The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  The girl beside them hesitated. "Mai ra—" she began.

  The voice of Flande did not rise, but a deeper and more commanding thunder seemed to beat distantly in its tones. Evaya glanced uncertainly at the little group behind her, singling out Alan with her eyes. He grinned at her tightly. She gave him an uncertain smile. Then she turned away from the great face above them and moved slowly toward the descending ramp.

  Mike Smith said sharply, "Is she running out on us? I'll—"

  Abruptly, he fell silent, lips drawn back, blunt features hardening into amazed wariness, as a voice spoke soundlessly within the minds of all of them.

  Very softly it came at first, then gaining in assurance as though questing fingers had found contact. Wordless, inarticulate, yet clear as any spoken tongue, the voice said:

  "I have sent Evaya away. She will wait at the tower's foot, while I question you."

  Alan risked a sidewise look at Sir Colin. The Scotchman was leaning forward, his head cocked grotesquely, his beak nose reminding Alan of a parrot investigating some new morsel. There was no fear in Sir Colin's face, only profound interest. Karen showed no expression whatever, though her bright green eyes were narrowed. As for Mike Smith, he stood alertly, with a coiled-spring poise, waiting.

  "Do you understand me?" the voice murmured soundlessly.

  "We understand." Sir Colin spoke for them all, after a quick glance around. "This is telepathy, I think?"

  "My mind touches yours. So we speak in the tongue that knows no race or barrier. Yes, it is telepathy. But I speak aloud; it is easier for me to sift your minds."

  Alan touched Sir Colin's arm, giving him a brief look of warning.

  "Wait a minute," he said. "We've a few questions to ask ourselves."

  Flande's great veiled eyes flashed—and a streak of silver fire leaped out above their heads with a crackle of dangerous sharpness.

  All of the little group cowered away under it as the sword-blade of silver light flashed across the platform where they stood.

  The shelf was wide here, and of translucent clarity, as if they stood on a depthless pool of clear water. There was only quiet emptiness below them as they stumbled backward, the fiery menace of Flande's glance burning tangibly past their heads.

  Then Flande laughed, cool and distant. And the burning silver sword broke suddenly into a rain of silver droplets that sparkled like stars. Sparkled and came showering down around them. Karen flung up an arm to shield her eyes; Mike swore in German. The other two stood tense and rigid, waiting for the stars to engulf them all.

  But Flande laughed again, a thousand years away behind his veil of memories, and the shower fell harmlessly past them and sank glittering into the pellucid depths of the shelf on which they stood. Down and down ... And the twinkling points began to dance with colors.

  Alan watched them in a curious, timeless trance ... And then—under his feet the glassy paving crumbled like rotten ice. He was falling—He threw himself flat, and the support held him briefly—briefly ... Then, in a crackle of broken glass, he plunged downward.

  Flande's cool laughter sounded a third time.

  "Stand up," he said. "There is no danger. See—my magic is withdrawn."

  Miraculously, it was so. The platform spread unbroken beneath Alan's hands, a surface of quiet water. Crimson-faced, he scrambled up, hearing the scuff of feet about him as the others scrambled, too. Karen's lips were white. Sir Colin's twisted into a wry half-grin. Mike muttered in German again, and Alan had a sudden irrelevant thought that Flande had made an enemy just now—for what that enmity was worth. The rest of them could accept this magic for what it was—telepathy, perhaps, group hypnotism—but to Mike it was personal humiliation and would demand a personal revenge ...

  -

  FOR A MOMENT, they stood hesitant, facing the great visage that looked down aloofly from the tower, no one quite knowing what move to make. Flande spoke.

  "Fools question me," he said. "I think you will not question me again. These you have seen are the least of my powers. And you are not welcome here, for you have troubled my dreams."

  The brooding gaze swept out past them all, plumbing distances far beyond the cavern walls that hemmed in Carcasilla.

  "You are strange people, from what I see in your minds. But perhaps not strange enough to interest me for long."

  Alan said, "What do you want of us, then?"

  "You will answer my questions. You will tell me who you are, and whence you come, and why."

  "All right. There's no secret about us. But after that, what?"

  "Come here," Flande said.

  Alan took a cautious step forward, his nerves wire-strung. The vast face watched him impassively.

  Still cautiously, Alan advanced, step by careful step, straight toward that enigmatic doorway. No sound from the others warned him. Only the airman's trained instinct, almost a sixth sense, told Alan his equilibrium was going. The pavement seemed as solid as ever under his advancing foot. But sheer instinct made him twist in the middle of a stride and hurl himself backward, scrambling on the edge of an abyss he could sense but not see. The surprised faces of the others stared at him.

  He reached out gingerly, exploring the platform until his fingers curled over the edge. Below lay the swimming violet depths of Carcasilla. One more step in the blindness of his hypnotic trance would have plunged him down.

  "What the devil, lad—" Sir Colin rasped.

  Alan got up." I almost walked over the edge," he said.

  Sir Colin said gently. "His hypnotic powers are very strong. We thought you were walking straight toward him."

  "And that the platform was bigger than it really is," Alan finished, his mouth grim. He swung toward the tower. "Okay. I get the idea. You're going to kill us?"

  Flande smiled gravely. "I do not yet know."

  The great visage looked down at them and beyond them, fathomless weariness in its eyes. And Alan, returning that distant stare, wondered at his own daring in provoking the caprice of this incredible being of the world's end. That enormous face looked human ... A three-dimensional projection upon some giant screen, or only illusion, like the other things that had happened? Or was Flande really human at all?

  Perhaps the face was a mask, hiding something unimaginable ...

  "Look here," Alan said, making his voice confident. "If you can read minds, why question us? I think—"

  Flande's eyes, brooding on something far beyond them, suddenly narrowed with a look of very human satisfaction. "You will think no more!" said the voiceless speech in their minds. It swelled with a sort of scornful triumph. "Did you think I cared where you came from, little man? I know where you are going ..."

  From somewhere behind them, and below, a hoarse shout rang out upon the violet silence of Carcasilla. Close after it, Evaya's scream lifted, pure silver, like a struck chord. Flande's voice halted the confusion among the four beneath him as Alan took a long stride toward the stair, and Sir Colin whirled, and Mike reached smoothly for his gun.

  "Wait," said Flande.' There is no escape for you now. I do not want you in Carcasilla. You are barbarians. We have no room for you here. So I have summoned other barbarians, from the wild ways outside our city, to save me the trouble of killing you. Did you wonder why I practiced those tricks of illusion a little while ago? It was to give the barbarians time to come here, through the gate I opened for them ... Look behind you!"

  A shuddering vibration began to shake the stair; the hoarse cries from below came nearer, and the thud of mounting feet. Then Evaya came flying up into view, looking back in terror over her shoulder through the cloud of her floating hair.

  "Terasi!" she cried. "The Terasi!"

  Flande met her wild appeal with a chilly glance, his eyes half-closed in passionless triumph. The godlike head shook twice. Then the slitted door began to close. Mike Smith yelled something in German, and lifted his gun. But, before he could take aim, the valve had closed and vanished; curtains of rain gushed unbroken down the wa
ll. Flande was gone.

  Thumping steps mounted the last spiral. A group of ragged savages came rushing up toward them, their faces—curiously clouded with fear—taking on grimness and purpose as they saw their quarry. The leader yelled again, brandishing the clubbed branch of some underground tree.

  Clearly these were raiders from some other source than Carcasilla. They looked incredibly out of place in this city of jeweled bubbles, with their heavy, muscular bodies scarred and hairy under the tatters of brown leather garments. All were fair and yellow haired. And on each face, beneath the wolfish triumph, was a certain look of fear and iron-hard desperation.

  No—not all. One man was taller than the others, magnificently built, with the great muscles of an auroch, and a gargoyle face. His tangled fair hair was bound with a metal circlet; beneath it black eyes looked out without fear, but warily and grimly purposeful. A new wound slashed red across his tremendous chest, and the muscles rolled appallingly as he brandished his club. He had all of a gorilla's superhuman strength and ferocity, but controlled in a human body and far more dangerous because of it. Now he rushed on up the steps at the head of the raiders, yelling in a great bell-like voice.

  This was no place for fighting hand to hand. The steps were too narrow over that dizzy blue gulf, and the water sliding down their spiral looked slippery if it was not.

  But it was too late now to do anything but fight. Alan was nearest to the charging savages. And he had no time to think. The leader's deep bellow of triumph made the glass walls ring faintly about them as he came thundering up the steps, club lifted.

  He came on straight for Alan, a towering, massive figure.

  -

  BLIND instinct hurled Alan forward, his gun leaping to his hand. But something checked his finger on the trigger. He could not overcome a strong feeling that he must not fire in Carcasilla—that the walls would come shattering down around them from the concussion in this hushed city. He reversed the gun in his hand, and swung it, club-like, under the lifted weapon of the barbarian.

  And that was a mistake. It was one of the few times that Alan Drake had ever underestimated an opponent. The club whistled down past Alan's shoulder, missing him as he dodged. But the giant dodged Alan's gun in turn, and his other hand moved with lightning speed. A flash of silver sang through the air.

  White-hot pain darted through Alan's wrist. His hand went lax, and the gun clattered to the water-gushing steps. Alan looked down at the drops of blood spattering from his arm, where a shining metal dart with metal vanes to guide it transfixed his wrist. These were not quite the barbarians they looked, then, armed with things like that ...

  Plucking the metal dart from the wound, Alan tensed to meet the charging man.

  Hot fury blazed up in him. He hurled himself sidewise toward his fallen gun, catching it on the very verge of the steps. Behind him, Mike Smith roared with a savage exultation that echoed the gargoyle's shout, and cleared Alan's stooping body with one long, catlike leap. The gunman's lips were flattened back from his teeth and his eyes glowed oddly yellow. Mike Smith was in his element. Elsewhere, he might be ill at ease; here he functioned with smooth precision.

  But not quite smooth enough. For before his feet struck the steps beyond Alan, the scarred man had sprung to meet him, one sandaled foot lashing out in an unexpected kick at Mike's gun. Mike twisted sidewise instinctively—and then the gargoyle had him. Those mightily muscled arms closed crushingly about his ribs.

  All this Alan saw as his fingers came down on the cool butt of his gun. Behind him, he had a glimpse of Karen and Sir Colin circling desperately, trying to get clear aim over Alan's head. But before they could do it, the man had lifted Mike Smith by the neck and crotch with one easy motion, the muscles crawling under his tattered leather, and hurled his captive straight in their faces. Almost in the same motion he sprang forward in a high leap and smashed down full upon Alan, whose finger was tightening on the trigger.

  Alan had a momentary surge of sheer wonder at the lightning tactics of this savage even as he tried futilely to roll away beneath those crushing feet. Then the man's great weight crashed down and in a screaming blaze of pain oblivion blanked him out of the fight.

  He was aware of shouts and trampling feet that receded into distance or into oblivion—he did not care.

  After a while, he knew vaguely that the torrents of rain had parted again to let Flande's young-old face look down at him. Evaya's voice from somewhere near was demanding—demanding something ... He felt Flande's cold, pale stare, felt the enmity in it. He thought dimly that Evaya was asking something on his behalf and Flande denying it.

  He heard Evaya's voice ring with sudden defiance. But before its echoes ceased to sound, he fell into a cloudy sleep that was almost as deep as death, drowning all other thoughts.

  Uneven lightning-jabs of pain roused him presently, and he knew he was being carried with difficulty on the shoulders of—of whom?—Evaya's people? It didn't matter. Between sleeping and waking, he saw the bubble domes of Carcasilla sliding by.

  And now they were moving down a far-flung curve of crystal stairs toward a vast basin of onyx and rose marble which stretched across the widest space he had yet seen in Carcasilla. Its edges were curved and carved into breakers of marble foam. Light brimmed the basin like water, violet, dimly translucent, rippling with constant motion.

  They carried him out into the basin, toward a vast, towering, wavering column out of which seemed to pulse all the violet light that illuminated Carcasilla. It was a column of flame, a fountain of uprushing light ... Now he could feel the brimming pool lap up about him, cool, infinitely refreshing.

  He could see the smooth floor underfoot, dimly beneath the blue-violet surface. He could see a pedestal of white marble, distorted by refraction, out of which the great flame sprang. It must, he thought vaguely, rush up from some source underground, straight through the marble as if it were not there ...

  They carried him into that light—laid him on the marble pedestal—and he could breathe more easily here in the blue-violet flame than he had in the air outside—breathe against the white-hot pain of his ribs ...

  The soft, rushing coolness all around him was washing the pain away. He was weightless, his body scarcely touching the marble. Even his hair strained at the roots, and currents swung him this way and that, gently, easily. The flame washed up through his very flesh, streaming coolly, sending bubbles of sensation through his body. Then violet sleep soothed all the pain out of his consciousness. He gave himself up to it, swaying with the uprush of light that possessed every atom of his body.

  -

  WHEN he again became conscious of his surroundings, he lay upon cushions in a globe-shaped room through whose aquamarine walls seeped a light that was the very color of sleep itself.

  Time passed vaguely as in a dream. The silvery-haired people of Carcasilla tiptoed in to whisper over him, and though he could not remember having seen them before, they were familiar to his unquestioning mind. Evaya sat beside him on the cushions oftenest of all. And later, she walked beside him on tours of Carcasilla when his steps were slow but no longer unsteady, and no memory of pain attended any motion.

  He had no memories at all. The roaring, ruinous world he had left millenniums ago, the dead world where he had wakened, were alike forgotten in this strange dreamlike state. He did not miss the companions who had vanished on the steps to Flande's house; he did not wonder where the barbarians had gone or whence they had come. Whatever was, was good.

  Alan came to understand many of the words in the Carcasillians' liquid speech, that through sheer repetition grew familiar. And into this drugged mind knowledge crept slowly, as the soft voice of the fragile folk grew more understandable.

  They told him of the fountain's magic. It gave immortality. All who bathed in its pulsing light were immortal, as long as they renewed the bathing at intervals. Even Flande came to the fountain at intervals—the voices said.

  "Beware of Flande," they dinned into h
is dulled mind. "His spells strike without warning. You must be strong—and awake!—to battle him, if battle must come."

  And other things the soft voices of Carcasilla whispered to Alan. He felt neither hunger nor thirst; the fountain breathed out all he needed to live. When the Carcasillians bathed in it, all ills were soothed, all wants healed. And when they wearied of life, the fountain gave them—sleep.

  For they grew weary, here in their perfect, sterile world. When they had explored all of Carcasilla, and knew every bridge and building, and every face, and boredom began to trouble them—then they went below the fountain and took the Sleep. Memories were washed away—when they woke again, Carcasilla was new, and everyone in it, and life began afresh.

  Thus it had been since the beginning. Lost in the Lethe of a thousand Great Sleeps were the origins of Carcasilla. Yet there were legends. The Light-Wearers had made it, and peopled it. The Light-Wearers had gone long since, but Carcasilla remained, a monument to their unearthly dreams. And the dwellers in Carcasilla were part of the dream that had reared the city.

  Only Flande had never taken the Sleep. Only Flande—and the gods, perhaps—remembered all that had happened since the first days. He was afraid of forgetting something—his power, or a secret he held.

  Awaken, A-lahn!

  Strong the summons shrilled in his brain. For minutes or hours or days, he thought dimly, he had been hearing it. And now—suddenly enough—the curtain slipped away, and was gone from his half-sleeping mind.

  It came without warning. He was sitting with Evaya in the mouth of the aquamarine globe, with a great sweep of the city spread out below them. One moment the fantastic vista beneath was a familiar, scarcely noticed thing—the next, a cloud seemed to withdraw, and colors and shapes and distances sprang into focus so sharp that for an instant it almost blinded him.

  Alan leaped to his feet, and Evaya rose lightly beside him.

  She smiled at him anxiously. And Alan, without an instant's hesitation or thought, leaned forward and took her into his arms. In a moment the spinning world and his spinning brain slowed and steadied, and nothing had any significance at all except the vibrant responding aliveness of the girl in his embrace.