The Complete Saga of Don Hargreaves

by Festus Pragnell

  The stork was sitting on the floor, holding her neck and squawking. Several space-birds were round her, trying to find out what was the matter. Luckily she could not talk to them, only squawk and point. Until she calmed her silly head enough to write on a slate she would not be able to tell them where Wimpolo had gone. Wimpolo hurried away. It was awkward without magnetic shoes, but there was a very light gravity just holding her to the floor.

  “Where are you going? What do you think you’re doing? Why don’t you fly?” rasped a hoarse voice suddenly.

  Startled, she nearly answered. That would have given her away. She saw that the speaker was one of the parrotheaded freaks who could still produce reasonable imitations of human voices.

  Wimpolo fluttered her “wings,” not daring to make a noise with her mouth.

  “Write on your slate! Why can’t you write on your slate, you silly owl?” rasped the “parrot.”

  Wimpolo fluttered some more. “What’s the matter now? Lost your slate?”

  Wimpolo nodded.

  “You silly, useless, careless owl! You ought to be plucked! Do you hear me? You ought to be plucked! Here, take my slate.”

  WIMPOLO awkwardly because of the bearskin in the way of her fingers, wrote, “I’ve hurt my wings.”

  “Haaak!” squawked the parrot. “Another accident! Nothing but accidents! Collisions, collisions, collisions! Sheer carelessness I call it! I’d pluck every one of them! Wheeeeeeeee!”

  The parrot suddenly produced a whistle from somewhere and blew on it. Two powerful space-birds appeared.

  “Take this silly owl to the casualty ward,” ordered the parrot. “And tell the doctor I recommend her to be plucked.”

  They picked her up and carried her. Wimpolo, whose heart had been thumping painfully, breathed more easily. Her disguise had deceived the parrot. That meant it must be pretty good.

  She found herself in the largest compartment of the space-ship. It had been fitted up as an emergency hospital. Several injured space-birds were waiting for attention. Their powers of very rapid movement, as well as the sudden acceleration of the space-ship, apparently caused many accidents.

  Wimpolo was given her choice of sitting on a perch or on the floor. A few moments later a stork was brought in, a stork who had an injured neck and was making a lot of fuss about it.

  “Injury caused by a metal boot,” announced a parrot-headed attendant to a space-bird who sat at a table writing. “Boot stated to have been thrown by the escaped girl, Princess Wimpolo.”

  At once there were squawks of sympathy and clustering of rubbernecks around the stork. Wimpolo took advantage of the excitement to slip out of another door.

  The rockets had been silent for some while, yet there was a light gravity pull. That could mean only one thing, the space-ship had landed on Deimos.

  She went into a small air-lock and let herself out. Overhead was a green glass roof and before her a little town of stone and brick houses, mostly in ruin but some of it still in use. The ground was about two hundred feet below her.

  She jumped lightly down.

  CHAPTER VII

  Birds, Beetles and Bommelsmeth

  WHILE my bride was behaving in this lively fashion we three men of the party had got ourselves hopelessly stuck in the mud in one of the smaller air-traps of Deimos. Searchlights of the watching space-birds shone down through glassite dome. They found me, and one beam shone full on me, dazzling. But no space-birds came to the airlock. I realized that the space-birds intended to watch me, and all of us, drown in the mud and water.

  The water splashed with the struggles of Vans and Usulor, who, like me, were trying to free themselves of the clutching mud. Then I felt a big mouth, full of teeth, close over the toes of my left foot. Some water creature had got hold of me, crocodile, snake or big fish. I could not even snatch my foot away, as the heel was deeply embedded.

  But my toes were not bitten off. Instead the creature, whatever it was, gently tugged my foot out of the mud. Then it freed the other one. Then a steady pull, and I was slowly tugged free of the mud, out into deep water.

  The creature, whatever it was, towed me across the little pool to a shingle beach on the other side. When I felt firm bottom and was released I scrambled to my feet.

  I owed my rescue to a big sea-lion. Bommelsmeth! He had turned up in the most unlikely place at the very moment when he was most needed.

  The sea-lion looked at me, gave a bark of satisfaction, winked broadly, and lumbered back into deeper water. A minute or two later he towed Usulor ashore, and then Vans. Giving us all a bark of greeting and a broad wink, he splashed into deep water and dived.

  “What’s he winking at?” Vans asked me.

  “Pleased with himself at rescuing us from certain death,” I suggested. “Or amused to find us all naked, flamingo and all.”

  “He meant more than that,” Vans insisted. “But, not being a man now, he can’t speak as you or I would. He’s got some surprise for us.”

  Vans walked thoughtfully round the pool and bent down a small tree until the flamingo was able to grip it in her beak and pull herself free.

  Meanwhile the space-birds were crowding in through the airlock. There were dozens of them, and every fifth one carried a searchlight. Vans picked up a large stone and threw it.

  The space-birds dodged.

  With the terrific force of Vans’ throw and the slight gravity of Deimos the heavy stone crashed into the roof of the dome. Throwing things about is dangerous where gravity is slight.

  Weight is reduced but inertia remains! the same. Instead of falling the missile goes on and on, and it hits just as hard. The roof broke, with a tinkle of falling glassite.

  A raucous parrot screamed out at us. It was the first time we had known that any of the space-birds could talk.

  “Ha, ha, ha! Look what you’ve done! You’ve let the air out of the dome!”

  SPACE-BIRDS wheeled around us, laughing. We looked for stones to throw at them. There were very few stones about. One of the creatures swept low and screamed in my face. While I was trying to defend myself from the ferocious peck or the arm-breaking wing blow I expected another swooped behind me, seized my ankle in his claws and lifted me off the ground. Upsidedown I was carried over the pool and dropped into deep water.

  “That’s the idea,” screamed the parrot-head. “Wash them! We can’t take them before Tarbuss in that muddy state!”

  Vans and Usulor were dropped in beside me, followed by the flamingo.

  “I’ll wring all your necks,” Vans was sputtering.

  “It’s no use, Vans,” Usulor said. “I know when I’m beaten. With no deathray to defend myself with I’ll fight with a sword, or even with sticks and stones, but when I haven’t even a pair of socks, then I give in.”

  “How would you like to be left here?” squawked the parrot-head. “Air is whistling out. In about fifteen minutes you would all die of lack of air. If we save you will you promise to make no attempt to escape?”

  We all promised, Vans in a most sullen manner, and were picked out of the pool. We were taken into the airlock, where presently clothes and space-suits were brought to us. It was good to be dressed again, although our bodies were still dampish.

  “These are off our ship,” Usulor declared. “That means that the ship is on Deimos.”

  The same idea had occurred to me. “Where is Wimpolo!” I demanded of the parrot-head.

  “Attempted to escape in space,” rasped the parrot-head.

  “How? Why? Tell me what happened!” I demanded.

  “If any of the four opens a mouth again,” ordered the parrot-head, “teach them manners. They are not Emperor, wrestling champion and Prince Consort while they are on Deimos. They are three criminals charged with vile crimes and about to pay the penalty.”

  “Look here,” Usulor said. “If you will return us to Mars I will have you all pardoned, set my scientists seeking ways of changing you back to your original forms and meanwhile have you cared fo
r in well-appointed aviaries.”

  “Silence him!” screeched the parrothead.

  A powerful wing struck the Emperor of Mars a heavy blow on the legs.

  Then we were all carried on the backs of space-birds. The flamingo, of course, didn’t need a spacesuit but wore one of Wimpolo’s fur coats round her featherless form.

  WE had given our word not to try to escape, but that didn’t mean much. It was all we could do to hang on to the slithery backs of the space-birds as they wheeled and zoomed. Showing off I think. With the almost unlimited powers of the universe at their beck and call by a mere effort of volition they could stop and start, turn, or stall in a manner that would make a taxi-driver of Paris green with envy. For all our holding on we were several times shot over the heads or tails of our steeds, to be picked up by other space-birds. All to the accompaniment of hearty but silent laughter. Because of course there was no sound out here in airless space.

  It was our turn to laugh when two of them collided with a wing-shattering crash.

  Dizzily we swooped down on the largest dome of Deimos. It was miles across, tremendously thick, and divided into many separate compartments by transparent walls crossing it. In the event of damage to the dome above all doors into the damaged compartments would automatically close, preventing loss of air from other compartments. There was a fairly large city here, partly in ruins. Many of the buildings were now being used by the space-birds, particularly one building originally intended, apparently, as a palace. Martian architecture runs to palaces a lot, with rounded domes, zig-zag, curved, coiled and swan-necked columns. I’m no architect, but light gravity permits of a playing about with architectural forms that would be quite impossible on Earth.[2]

  Into the big palace we were taken. It was very comfortably furnished, although on a plan long ago out-moded on Mars. In the vast hall space-birds of various forms rested on perches, in stalls, on cushions or in whatever manner was best suited to their particular forms. There was even a large swimming pool in the middle of the floor, with swimming birds such as swans on it and storks standing on one leg.

  And on the big throne a winged horse sat with crossed legs and munched hay that an attendant space-bird handed him. He did not stop eating when we entered.

  Our spacesuits were taken off us.

  “Lemor Tar buss,” announced Usulor, “I, Emperor and Overlord of Mars, offer you and your people a free pardon and good homes on Mars until such time—”

  “Speak when you are spoken to,” squawked a parrothead. A wing struck Usulor’s thighs, stingingly.

  Lemor Tarbuss, or the winged horse, went on eating. At last he finished, took a long drink out of a golden bucket, offered his muzzle to an attendant for his mustache to be wiped, began to smoke an enormous cigar and allowed his mocking gaze to rest on us. Then he began a series of swift whinnyings and neighings, all without taking the cigar out of his mouth.

  “His Majesty,” declared a parrothead, rather a moth-eaten parrothead who appeared to be moulting, “says that you may be Emperor and Overlord of Mars, but he is Emperor of Deimos. Your absurd offers do not interest him nor any of us, because he is in a position to take everything you can offer him without your help. Here on Deimos, although Tarbuss is our Emperor, we have a system of democracy. You are accused of confining us all to noisesome jails in Mars for trivial offenses and often on false accusations. You are accused of depriving us of our human forms and turning us into the freaks we are, to suffer and die, as you thought, cut off from humanity, freaks, pariahs, outcasts and monsters.”

  “I’m willing to do what I can to put that right,” declared Usulor, unbending, proudly.

  THE moulting parrothead flapped its wings vigorously, A shower of feathers flew out leaving it more moth-eaten than ever. I understood now why the place was littered with feathers of all sorts. Nearly all these space-birds were moulting.

  “We are not interested in your offers,” the parrothead interpreted the neighings and whinneyings of Tarbuss, “We are going to give you a dose of your own medicine. We are going to subject all four of you to the Evolution Machine and make of you four of the weirdest freaks ever imagined.”

  “This is no justice!” I cried, “We’ve had no trial.”

  “What justice did we have? Ask him!” Tarbuss pointed with one hoof at Usulor. “But you shall have a trial, right now. My space-birds, all of you! You have heard the evidence. I constitute you all jurymen. If it is your opinion that the prisoners are guilty say so.”

  A babble of squawking, hooting and whistling filled the air.

  “If any of you dares to hold the opinion that they are not guilty let him say so and share their fate. Who says the prisoners are not guilty?” Naturally, there was silence.

  “There you are! That is at least as fair a trial as most of us had. Seize them, my birds! Carry out the sentence!”

  Space-birds began to run towards us in a flurry of flying feathers.

  “Dad! Dad! Don! Vans!”

  It was the voice of Princess Wimpolo. It came from the nearest space-bird. This space-bird had the hind legs of a tiger, the front legs of a bear and head and wings of ostrich feathers. Much of this disguise was falling off as she ran, revealing the face and form of my gigantic but darling bride.

  “Take these!” she cried.

  From her hands we snatched four deathray boxes. Then we faced the swarming space-birds back to back, Wimpolo in the middle.

  Tar buss dived backwards off his throne.

  “Fools,” came the voice of the parrothead. “Though you now carry five deathrays a hundred rays unseen to you are covering you. Fire my birds, fire!”

  All our five rays clicked on at once and swept round.

  And, you know, nothing happened.

  IT was an awful, sickening moment.

  I swept my deadly ray over a group of space-birds standing motionless, wings outspread, trying to fly but apparently unable to. Not one of them was affected. The terrible ray had let me down.

  I looked inside, and saw why. The inside of the box was in a state of ruin. Rubber insulators were gone, all wooden, cloth or rubber parts gone, crumbled away to powder.

  I threw it down.

  But neither had the deathrays of the space-birds harmed us.

  “Seize them by hand,” yelled the parrothead. “Your rays are useless, but so are theirs! Seize them! Carry out the sentence!”

  “I wouldn’t advise you to,” announced a deep, icy voice.

  Bommelsmeth had just walked into the hall. Not Bommelsmeth the sea-lion but Bommelsmeth the man. Bommelsmeth the lesser king of Mars who fought so long to usurp Usulor’s throne as overlord of the whole planet. He wore only a singlet and shorts made, it appeared, of tin. In his hand was a deathray.

  “I wouldn’t advise you to, Emperor Tarbuss,” he repeated, very heavily and sarcastically.

  I thought he looked, at that moment, more dignified and kingly than Usulor had ever done.

  “And why not? And who are you?” rasped the parrothead.

  “Never mind who I am. Thanks to the discoveries of King Usulor,” he bowed stiffly, “of myself, and of you, you imitation King, I have succeeded in regaining my natural form. Or regaining it, however, with an evolved brain that now sees my former warlike activities as crude, primitive folly.” Again he bowed towards Usulor. “In answer to your other question I give three replies.

  “Firstly, because I happen to carry the only efficient deathray in Deimos. You will be wise to do as I direct you.

  “Secondly, because your wings are all coming to pieces. All your feathers and fur and that of every one of your birds is coming out. None of you appear to be able to fly any more.”

  It was obviously true. Not one of the space-birds was flying, although many were attempting to and showers of falling feathers were the only result.

  “Thirdly,” went on Bommelsmeth, “another space-ship from Mars is now only an hour’s journey away. Observers on Mars, watching in telescopes saw what happene
d to Emperor Usulor’s ship, and another ship was hastily prepared to follow and rescue him and his party. Without deathrays and unable to fly, how do you expect to be able to defend yourself against Emperor Usulor’s guards? And if they find that anything has happened to their King, his daughter or his son-in-law, what do you imagine your fate will be?”

  Scornfully he glanced around. Tarbuss and his birds knew they were beaten.

  My jacket felt oddly loose. I put a hand to it, and felt a large hole. It was falling to pieces. So were Vans’ clothes and Usulor’s and Princess Wimpolo’s furs and feathers.

  WITH a scream the half-naked girl ran behind a stone statue. So did Vans, Usulor and I. Bommelsmeth, in his tin singlet and trunks, remained in sole possession of the floor of the vast hall, among the half-naked space-birds.

  “I’ll get you tin suits the beetles won’t eat,” said Bommelsmeth, handing me the deathray.

  Beetles! I understood at last. The palace was full of flying beetles, the same beetles as had eaten our clothes and the flamingo’s feathers in the other dome. Somehow they had got in here, making the space-birds helpless.

  “Yes,” explained Bommelsmeth, smiling, “when the space-birds let all the air out of the space-ship I hid in the watertank. I knew my way about Deimos. I had read it up, which none of you had troubled to do. I knew that men had been driven off the little world by these clothes-eating insects thousands of years ago. I knew, too, that all the domes were connected by water pipes to an underground sea. Once I had escaped from the space-ship I was able to swim from dome to dome, catching millions of beetles and carrying them here where I stored them in tin trunks until I was ready. I saw you coming down, but could not locate you in time to warn you. When the searchlights of the space-birds revealed you to me I was unable to do much at the moment to help you. But excuse me. I have to save a lady from embarrassment.”

  He hurried away and brought back three large and one small tin suit. These tin suits had been used by former inhabitants of Deimos when clothes-eating beetles made ordinary clothes impossible.