For a long while he sat still, trying to think. Suddenly, from quite close, a small yellow searchlight shone full on him. Thinking himself captured, he froze with fear. Then he realized that this light was not carried by human hands. It was one of the small natural lights carried on the heads of the carnivorous snakes that lurk in the small, unexplored caverns.
Now he was hopelessly doomed. The giant reptile’s elastic jaws would stretch and stretch until it swallowed him whole. The only hope was to keep absolutely still, in the faint hope that it would not be hungry.
Cold scales slithered over the rocks, brushed against his legs, slid around his body. A reptilian face rubbed against his. A long tongue licked his nose. A tiny foreleg tickled him under the chin.
He heard a rattle of a zekolo’s pincers on the rocks. Hope rose. The chief business of the life of these crustaceans was to fight the snakes, whom they cut in pieces with their pincers. But the zekolo only rubbed itself against his legs, and against the snake.
At last he understood. They were Wimpolo’s pets, and they had followed him, smelling out his tracks as a dog does.
DON came out of the cave and prowled around. Away from the lights it was difficult to pick his way, except when the snake turned on its natural searchlight. Prowling around, watching, he saw Wimpolo and a number of other well-born prisoners from the captured territory shut in large spheres and carried away. He wished he had a raybox, but he was unarmed. He could do nothing.
A peasant woman gave him food. The little he ate was but a mouthful to her, and he knew which of the Martian food was good for an Earth stomach and which not. Grantan, capital city of Ossalandoc, he found was about thirty miles away by Earth reckoning. That was not a long journey in the Martian conditions. Wimpolo, he reasoned, was most likely to be there. Don set out for Grantan, the snake and the zekolo following.
Nearer to Grantan it was more difficult to make his way without being seen. Lights were everywhere.
He saw Grantan, an ugly city built where the cavern roof was low and mighty pillars could protect the houses from falls of rock. The houses extended right to the roof, one solid block. A massive, brutal-looking city.
He was stopped by a soldier.
“Who are you, Earthling? Where are you going?”
He began to fear that he might be thrown into the air again.
“I’m lost,” he said.
“Where’s your mistress?”
“She was captured in the invasion and carried away.”
In the rapid, efficient Martian way, the man raised his arm and telephoned his superiors, speaking into the tiny instrument attached to his wrist.
“My officer says there should be no Earthlings in Ossalandoc,” he said presently. “The King does not like them. You are to be taken to the palace.” Don was picked up by the scruff of his neck and carried to a waiting sphere. A Martian got in and the sphere began to move. The snake and the zekolo were left behind.
CHAPTER III
In Sommalu’s Palace
THE sphere entered the city via a tunnel that served as a street. Inside there was nothing to be seen but signs and side tunnels. They stopped, and a Martian in a blue uniform looked in, saw Don and lifted him out by the scruff of his neck.
He was carried into a room where a number of Martian men and women were noisily enjoying themselves. Sommalu himself lay on a couch. He was a lean, pale Martian with a wild, staring look in his bleary eyes.
“Here is the Earthling from Usulor’s court!” bellowed the Martian who carried Don.
“I know you, Donald Hargreaves,” growled Sommalu. “I have watched you in the television and I have reports from my spies in Usulor’s country. You brought Wimpolo here to spy on me. You cursed Earthlings are the only factor in the situation I have not got under control. You are the only people I am afraid of, because I do not understand you. I shall destroy every one of you, like this!”
Don found himself seized by the neck with one huge hand and around the face with the other. Sommalu began to twist and pull as one might wring the neck of a chicken.
Somebody said to Sommalu, “Let’s have some fun with him first.”
Pressure on Don’s neck relaxed just as cartilages and blood-vessels were about to snap.
“How?” growled Sommalu.
“We saw the soldiers play with him when Wimpolo was captured. These Earthlings are remarkably agile. They can be made to do tricks.”
“Is it safe to let him live?” growled Sommalu. “He was a friend of Wimpolo’s and a favorite at Usulor’s court. For that alone I hate him. How do I know that the poisons of my new fighting flies will affect Earthlings with their different constitutions from ours? They might produce unknown weapons from Earth. They might cause Earth to send an invading army to conquer Mars on the plea of helping Usulor against my revolt. I do not know their possibilities, therefore the only safe way is to destroy them.”
A Martian tried to pacify him.
“Nothing can stop the mighty Sommalu. The genius that raised a factory worker to be master of a mighty nation will make him master of all Mars. The secret of your fighting flies has been well kept. Already five men turned thousands of picked soldiers into helpless imbeciles in a few seconds. Princess Wimpolo is imprisoned without food. What have you to fear?”
“You are right,” snapped Sommalu. “Make him do tricks.”
Courtiers seized Don. Don, under the lash of whips, was made to run and jump.
Because of the light Martian gravity he could perform feats that were remarkable to the massive Martians. He could jump high over their heads, turning somersaults as he did so. To escape the lash, he did his best to amuse them. He did cartwheels, handsprings backwards over their heads. He balanced himself on one hand on a Martian’s shoulder.
“Climb that wall!” ordered Sommalu, pointing.
It looked impossible, but by the aid of curtains, furniture and carvings he reached the ceiling. He swung by one hand from the grating that let the used air out of the room. He misjudged the strength of the grating. It broke away in a shower of stones and plaster.
“Put that grating back!” roared Sommalu, furiously.
Don tried to climb, carrying the heavy grating. He could not. A Martian got a rope, tied one end around his waist and the other to the grating. Don climbed up, got into the hole and began to haul up the grating. Around him the ventilation space between two floors made a dark, dusty gap through which he might crawl on hands and knees like a rat in an Earth home.
It was the only way to get away. He dropped the grating and began to crawl.
A LONG way he went in the darkness. Behind him the shouts of Sommalu’s courtiers faded away. Short of pulling down a whole section of the palace, he did not see how they could find him.
The only light came from gratings where air was admitted into or out of other rooms. There were water pipes and insulated wires around him. The ventilation spaces were a labyrinth of passages. He found a loose grating under a larder, got out, helped himself to food and darted back under the floor as a Martian maidservant came in.
“Now I really am a rat,” he thought.
For hours he wandered about these inter-floor spaces, listening to chance conversations and wondering what to do. It was a very long time indeed before he got what he wanted, a clue as to where Wimpolo was held captive.
“How are the prisoners?” he heard somebody ask.
“Quite safe,” said a blue-clad guard.
“And the Princess?”
“Being kept without food until she agrees to the master’s orders. She is in the next room, still proud and haughty. She has not spoken since she was brought here.”
Don found the room where she was, and called to her through the floor grating. She lay listlessly on a couch, looking depressed and weak. At his voice she stirred and looked around.
“It is I, Don, your Earthling. I am in the space under the floor,” he called.
Wedging a chair leg between the bars, she pulle
d up the grating and Don’s dusty figure came through.
He told his story.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m starving,” she said weakly. “Get me food.”
“Certainly.” He went back under the floor, found the larder, raided it and brought the food to her.
“That’s better,” she said presently. “Being small helps you. You can get through these grating holes. I cannot.” Suddenly she screamed. The head of a huge snake showed out of the grating hole. The reptile slithered in. It was her own pet snake. Following Don by smell, and perhaps by some uncanny Martian reptilian sense, it had trailed him here. Its long thin tongue licked its mistress’s face affectionately. A rattling under the floor told them that the shell-backed zekolo was here also.
Suddenly a step outside the door told them that somebody was coming in.
Don dived under the Princess’s couch. He did not see where the snake got to, but it vanished. The door opened. Sommalu, in resplendent uniform, came in, looking pleased with himself.
“I heard voices,” he said, looking around. “What was it?”
“I may have been talking to myself,” said Wimpolo.
“So you found your tongue at last?” His eyes fell on the fragments of food. “What is this?” he roared. “Who has brought food here?”
He shouted at somebody outside. Two frightened guards appeared. They denied the charge, looking bewildered at the sight of the crumbs, bones and fruit skins on the floor.
“You lie!” bellowed the angry ruler, calling soldiers. “Take them away! Show them what it means to defy the mighty Sommalu!”
The terrified guards were dragged away. Sommalu folded his arms and glowered at the Martian girl.
“If you saw what will happen to them you would not be so stiff-necked, Princess. You cannot wheedle me with your charms as you wheedled those fellows, to their own misfortune.” He turned again to the door. “Bring in the longdistance televiewer.”
The machine was a ten-foot globe of mirror glass set upon a stand. Two blue-clad guards wheeled it in.
“Your father has sent his army against me,” Sommalu said. “In a few minutes it will come within sight of my defense guard. When you see how that great force will melt away before my men you will be more ready to agree to my suggestions. Be my queen, secure me a standing among the aristocrats, and you can have again all the luxury you once knew.”
“And you tell your people you are going to rid Mars of the aristocrats,” she sneered.
“I am going to rule all Mars,” he said. “Nothing can stop me.”
He sat beside her on the couch, his arm round her waist in mock affection as she sat, rigid and defiant. A wave of his hand signaled for the teleview to e switched on.
Now, looking into the five-foot sphere, they seemed to be looking through a hole into an enormous cavern that stretched for many miles before them. In the distance a number of huge spheres, hundreds of feet in height, were rolling forward. Above them flew many huge airships. In the foreground lay Sommalu’s soldiers awaiting the attack.
“You must be mad,” said Wimpolo.
“Those spheres of my father are of a metal, the atomic adhesion of which is so strong that no force, however great, can damage it. No ray can penetrate it from outside. Yet deathrays from inside are not obstructed. They will not need to fight your little force. The spheres will simply roll over them and crush them.”
“We shall see,” said Sommalu, laughing confidently.
Steadily the mighty army rolled and flew down upon the few helpless-looking men who awaited it. From their clothes shone a bright blue light. They were not even trying to hide.
Abruptly, there came the notes of many flutes. Don blinked in surprise as millions upon millions of tiny flies streamed into the air. Up toward the cavern roof they swarmed out of sight. A pale light, visible to the television only, followed them. Usulor’s force took no notice of them, interested only in the men on the ground.
To the notes of whistles the flies flew on. Reaching Usulor airships, some were caught in the rushing wind of the ships’ progress, landed upon them and sought out tiny holes, crawled in through them.
Slowly a horrible transformation came over the faces of the airmen. Eyes that had been staring intently, judging distances and aiming, became blank and stupid. Firm jaws sagged listlessly. Men rose from their seats and lurched around, wondering and questioning in their faces, while their ships crashed down to ruin and death.
Meanwhile, other flies reached the battle-spheres. In through tiny holes in the sides they crawled, air-inlets or any other hole. Men ignored them until they were bitten, then slowly all semblance of intelligence faded from their faces.
Spheres stopped, or wandered aimlessly. Many collided and were destroyed. Crews got out and staggered about, making uncouth noises as though the means of speech had been taken from them and they were back at the baby stage again.
Sommalu’s men, with shouts of glee, jumped up and rushed at them with daggers. The bodies of the helpless soldiers of Usulor they ripped open with their daggers. Usulor’s men, not understanding, stared with hanging jaws while their comrades were cut open and the knives advanced upon them.
The butchery went on. Not one of the victims tried to fight or even to hide or turn away from the blade. They stood and stared and fell. In death their eyes were full of a great wonder.
“You see,” gloated Sommalu. “My fighting flies inject into men’s veins a poison that destroys all memory. Those men forgot who they were fighting for and whom against. They forgot even that they were fighting at all. Now are you convinced that I must soon be master of all Mars? Will you be sensible? Or must I bring your father before you, helpless and stupid as those soldiers were before they were killed?”
Livid with rage, Wimpolo howled a Martian insult at him, not at all aristocratic, and struck him on the mouth.
Furious in his turn, he seized her wrist and began to twist. All at once she went limp.
A commotion under Sommalu’s feet made him look down in surprise. Don Hargreaves was coming out of his hiding place.
CHAPTER IV
Broadcasting Station
DON HARGREAVES had been very nervous, under the couch, for fear of discovery, but now his adrenal glands had taken charge of him. The merciless slaughter of Usulor’s army and the painful wrenching of the arm of Wimpolo who, though a giant, was still a girl, roused him to fury. His adrenal glands poured their hormones into his blood. He no longer felt afraid, but was full of a cold, fighting energy.
Leading high, he lashed out with his foot. The kick caught Sommalu full on the mouth. The force of his own kick sent Don tumbling to the floor again.
The two guards rushed at him with outstretched hands. He jumped right over their heads. Then, pivoting on his heel, jumped again and kicked one of them heavily in the back of the head before he could turn.
Again they rushed. Again he jumped over them and gave one a heavy kick on the back of the head. Small as he was to them, his kicks must have done them no good. The enormous Martians were bewildered at his speed and agility. They picked up the backless stools they had been sitting on, and advanced.
Now he knew he was trapped. He could not jump high enough to clear their arms with the added reach the stools gave them. He was forced into a corner.
“Stand back! Let me ray him!” roared Sommalu, aiming the deadly black box. His mouth was bleeding.
Something flashed through the air. Wimpolo’s snake had come out of its hiding. Sommalu was tossed aside, his raybox smashed. The two guards did not stay to fight the snake: they ran out of the door and shouted for help.
Under the floor the zekolo was heaving mightily in an effort to break its way out and join the fight. Don saw a way of escape. Locking the door, he managed to get the snake to understand that the Princess must be pulled under the floor, through the enlarged hole the crustacean had made. She was a terrific weight to pull through, even in the Martian gravity. The
ceiling of the room underneath, already strained by the efforts of the zekolo, could not stand it. It broke. Don and Wimpolo fell in a shower of building materials, into the room below.
Don landed on a table, sending food flying in all directions. Wimpolo landed awkwardly and painfully on a Martian’s head, knocking him backward. To the dim intelligence of the reptiles above it appeared that she was being attacked again. Snake and zekolo swarmed down to her defense. Two of the unfortunate palace servants were killed by the rib-crushing embrace of the snake and three had arms or legs cut off by the pincers of the zekolo before they got away. The peaceful kitchen was turned into a slaughterhouse.
Don and Wimpolo, who had fortunately recovered her senses, fled down a passage. At the end was a guard. Wimpolo whispered to the snake. So stealthily did the snake glide that it seemed to disappear. Something flashed round the distant guard’s head. The snake wrapped itself round his mouth and throat, then, lifting him in its coils, banged his head sharply against the wall.
Don picked up the unconscious man’s raybox as they ran by. Ahead was a room full of machinery.
“Sommalu’s broadcasting plant,” Wimpolo whispered. “This is a lucky break.”
The captured raybox, operated at half strength, stretched guards, engineers and musicians unconscious even before they knew they were attacked. Don posted himself at the door of the studio, ready to deal with interruptions, while Wimpolo inside proceeded to broadcast according to her own ideas.
And those were curious ideas, it seemed to Don. A series of thin, reedy notes like the scratching of slate-pencils, was all he heard. How they could have any effect on human feelings, let alone neutralize the effects of Sommalu’s own broadcasts and make his dupes turn on him, Don could not understand.
He was busy, too. The interruption of the program had sent many people to inquire the cause, and while he could ray the first-comers and stretch them in sleep, those behind saw them fall and gave the alarm.
The Complete Saga of Don Hargreaves Page 7
