Accompanied by a retinue of servants, the newly arrived princess walked toward her position in the reception hall. By earthly standards she certainly wasn’t beautiful. Like all Martians, she was over ten feet tall, and her body was correspondingly proportioned. She was sinuous and graceful, in spite of her size, which on Earth would have made her so heavy she would have been unable to walk. Here she moved gracefully and easily, with a certain exotic charm notwithstanding her unlovely features.
A rather horrifying touch was the huge snake coiled about her shoulders. It was her favorite pet.
She had barely seated herself when King Usulor began shouting into his television transmitter. In nearly every home in the underground world of Mars he could be both seen and heard.
“I, Usulor, ruler of the mightiest nation in Mars,[1] greet you all. By the wise rule of the aristocrats, of whom I am the greatest, peace and order has been preserved in our sunless world for a hundred thousand years. And once every year I, as leader of the aristocrats of Mars, require that every lesser king shall send a token of his esteem and of his loyalty to me, his overlord. That day is the birthday of my daughter Wimpolo, she who has been chosen by the judges as the most aristocratic lady in all Mars.
“In honor of her birthday I have received beautiful presents from all the other kings. All, that is, but one. The party sent by that king is, I suppose, delayed by some untoward event; maybe a fall of stones from a cavern roof, an outburst of lava, or an attack by snakes.
“For his own sake I hope there is some such reason for his lapse. After a hundred thousand years of peace it would be unfortunate if I had to destroy the little kingdom of Ossalandoc. Let Ossalandoc take care. King Sommalu of Ossalandoc! I am calling you. Why has your party not arrived?”
In the sphere of vision King Sommalu appeared in answer garishly decorated. From the point of view of the few earthmen who watched there was little to choose between the two glaring, frosty-eyed giants. One was as bad as the other.
“Does the mighty Usulor need gifts from the little kingdom of Ossalandoc?” Sommalu asked sneeringly.
Don Hargreaves gasped. This was dangerous insolence.
Usulor shouted no more. His voice was cold as steel.
“So you defy me, Sommalu?” he asked.
“No,” came the mocking voice. “I am benevolent. I give alms to the needy. Rouse yourself and open your bleary eyes. Your present has already arrived.”
Usulor and all his court wheeled round. A party of five men were just entering the courtroom of the overlord of Mars.
AS the glittering throng looked at the small party a startled hush fell upon them. For the representatives of King Sommalu were dressed entirely in dark green. Green is the color of death, of mildew, verdigris, and decay, in the damp, sunless caves of Mars. Upon their heads were the helmets that Martians wear to protect themselves from the stones that are continually falling from cavern roofs. To wear helmets here was an insult to King Usulor, suggesting that his palace roof was unsafe. Upon the ambassador’s tunic was painted a white Martian bird, something like an owl. A Martian owl is the symbol of old age and barrenness. It meant much the same as though the cover of the huge present being wheeled in had borne the words: For the Old Hag.
There was a sound as of the clashing of knives. Usulor and his daughter were gnashing their huge teeth.
To the platform where Wimpolo sat among the statues, flowers and pictures that had come from the other kings of Mars the party made its way.
“Power to Usulor!” said the ambassador, formally.
“How did you get in unannounced?” Usulor demanded.
“There were no guards.”
“What?” roared Usulor. A thousand soldiers were permanently stationed at his gates. What had happened to them? Was the palace undefended? He rapped out orders to an attendant. The attendant began to televise on the palace private system calling officers and officials.
Meanwhile the ambassador whipped aside the green cover. Sommalu’s present to Princess Wimpolo and his token of loyalty to Usulor was revealed. The place rang with screams.
For what was revealed was a shrub growing out of a barrel. Its bright yellow fruit were deadly poison, and its leaves and flowers gave forth a vile odor. Thousands of blue bugs with a horrible habit of laying eggs under human skins and causing huge maggoty ulcers began to crawl over the floor among the guests.
Usulor leaped to his feet.
“Clear the hall! Everybody get out of the room until the poison plant and the ulcer-bugs have been destroyed. Mobilize the army! Get ready to attack Ossalandoc! Throw these men,” he pointed to the ambassador and his retinue, “into jail.”
Nobles rushed out. Armed attendants advanced upon the little party from the offending kingdom. The visitors stood stolid and defiant. The ambassador pulled a small flute from his belt and placed it casually to his lips.
“Stay!” said Princess Wimpolo, to her father. “You are hasty. These men only obeyed orders. Let them go.” King Usulor considered a moment. “As you desire,” he decided. “They may go. I am just.”
The ambassador put his flute away. “Power to the Princess,” he said. “You have been wise, and you have been very lucky.”
Gusts of mocking laughter swept through the palace room. With the place almost empty, they sounded very loud. From the television sphere they came. It was Sommalu, roaring with laughter.
“Power to Usulor,” he laughed. “Bugs to Usulor. Ha! That was funny.”
“Laugh while you can, Sommalu,” growled Usulor. “Tomorrow you will have no kingdom.”
Sommalu’s laughter faded. His voice rose to a scream. His eyes took on the fixed stare of a fanatic.
“Do not attack me, Usulor. I warn you, do not attack me. If you do it will be the end of your kingdom, the end of your overlordship, the end of the present order in Mars.
“I am prepared. Too long we independent kings of Mars have submitted to your tyranny. You have oppressed us, you and your aristocratic caste. You have kept the poor in servitude. You have admitted the earthmen to Mars, letting in terrible dangers. I say your rule must end. It will end.
“Where are your guards, Usulor, the guards who should be surrounding and protecting your palace? Note their condition when you find them. As they are so will all your army be, if you attack me. Your power and your oppression are ov—”
Usulor shut off the television.
DON HARGREAVES and Professor Winterton went back to the home provided for him and other Earthlings at the back of Usulor’s palace.
“What did you think of it?” he asked Professor Winterton.
“I don’t like it,” said the grey-haired Professor. “These Martians have lived in peace for so long that they must almost have forgotten how to fight. Their weapons must be rusting with disuse. And Sommalu sounded pretty confident. He must be well prepared.”
“And we thought Mars to be a world of peace!”
“Yes. Seems we left Earth in too big a hurry, Don.”[2]
A light glowed on an instrument panel. A gigantic Martian attendant threw a key. Sibilant Martian words whistled out of the speaker. Their speed[3] beat Don, but Winterton got the meaning.
“My hat! Princess Wimpolo is asking for you, Don. She wants to see you at once in her apartment.”
Don Hargreaves made his way with thumping heart to the Princess’ apartment. He wondered if the summons had anything to do with the threatened war, but could not see how it fitted in. He hoped she didn’t want to adopt him as a pet. Martian ladies often did this. The tiny bodies and beautiful faces of Earthlings made them in much demand for this purpose. Don thought it humiliating.
Princess Wimpolo lay languidly on a couch.
There were no windows to the apartment. Pale blue light came from the walls, and fresh air, carefully purified, through gratings in the floor. Her favorite snake was coiled around her body. She fondled it as she spoke. Upon its head was a natural searchlight which it could turn on and off by an effort of
will.
Don watched the snake uneasily. He never quite trusted these enormous reptiles, with their habit of yawning with two-foot jaws and inward-curving teeth.
Beside the couch was a zekolo, a creature equally huge and fearsome from Don’s point of view. Its body was covered by a huge bivalve-shell, like an oyster, and between the edges of the twin shells stuck out long octopus-like arms with pincers at the ends. Those pincers could easily have cut Don in halves.
“Power to Princess Wimpolo,” said Don formally.
“You needn’t salute me,” said Wimpolo. “I detest being saluted. On state occasions I must put up with it, but in my own rooms—Come close to me. Look into my eyes.”
Don did as he was told. Her eyes, large as they were by Earth standards, were warm and full of understanding.
“You come from Earth, where men live on the surface, and where there are many wars?”
“I do.”
“I’d love to visit your world. But it is impossible. The krypton in my blood would dissolve out in bubbles and kill me if I attempted it.”
“You wouldn’t like my Earth,” he said. “You would find the strong gravity a crushing strain. The light of the sun would be blinding to you. You would have to wear dark glasses. But the greatest strain of all would be our variable weather, the heat of our summers and the cold of our winters.”
“Yet you love your world, little Earthling. You would like to be back there.”
“I would. I miss the sun, the moon, the stars, the clouds, the green grass, dancing waves, cows, rabbits oh, a million things.”
She looked at him strangely. “You have been told that I am very reserved and haughty, Earthling.”
“Yes.”
“It is only because I feel that terrible dangers are hanging over our world. I have no time for foolish revels and ceremonies. One day I shall be queen of all Mars, unless Sommalu wins. Then I shall, perhaps, choose an Earthling as my king.
“But I fear Sommalu. He has been preparing this. He has been conducting forbidden research. He has ground the poor of his country down to poverty to build up armaments. He broadcasts lying propaganda to his people, telling of the supposed oppressions of my father and the aristocrats. He is dangerous. Listen to this.”
The giant Princess threw a switch. Curious throbbing music began to pour into the room from a hidden source. It had a curious effect of Don’s nerves, filling him with a strange elation.
“How does that affect you?”
“It is exciting. I feel adventurous. I want to do dangerous things.”
“Exactly. Its influence is still stronger upon Martians, for it is scientifically designed to match the natural vibrations of their brain-cells. That is Sommalu’s broadcast. His secret science has mastered the art of controlling the feelings of men by music, vibrating their brain-cells so that they respond to the urge to do as he wishes. A little increase in the strength of those notes, and he could set his whole population howling for war.”
“Can music do that?” Don gasped. “Do not your Earth armies march to music? Our electric musical instruments have an infinitely greater range of notes, tones and overtones than your wind and string instruments on Earth. Whole populations can be enslaved by this means. I can even control the feelings of reptiles and insects.
“Another thing, too. Always we aristocrats have set ourselves to breed men who would be of placid temperament. It is a matter of the adrenal glands,[4] which rest on the tops of the kidneys. I have learned that Sommalu has bred large numbers of men with large adrenals.
“Last of all, he has developed some secret weapon. Somehow he can blast the intelligence from the brains of men, leaving them helpless imbeciles, scarcely able to speak. “That is what happened to all my father’s court guards today. They were found wandering like men dazed. They did not understand when they were spoken to, seemed not to know their own names. They are as helpless as babies.
“People who were nearby say that notes were heard on a flute, and two blasts on a whistle. After the second blast the soldiers began to drop their weapons and to behave strangely.”
Don Hargreaves looked puzzled. “Why do you tell me all these things?”
“Listen, little Earthling. I sent for you because I know you are a very brave man. Single-handed, you fought the mutineers in the mines on the surface.[5] Your adrenals are larger than any in my father’s kingdom. You can fight without fear. Will you perform a dangerous mission for me?”
He stammered, embarrassed.
“I am not so brave as you think.”
“But if the reward was—myself? To be king of all Mars one day?”
“You promise that, to me?” He was incredulous.
“I do.”
Strange feelings beat in his breast. Her outsize Martian features were not beautiful, but he felt now that she was a lonely spirit, an exile among her own people. He could sympathize with that.
“I will do whatever you ask,” he said.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Very well then. I am going into Ossalandoc, into Sommalu’s country. I am going to find out what his new weapon is, how he turned those soldiers into imbeciles. I shall travel as an ordinary wealthy woman, with no company but my snake and zekolo, and you. I shall take you because I can trust you better than I can trust any Martian, and because you are brave. And also because you can slip through places where a Martian would be stopped. If I am in danger I shall send you back with a message to my father.”
“But this is dangerous. It is reckless,” he said.
“You promised.”
“If your father knew he would blame me for not informing him.”
She stood up, proudly.
“You scorn my reward!”
He looked at her. “I will come,” he said.
CHAPTER II
In Sommalu’s Country
THEY set out in one of the fifteen-foot transparent spherical autos of Mars, running through the green metal-lined tunnels that serve as one-way traffic lanes throughout Mars.
Wimpolo took her snake and her zekolo. There was nothing unusual about this, any more than if an Earth lady took with her a pair of lapdogs. Dangerous as they looked, they were perfectly docile unless ordered to fight. And they gave protection against the wild snakes and other monsters that swarmed in the smaller caverns. And Don himself was only another sort of lapdog.
Don was not easy in his mind about the business. The Princess was being very silly to go spying in the land of her father’s enemy. Spies are very liable to come to a sticky end. Still, perhaps it was easier on Mars.
In any case, was the quarrel between lesser King Sommalu and greater King Usulor any of his business as an Earthling? Ought he not to be neutral? If Earthlings fought against Sommalu and Sommalu won, it might be bad for other Earthlings besides those who went fighting. Sommalu was known to be already hostile to Earthlings.
However, he couldn’t forget what Wimpolo had promised him. That one day he would be king of Mars. She seemed to have forgotten that now, sitting in the square apartment that hung from the axle of the transparent sphere, taking no notice of Don, but fondling her reptiles.
When they came at last into the open on the shore of the smooth, tideless, waveless ocean of inner Mars, the sphere jarred to a sharp halt.
“Go no further!” warned a blue-clothed official. “King Sommalu has sent an invading army into our country, and his outposts are only a little way ahead.”
Wimpolo looked indignant and went on.
Soon they were stopped. Don recognized the badge of Sommalu, the fourheaded snake, on the tunics of the men who surrounded them. All wore cavern helmets and carried black boxes. These black boxes produced the penetrative rays that halt the chemical processes of nerves, bringing thought and the consciousness of brains to a standstill either temporarily or for all time.
“Let me pass!” Wimpolo ordered. “I am a high-born lady.”
The soldiers grinned, showing gr
eat pointed teeth.
“She’s a high-born lady!”
“Ray her!”
“Cut her ears off!”
Princess Wimpolo was roughly dragged out of the sphere. Don saw her frightened face. The adventure she had sought was too real for her liking.
“Dump her with the other prisoners,” ordered the leader.
Wimpolo was hustled away, the soldiers twisting her arms and laughing at her cries. Large adrenals seemed to produce a very different kind of Martian from the amiable giants that Don had known up to now.
At sight of Don the soldiers gave a great shout.
“It’s one of those little men from Earth!”
“Queer little creature!”
“Look at his little nose!”
“Look at his tiny ears!”
“How can he breathe?”
“Don’t Earthlings grow any bigger than you are?”
Despite the strangling grip on his throat, Don managed to gasp out, “A little.”
“It talks!” they shouted in delight. “They tell me,” one said, “that you can throw one of those things as high as you like in the air, and they never get hurt. Always land on their feet.” At once, they decided to try it. The biggest of them seized Don by one arm and swung him. Don clung on desperately. A great box on the ears from the Martian nearly knocked him out.
Slowly, so slowly, in the light gravity, he sailed up and up until the Martian soldiers were far below. Then, still in the most leisurely manner, he drifted down again.
At last he landed, luckily on his feet, let his knees bend and rolled over. He was jarred and bruised by sharp rocks but not badly hurt.
The soldiers roared with delight. “Throw him higher! Make him spin. See if he can still land on his feet!” Don ran for life.
“Come back, Earthling!”
“We want a lot more fun out of you yet!”
But Don was away. Each step carried him ten feet. The slow, lumbering feet of the Martians could get nowhere near him. They lost him in the darkness, swinging their searchlights and deathrays into action too late.
Don reached a cave and sat down. Wimpolo’s spying had ended, at the very beginning, in disaster. He could not fight all Sommalu’s giants to free her. Neither could he go back to Usulor. The father’s anger might be terrible.
The Complete Saga of Don Hargreaves Page 6
