Larkin was not quite certain what happened but out from the tip of the metal staff that Malovar held seemed to flash a bolt of blinding radiance. It was not a thunderbolt, it was not electrical, it was probably no force known to Earth scientists.
Looking upward, Larkin expected to see the flashing radiance blast through the group of humans like a smashing thunderbolt, searing and destroying them, leaving in its wake chunks of charred and writhing flesh that had once been men.
No such thing happened. The blinding radiance swirled around the men. It formed a coating around each of them. In a split second each of them was encased in a plastic cocoon that looked like ice, a covering that held them helpless. They still retained their guns but the plastic force covered the guns too. The guns were silent. Either they could not fire into the plastic coat or the men who still grasped them could not move their fingers to press the triggers.
Like statues frozen in motion, the group stood at the top of the coliseum, on the highest row of seats of that vast circling arena.
A cry of rage sounded near Larkin, then was suddenly stilled.
At the sound of the cry near him, Larkin turned, saw that his son and the men with him were likewise encased in plastic envelopes. He saw that his son's eyes were bulging from terror, his throat pulsating from the effort of trying to scream. But no sound was coming forth.
Radiance pouring from the tip of the staff of one of the elders had accomplished this effect.
The torture of that moment must have been a terrible thing for Roy Larkin. To be held helpless by a force that stilled all motion, to want to scream but be unable to hear the blessed sound of your own voice, to see the consequences of your own acts coming home upon your head—this was torture.
Malovar and his elders had not been helpless. They had retained in the metal rods some of the vast forgotten science of old Mars, a science that they rarely used, and rarely needed to use.
Malovar, his face still like thunder, was standing erect and was directing what was to happen next.
There were screams in the coliseum, of wounded and dying Martians, and a vast stir as Martian friends ran to help those who had been injured, and a babble of voices rising in anger. The elders were moving. Some of them were attending to the stricken. Others were directing the removal of Docker and the men with him from the top of the coliseum. Docker and his men were being carried down by Martians. They seemed incapable of movement of their own.
The whole group was brought before Malovar.
The face of the Martian was the face of a tribal god, furious with anger. He made a motion with his hand toward Docker. The Martians carrying the man laid him face down on the altar. Malovar handed his metal staff to the nearest elder, took up the sword.
There was no mistaking the intention of the Martian. He lifted the sword, brought it down. Just before it reached its target, the plastic envelope collapsed as the elder holding the staff made a slight shift with it.
Docker had time to start a scream. The scream ended. A head skittered across the stone, blood spurted.
A moan went over the watching throng.
Larkin watched, appalled. He had seen Martian heads roll here before but somehow this scene was different. Here was Martian justice, swift, sure, and final.
Malovar made another motion with his hand. The nearest human, one of the men with Docker, was lifted, carried to the altar. Larkin saw the man's muscles writhe against the plastic force envelope that held him, writhe unavailingly.
Sunlight glinted on the red blade of the sword as it came down.
Again a moan went up from the audience.
Malovar pointed with his sword—at Roy Larkin. Elders seized the man, lifted him, carried him to the altar.
The sword came up.
"NO!" A single burst of involuntary sound came from the lips of the trader. He leaped forward. "NO!"
Malovar held the sword, looked at him. The Martian looked a little sad.
"I know he is your son, my friend, but he came here to cheat and to rob. Men under his direction have killed."
"But—"
"The laws of my people are explicit," Malovar continued. "Nor will I stay my hand for the sake of friendship at the time of the testing."
"But—" Larkin still protested. Here was a bond, an obligation, that went beyond friendship.
"I am sorry," Malovar said gently. His tone of voice and the expression on his face said he was really sorry. But they also said he had no intention of holding his hand from striking.
Boyd Larkin moved again. He was not quite sure why he did what he did and he was utterly unsure as to what the result would be, but in the face of the rising sword, he lifted his son from the altar.
"I claim your law," he said. "I take his place." He laid himself on the altar.
Over the watching throng there was silence. He sensed rather than saw Malovar lift the sword.
There was a stir of feet near him. A gentle voice spoke.
"I also claim the law. I have bought his life once this day. You may not strike him."
Seekin's voice. Soft and gentle but very firm and very sure. Seekin stood before the altar with uplifted hand. He spoke to Malovar but his eyes were on Larkin.
"You are free, my friend. Our laws protect you now and will protect you until the next time of the testing."
Malovar lowered the sword blade. "Our laws hold," he said. "I may not accept you as a substitute sacrifice. Nor may I accept Seekin. Nor may I accept him—" his eyes sought Roy Larkin. His voice became terrible as he spoke a single word. "—now."
He made a gesture with his hand toward the elder who had taken his metal staff. The elder touched the staff in a certain place. Around Roy Larkin the plastic envelope vanished.
Roy Larkin came to his feet, his fingers clutching theKellgun, the wild light of terror in his eyes. Looking at him, Boyd Larkin caught his breath. There was such terror and wild fear in this man as he had never seen before, such terror as might send death spurting from the muzzle of theKellgun in a steady stream.
Larkin saw his son's finger tighten on the trigger, an involuntary movement. Malovar must have seen the movement too, all the Martian elders must have seen it. They must have known the meaning of it, must have understood that they were facing death. Not a Martian moved a muscle.
Roy Larkin apparently had expected them to cringe, to fawn, to beg. When they did nothing, he seemed confused. Wonderingly he stared at them. His gaze came to the face of his father. On his features the confusion grew. His eyes came down to theKellgun. Something was happening inside of him, what it was no man except he knew or could know. As he seemed to realize he still held the gun, a look of horror appeared on his face. He dropped the weapon. It clattered on the stone floor, the only sound in that vast silence.
Then there was another sound, a sound that resembled the cry of a child gulping a single word—"Daddy." Roy Larkin was saying that single word and he was moving toward his father.
"I've been so terribly wrong," Roy Larkin whispered. "For so many years I've been wrong. I wanted to tell you, but I never could, until now."
Boyd Larkin folded his son into his arms. The hard, bitter driving man that he had known this morning was somehow gone. The man who was in his arms and clutching his shoulders and burying his head against his chest was somehow a little boy who had been lost, bewildered, and alone, and who was no longer lost, who in this moment was growing to the stature of manhood.
Larkin patted the shoulders of this man-boy. His eyes were moist and there was a choke in his throat. Here was something that he had wanted desperately for so many years. Now he had it. His son, his son!
In him somewhere was a feeling not of triumph but of vast achievement. He looked over his son's shoulders at Malovar. The Martian's face was glowing as if he too was tasting this feeling of vast achievement. In this moment Malovar no longer looked like a tribal god demanding vengeance. Malovar looked like a very gentle and kindly old Martian.
"Mine eyes have seen wonders this day," Malovar spoke. "I think at the next time of the testing all of you will be safe from me."
"Do you mean that?" Larkin whispered.
"Of course. I never make careless statements." He made a gesture toward the elder who held his metal staff.
Around him Larkin was aware that the other humans were being freed from the force envelopes that held them powerless. There were clattering sounds, the noises of weapons being dropped from hands that no longer chose to use them.
Over the watching throng a sigh was rising, such a sigh as may come from the lips of those who have seen wonders past the understanding.
At the top of the coliseum, where the vast red deserts stretched away under a thin harness of tiny canals, they paused.
Roy Larkin had changed. The fear and the terror were gone. A different enthusiasm was in his voice. "We can still bring minerals here but we will no longer operate as I had planned. We will operate on a cost-plus basis, we will deliver them here at a price...."
"The buyer can afford," Boyd Larkin said softly.
"Right," his son said.
Behind them stood Malovar and Seekin. Malovar grunted approvingly. "Through such men as you, minerals can come to Mars—and with them new life may come to an old and dying world."
Malovar looked beyond the city to the red deserts. He seemed to be seeing them as vast stretches of greenery, as interlacing canals with lush vegetation covering all the land that now was desert but someday would be something else. His face glowed.
"You also seem to have won a victory here," Boyd Larkin spoke.
"Yes," Malovar answered. "I have blended the laws of my people with the drive of you humans, made each aware of the other, made each respect and support the other. The victory will bethere, in the years that are to come."
He gestured toward the deserts where in his imagination an old world was again coming to life. The glow deepened on his face. He was seeing a lost dream come true.
Boyd Larkin had the fleeting impression that this old Martian ruler had somehow manipulated and conspired the actions that had taken place in the arena down below, that he had moved both his own people—and the humans—like puppets on strings. For an instant the thought startled the trader. Then he looked again at Malovar's face, saw the glow there, and knew that even if Malovar had manipulated them like puppets on strings the purpose of Malovar's manipulations was clear. It was new life on an old planet, new life for two peoples, the Martians and the humans.
With that purpose, Boyd Larkin had complete sympathy.
Quietly the four of them moved down from the top of the coliseum, toward the peaked roofs of the city of Sudal.
Beyond them, the red deserts already seemed to be greening with new vegetation, new life.