the shop and moved through the murk towards the spot where the prisoner had stood, trusting to confusion and the dark to shield him. "Tumek...."
Someone roared, "Look out! It's the Earthman!"
The night turned dazzling green with fire-blasts.
Craig dived through the shop's shattered window, skidding across the floor on one shoulder.
A hand clutched his arm. A cracked voice choked, "Craig Nesom—!"
Craig twisted. Tumek's wrinkled face loomed, a dim blur in the gloom.
"Quick! This way—" The old man wormed towards the rear of the building.
Craig followed.
Only then a dark figure was rising and shouting. A fire-gun blazed, close at hand.
Craig shot back. The looming antagonist fell away.
Old Tumek fell with him.
Stumbling to his feet, Craig heaved up the oldster's limp body. With a strength born of sheer desperation, heedless of shouts and fire-blasts, he lunged on, out the rear door of the building.
A guard rose in their path.
Craig shot him down and charged blindly on, deep into the black alley shadows.
A thin whisper from Tumek: "Right ... next crosspath.... Door ... unlocked...."
Craig veered. In seconds he was pushing past a heavy gate ... easing it shut behind him once more.
The sounds of the guards' rage faded. Gently, Craig lowered Tumek to the ground.
An acrid scent rose in his nostrils ... the scent of charred flesh. With a shock, he became aware of the old Baemae's hoarse, labored breathing.
Numbly, he ran cautious fingers over the other's withered body.
The flesh along Tumek's right rib-casingcrackled!
Then, slowly, the old eyes opened. The cracked voice spoke, the faintest of whispers: "You ... are the Earthman—the Federation agent?"
Mute sick, Craig nodded.
"Good." The eyes closed again, as if suddenly too heavy.
But only for a moment: "Earthman...."
"Yes."
"Ourobos ... from Xumar—they are Zenaor's weapon."
"Ourobos—?" Craig strained close. "Tumek, what are they?"
"A ... lifeform. Zenaor's daughter can tell you." The voice of the old Baemae grew weaker.
"Zenaor's daughter—!"
"Yes. Narla...."
"But—"
"Only ... one weapon ... against ourobos—crystal."
"Crystal—?"
"Ourobos...." The old man's face was slack now, his words thick and mumbled. It was as if he could no longer hear Craig's questions. "Other planets, too ... not just Lysor. That's ... why I asked help. Zenaor ... dreams of conquest."
"Tumek—!" Craig choked. "Tumek, the crystal—tell me about that!"
But again, he could not know if the other even heard.
"Narla ..." the old man whispered, "see Narla...." And then: "Disc ... on roof ... here...."
The words died in a rattle. Muscles tensed in a small convulsive movement.... The mouth fell open. The old head sagged back.
Tumek died.
For a long, long moment, Craig Nesom slumped beside him.
It was no end for genius. Not here, in a dirt-floored hovel off an alley.
Only that was death's way. It paid no heed to propriety or convenience.
Nor to right, either, nor the needs of men.
Without Tumek, the Baemae cause might go down to disaster. Lord Zenaor could yet live to fulfill his dream of conquest, carve his path across the universe with the ourobos.
Unless the crystal stopped him.
"The crystal"—that was all Tumek had said about it. Not what it was, nor how to use it.
But ... there was still Narla.
Narla, of the cool grey eyes and flaxen hair. Narla, who laughed and tempted—and then went cold with sudden fury.
Narla, Lord Zenaor's own daughter.
Tumek had said to see her.
Slowly, Craig got up. Stiff, shuffling, weary, he made his way to the room's one slot-like window.
The night outside was brighter now, blue with Roh's chill rays. The Kukzubas towers loomed sleek and shining, sheer to the very sky.
And there was the Central Tower, also; the Tower of Zenaor—rising even higher and more starkly than the rest.
How could any man hope to get into that grim crypt to talk to Narla? Every door would be locked, every entrance guarded.
At least, on the lower levels.
But higher, perhaps....
Thoughtfully, Craig appraised the towering structure.