The Best of Argosy #6 - Minions of Mars

by William Grey Beyer

  But there was a difference. For although Mark realized that there was nothing he could do at the present time, nor for years to come, he also knew that if his plans were successful, there would certainly be a lesser demand for such exhibitions in the future.

  Eventually the last contest was finished and a weary, sated crowd made for the exits. For the moment they’d reached their limit, but they would be back in the morning, keener than ever.

  Mark dived into his work that night with a new determination.

  His zeal, however, seemed to have no bearing on his work. The solution of the problem eluded him as it had the night before. When morning came and the first rays of the sun told him that he would shortly have to return to the arena, he was as far from success as he had been when he started. Further, in one way. When he had begun this work there had been several ideas in his mind, several methods he could use to attack the problem. Since then he had tried them all, and failed consistently.

  The second day at the arena passed drearily. He didn’t make the mistake of letting himself in for a double performance. One was enough. It left him as near nauseated as it was possible for him to be.

  A dozen of the most hardened criminals and he among them, were chosen for a battle royale. The announcer was particular to state that it was a battle to the death. Mark suspected that this was a device of Erlayok’s to insure that every man involved would do his best to do away with Erlayok’s pet hate, Mark. The battle was conducted without any but nature’s weapons, and the fact gave Mark a chance to thwart the Earl’s designs. He went to work furiously, knocking men unconscious, and occasionally breaking arms. One particularly tough specimen gave so much trouble that he was obliged to break a leg.

  So thoroughly and swiftly did he work at the business of putting men out of the battle without actually killing them, that only one of the other eleven was killed. The killer later received the one broken leg in the event. And the crowd was just as pleased as if gore had run by the bucketful.

  Mark saw Erlayok’s frown and grinned as he left the arena. He gave the grin for the sole purpose of infuriating the Earl, who was looking at him. He wanted Erlayok to know that he had been outwitted.

  INSIDE, he didn’t feel at all like grinning. His performance had left a bad taste in his mouth. Knocking men cold didn’t bother him. They fell without a sound. But those who had grappled with him and forced him to wrestle and finally break bones, had spoiled his equanimity.

  It is seldom that a bone is broken without being accompanied by an involuntary scream of pain. Those screams, and the moaning and groaning which followed got under his skin. Today, as never before, Mark conceived an active distaste for dealing out physical punishment. Never before had he gone about such a task in cold blood as he had today.

  That evening, as the throbbing of the curfew faded and died, he again threw his energy into the seemingly endless task of duplicating the hypnosis wave. His only progress had been negative. He had proved that none of his ideas were feasible. Every one had resulted in failure. Several times he had produced vibrations which had almost shaken the prison down on him, but they were useless, and taught him nothing. The extremely short wave which he needed seemed impossible to produce mechanically.

  And on this night he seemed to be getting no nearer a solution. He tried several variations of the ideas he had worked on previously and accomplished nothing of value. Finally in disgust he tossed a wrench he had been using directly into the middle of the latest hookup he had contrived. There was a short series of popping sounds as a bank of delicate vacuum tubes upset and exploded.

  He gazed morosely at the wreckage, heedless of the damage he had done. “All right,” he muttered. “Blow up. Collapse. Phooey!”

  Abruptly he strode to the door into the guardroom and shoved it open. Edmun and Spud were dozing in their chairs, but awoke and jumped to their feet. The others weren’t in sight.

  “You two would be better off in bed,” Mark growled. I sound, he thought, just like Aunt Nellie. Working too hard. Getting no place. Nuts.

  “We’ve got to guard you,” Spud explained. “So you don’t escape.”

  Mark snorted. “Don’t be silly.”

  Spud grinned cheerfully. “Sure. You’d just bend a few bars and walk out.”

  “Exactly,” Mark answered. “So you might as well go to bed. I’m going out for a walk. I’ll be back before morning. Don’t lock the door after me.”

  The guards looked stupidly at each other as Mark drew the iron bolts of the outer door. As he went out and closed the door they shrugged and resumed their interrupted naps.

  MARK walked briskly. He had no particular destination. He had decided on the walk because he thought the cool night air might set his brain to working more clearly. He breathed great volumes of the stuff into his lungs, with no apparent effect. His brain didn’t suddenly jump to the solution of his problem. If anything, his thoughts became the more chaotic. His mind kept leaping back to one after another of the experiments which had failed, trying to put a mental finger on the reason for the failure.

  He was getting angry with himself. He shouldn’t be fruitlessly rehashing his former ideas. He had proved they wouldn’t work. But there seemed no other line of thought to pursue. The devices he had tried encompassed practically all that was known in his time concerning ultra-short waves. And yet some other attack to the problem was obviously indicated. But in what direction would he make the attack?

  Abruptly he stopped taking the deep breaths. It had come to him why they weren’t doing anything toward clearing his foggy brain. Deep breaths did nothing but oxygenate the blood. And since his blood had no particular use for oxygen, he was accomplishing nothing. There wasn’t anything wrong with his brain anyway. It was working all right. The trouble was that he had allowed it to become enmeshed in a maze of circuitous thought. He would have to forget the whole problem. And when he came back to it later he might be able to tackle the thing from a new angle.

  A flurry of motion in the block ahead of him brought him to an abrupt stop. Peering intently toward the spot, he discerned the forms of several men. The night watch!

  He wheeled and retraced his steps, swiftly and silently. At the next corner he turned to the left and continued his rapid walking. The incident served to make him even angrier. For a second he contemplated turning back and doing battle with them. He was just in the proper mood to vent his feelings by cracking a few skulls. But he thought better of it when he considered the remote possibility that he wouldn’t be able to cope successfully with a score of armed men, weaponless himself.

  A few minutes after the turn-off he began to recognize where he was. A short distance from Smid’s haberdashery, the rebel headquarters. He decided that as long as he was this close he would stop and say hello to Murf.

  Above Smid’s door was a small number plate, identical in appearance with a dozen others in the street. It had a peculiarity of its own, however. Members of a close circle of rebel leaders knew that it was attached to a cord which would ring a bell if the numberplate were pulled out from the wall. And if, the proper number of pulls were made, at the proper intervals, Smid would open the door at any time of the day or night.

  Mark gave the signal.

  Smid peered through a peephole and then opened the door, his eyes wide with surprise. Mark slipped inside.

  “Praise to the gods!” Smid exclaimed. “You managed to escape!”

  Smid’s welcome made Mark feel fine, and once more he understood that there were human beings after all among these savages.

  Smid hurriedly led the way to the cellar where he awakened Murf, who was snoring gently on a cot. Murf opened one eye, saw Mark, then jumped to his feet. Delightedly he pumped Mark’s hand. “I thought you’d never come,” he said. “Any hue and cry?”

  Mark smiled. “No, and there won’t be any. I’m going back before morning.”

  Chapter 18: His Master’s Voice

  SMID’S jaw dropped and Murf began to sputter.
Mark saw that he would have to explain. This he did, omitting to mention the incredible Omega. Nor did he tell anything about his own past, but explained his knowledge of the forces he was trying to control by saying that such things were known to the wise men of his own land. His confederates took him to mean Norway, and he didn’t set them right. The explanation of the hypnosis wave was enough for uninitiated minds to absorb at one sitting. As they sat on the opposite side of a table, listening attentively, he marveled that they could accept even that much without challenging his veracity.

  As he talked he saw that Smid’s eyes gleamed with a patriotic fervor when he told of how the wave could be directed to enclose the Land of the Brish so that no enemy could attack. The man was envisioning his people freed of the burden of the parasitic armies which had bled them white for so long. His face was ecstatic at the thought.

  Murf seemed not nearly so enthusiastic. He frowned when Mark said that the rebellion would best be delayed until he had finished his machines. Time would be needed to place the machines in strategic positions so that the many enemies of the Brish would be kept at bay while the rebels went about their task of ousting the nobles from authority.

  Murf nodded unconsciously when Mark pointed out the fact that during the course of the rebellion the frontiers would be left inadequately guarded. Some of the nobles were certain to escape and muster their soldiers in an attempt to retake their strongholds. But when Mark went on to explain that the rebellion was less apt to blow up in their faces if the border was protected by the machines, Murf objected.

  “I can’t see it,” he claimed. “If we place your machines in operation there will be no need for the nobles’ forces to stay at the borders. And if they are brought back to the cities, our rebellion is hopeless. We’d be outnumbered ten to one.”

  Mark shook his head. “But we won’t wait a minute after the machines are working,” he said. “We’ll attack immediately. The armies won’t leave the borders, at least not many of them, because they won’t know they aren’t needed there.”

  “That’s only guesswork,” Murf said. “Spies and scouts are going back and forth across the borders all the time. From what you’ve told me, your machine will keep people from crossing the borders from either direction. The Brish will discover the barrier as quickly as the Mics.”

  Mark’s eyes narrowed. Something in the way Murf had said that started him thinking along lines which weren’t at all pleasant.

  Why did he speak of the Brish in the third person? Mark remembered that Murf had done this before. Smid always said “we,” or “our men.” And why had Murf immediately spoken of the Mics? There was another border, on the north, and hundreds of miles of coastline involved.

  Mark frowned. He didn’t want to complete his uneasy thoughts. He liked Murf and couldn’t forget that on more than one occasion the man had done him services and risked his life doing them.

  SMID decided to voice an opinion. “I think that nothing of the sort will happen,” he said. “Anyone approaching the barrier will be stricken with an overpowering sensation of fear. He won’t be able to go on. Now do you think that a spy or scout will go back to his superiors and admit that he suddenly got a touch of cowardice? Most soldiers would desert before they would do that. Therefore, the only chance that the barrier will be discovered would be for a large body of men to try to cross it together. And that won’t happen from our side of the lines. Our armies are purely defensive. We’re too well hemmed in to launch an attack at any one point.”

  Mark grinned, forgetting his former thoughts. “That’s an idea I hadn’t considered,” he told Smid. “I guess that just about clinches the argument. What about it, Murf?”

  “It’s a good point,” Murf conceded. “When will the machines be completed?”

  “I’ve been stuck for the last few days,” Mark confessed. “But I hope to solve the problem before the end of the week.”

  “And how long will it take to construct enough of them to take care of the worst of the borders?”

  “Another week at the most.”

  Murf looked at Smid triumphantly. “Can’t be done,” he said. “Our men are ready to start on a moment’s notice, right now! All over the duchy our recruits have been instructed to keep themselves available for instant action. Right in this building are housed the dispatch riders who will round them up when I give the word. Three of them will notify our groups in the other duchies.

  “Every man has his instructions where to get his arms and where to go from there. The whole thing has been timed and calculated to the second! Farmers, artisans and laborers’ from every corner of the country will proceed singly to the strategic points of attack we agreed upon. When they come together it will be a complete surprise to the nobles. We shall win!

  “But we can’t wait much longer. These mobilization orders were issued when you told me that you would escape as soon as possible. That was three days ago. Men can’t be kept keyed up, waiting to risk their lives, forever. The attack must come very soon. Be reasonable!

  “We have planned so well that it isn’t likely the nobles will be able to get any word to the border armies. And if some of them do, they will leave enough of a force to slow up any attempted invasion. And what’s the difference if there is a little fighting at the border? It would keep the army too busy to bother us.”

  For a long minute there was a heavy silence. Mark noticed that Smid seemed to have responded to Murf’s logic. But the idea of fighting at the border didn’t appeal to Mark.

  He foresaw that if some of the border soldiers were recalled by the nobles, the remainder, knowing that rebellion was under way in the interior wouldn’t be able to put up very good resistance. Soldiers like to know that there is unity and accord in the higher command which sends them to battle. Once those remaining soldiers got the idea that they might be forsaken by their own people; that reinforcements might fail to relieve them; and that food and other supplies might not be forthcoming when needed, they would be very apt to cut and run.

  “You’re right — in one respect,” Mark said. “Men can’t be kept keyed up indefinitely. So suppose you send your patch riders out the first thing in the morning. Have them pass the word for our men to relax and return to their normal occupations. But to keep themselves handy so that they may be given new orders in about two weeks. At that time we will give them two or three days’ notice of the day of attack. Things will operate just as smoothly then as they would now. The delay will cause no harm to our plans, and there will be much less bloodshed.”

  “Two weeks!” Murf burst out. “Don’t you realize that the holidays will be over then? We’ve planned on the present confusion helping us, making it hard for the nobles to round up their forces in time to stop us.”

  “That’s a minor point when you think it over,” Mark said. “We’re going to strike the strongholds of all nobles at the same time. So confusion or no confusion, they won’t be able to get help in time to stop us. When that help does come, we’ll be in control.”

  Murf bit his lip and nodded. They had been figuring on the confusion helping them, but it wasn’t such a great necessity. He couldn’t very well claim that it was. It appeared that he had lost the argument. Mark would have his delay and the borders would be protected before the attack was made.

  Mark saw that he had won, and at the same time he saw something else.

  ACROSS the room was a door leading to other compartments in the cellar. The whole basement — which was a very large one, extending outward to the rear of the house, beneath the yard area — was partitioned off into rooms and used by various members of the rebel fraternity as dormitories during their frequent visits. Standing in the doorway was a man who certainly had not been there when Mark had come in.

  Vaguely he remembered seeing him before. That gaunt, dour visage and...

  Abruptly he remembered. This was the man who had occupied the cell next to him, and who had argued with Murf about his chances of escape. Later, when the prison b
reak had been staged, he had been freed with the rest.

  “How long have you been there?” Mark asked.

  “Since you started to talk,” said the man.

  Murf frowned and glowered at him. But Smid motioned him to a seat.

  “Sandy,” he introduced. “He’s one of the riders. Good man, even if his ancestry is mostly Mic. Born here, though. I knew him as a child.”

  Mark nodded. “Is it a habit of yours to eavesdrop?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” denied Sandy. “I heard you come in and I headed this way. Anything this Mic has a hand in, I like to know about. So I stood there and listened. You could have seen me sooner if you’d looked up.”

  Murf growled, but his eyes twinkled. “He’s suspicious of his own shadow. Thinks he’s being followed.”

  Sandy’s eyes were fixed balefully on the redhead. “I heard what I expected to hear,” he said.

  Mark could see the hate smoldering between the two men. Sandy’s was frank, as if he didn’t care who knew about it, least of all Murf. Murf was calmly supercilious, confident that it couldn’t hurt him.

  “What did you expect to hear?” asked Mark.

  “I expected to hear this Mic trying to veto any idea which might prevent his brother Mics from invading the country.”

  Smid was plainly uneasy. “Stop it,” he said. “We have dispelled all doubt of Murf’s allegiance. That has all been covered before and proven to be nothing but a lot of wild talk based on a shock of red hair. Let’s have no more of it.”

  “I take more convincing than the rest of you,” Sandy declared. “Smooth talk doesn’t touch me. And right now I want to know something.”