by Jerry
Brayden’s dark skin flushed with anger. “The Lows may be rats according to our way of thinking, Laurell,” he stated levelly. “They may be dangerous, but they’re human. I can’t kill them. I thought once that I could; but I can’t.”
“They’re the scum of the Earth!” Laurell Winters retorted with a sneer. “We don’t need them any more. The robots, developed by the thought machines at the Place of Knowledge, are sufficiently perfected to do all of the work. We’re going to be rid of the constant danger of revolt once and for all! Now, do as you’ve been ordered, and then let’s get out of here while the timers function.”
But something had happened to Ned Brayden—something that had been a revelation to him. Being in this acrid nether-region had given him a fresh point of view. Now that he was here in this underworld of artificially excavated tunnels and factories, he saw himself and his kind just as they were—aimless, lazy parasites of a lowlier, though far more useful folk, whom, hundreds of years ago, his and Laurell’s ancestors had dominated, and had since held in slavery by cruel heartlessness and brutality. The result was that he was suddenly nauseated by his own sleek, muscular person, and by the very name of aristocrat.
“No, Laurell,” he said quietly. “I can’t obey, and wouldn’t if I could. I love you enough to be frank.”
She looked at him for a moment, her amber eyes wide, as though she doubted the testimony of her ears. Ned had talked of love often before; and his avowal now in that direction had not surprised her. But the revolt against the traditions of his people—that was different. Laurell’s face whitened with fury.
“You love me!” she spat. “I don’t want your love, you fool! Stand aside, and let me do what must be done!”
But Ned’s firm jaw only hardened. Lights, winking unheeded signals on the instrument panels, flickered in his face, giving to it the aspect of a devil’s.
“No,” he repeated.
Laurell Winters wasted no time with a verbal reply. She was a person of many aspects, with reckless impulsiveness dominating a willful, self-centered soul. She was beautiful and wild that way; perhaps, too, she had the seeds of gentleness and consideration hidden within her; but they had been strangled before they had had a chance to sprout.
She jerked a small neutron gun from her belt. Its paralyzing beam thrilled into Ned’s lower limbs before he could do anything to avoid the danger. His nerves gripped by cold, numbing fire, he crumpled to the floor.
LAURELL WINTERS bounded lithely to the lever of grim fate. With a click almost smothered by the busy throb of huge engines in nearby chambers, it snapped over. There were other clicks as electrical impulses transferred the message of wholesale murder to countless instruments of death, methodically located throughout the vast subterranean habitat of the myriad slaves. Within an hour, when the timers of those instruments had completed their arresting cycle, holocaust would be unleashed. And no change now, in that particular phase of baneful destiny, was possible. Those mechanisms of destruction, once given the energizing surge of power, could not be stopped or wrecked in time. Anticipating that such efforts might be made on the part of the doomed, the Highs had seen to that. Only flight now might be the means of saving life; and if there were no warning, there could be no flight either.
But Ned Brayden’s mind had seemed to work more swiftly, even, than those soulless fabrications of man’s science. Perhaps there was madness in that functioning; certainly there was in it no primary thought of personal safety. Even as his knees had crumpled under the stabbing beam of the neutron gun, he had thrown himself toward Laurell Winters. He had fallen heavily, his clutching fingers just an inch from the natty boots which covered her slender legs. During the moment required for her to reach the lever and move it, he had dragged himself forward on his unparalyzed elbows. Now his fingers darted out again and grasped her ankle. With vengeful force, he jerked, using all the strength he could muster. Laurell Winters went down painfully, and with a ludicrous lack of dignity.
Nor was this the end. The fury that possessed Ned Brayden was far from spent. Still sprawling, he yanked the girl toward him. No time was given her to protest, or even to realize clearly that retribution was at hand. Ned struck with anger-driven fierceness. His knotted fist landed, not once, but three times, against tender, pampered flesh. The thud of the blows was faintly audible even above the sounds of machinery. A curly blonde head snapped backward, like a whip being cracked. Beautiful amber eyes took on a glassy look; blood spurted from a delicate turned-up nose; and rosebud lips that could curve with such haughty insolence, were bruised like the petals of a flower beaten by a mallet.
Laurell Winters was out—and out cold.
His thin face dark with anger, Ned thrust her aside. Feeling was coming back into his numbed legs now. Possessed by some driving force far above normal, he tried to raise himself erect, only to sprawl flat again. But he managed to drag himself to the control-room phone, from which radiated the vast communicator network of the underworld. Reaching upward, he snapped a switch. Now he knew that he could give information verbally to all the members of the immense slave class.
What he said seemed utterly insane, for it made him an outcast, a hunted man, to both of the two great strata of society. His mind was working with lightning swiftness.
“People of the underworld,” he began. “Attention! One who believes that you have the right to live, speaks. The Highs have decided that you are all to die at the end of an hour. Many of you, knowing the degree of perfection achieved in the robots, have anticipated such a move; and so you will not find it difficult to believe what I say. The devices which are to bring about the end, were put into position with the greatest secrecy. The timers have already been set in motion. In an hour there will be countless explosions. Each will release an enormous volume of corrosite gas. Metal and flesh alike will be swiftly eaten and dissolved by its corrosive action. You will die horribly, unless you can find means of exit to the surface soon enough. The Highs no longer need either you or the machines you tend, for old methods have become obsolete. The thought machines could have devised robots to replace you hundreds of years ago, had it been deemed necessary.
“I have only some small advice to give; the rest is up to you. First, do not forget the discipline the Highs have taught you. It will increase your chances of survival to keep cool and orderly. Second, just before the corrosite is released, it is the intention of your masters that all surface exits shall be closed. To avoid being trapped, you must destroy the devices that work the doors. Third, there is a great air and space fleet stationed near the St. Louis exit. Perhaps you can find a way to capture or wreck it. If you fail to do either of these things, you are still doomed; but if you can actually capture the fleet, the world is yours. Last of all: Doubtless you have carefully worked out emergency plans. Doubtless, too, you have secret leaders. Appeal to those leaders to guide you to the fulfilment of those plans. There is no more for me to say. Good luck!”
NED BRAYDEN snapped the switch of the phone wearily. He could have observed by television the results of the bombshell he had cast among the Lows, had he so desired; but he did not wish to add the grimness of reality to the vivid things that he could imagine—the consternation on human faces, the fear written there, the brute power set in motion by that fear—women screaming like mad fiends, men with great knotted muscles hurrying from the blazing beauty of Cyclopean forges and factories, bent on rescuing their loved ones and wreaking vengeance upon their oppressors.
Even now, Ned Brayden could hear a sudden change in the sounds that came to his ears. Engines were grinding to harshly abrupt stops, men were shouting with a new note of dread excitement in their voices.
Would those men seek him out, to learn the motives that had led him to unmask the vast lethal scheme? No, that was unlikely, even though it would be quite simple to locate the phone from which his voice had emanated. The Lows had other, far more important matters to occupy their energies now.
Ned wondered in an odd, fo
gged way what would happen to him during the hour of destruction. Death seemed inevitable; and yet, with a curious confidence, he still felt that there must be some other way out. Perhaps it was only the past ease of every detail of his hitherto idyllic life, that made him feel so; or perhaps there was in him a primitive self-reliance, which made him believe in his own ability to master any situation.
He looked about the chamber. It was not large, but packed in it were many gleaming instruments whose burnished delicacy reflected the soft glow of illuminators. Each of those instruments spoke of deific triumphs achieved by the thought machines, for fragile, petty humanity.
Could he lock himself in this room, and chance survival of the holocaust?
No, he decided quickly; it was impossible for anyone to remain here alive for long. The massive valve of the door could be closed, and the ventilators sealed; but even then the terrific chemical action of the corrosite would soon bum through the steel of door and walls alike, evolving heat enough in the process to roast a man as if he had been dipped in molten metal.
Ned had not forgotten Laurell Winters. He looked down at her now, lying sprawled on the floor, with a twinge of pity. She was still unconscious. But it was not her battered lips and her tangled hair, her bloody face or the pathetic, crumpled position in which she lay, that aroused that pity; for he had not relented his act of violence. Rather, it was the thought of this petulant, unruly, irresponsible child, playing god with borrowed lightnings in whose creation she had taken no more part than she had taken part in the creation of the sun. Her immense, hollow conceit had aroused his anger and contempt. She had made a fool of herself. Perhaps he had, too; perhaps in his snap judgments, his zeal for justice had overstepped the bounds of reason. He wasn’t sure. But one thing he knew: he loved Laurell Winters. The reason why was a bit hazy. Maybe it was those weaknesses of hers that he loved. He was sure that it was not primarily her rich, vivacious beauty that had attracted him.
He had no complete plan of action, for such was impossible—but he made his decisions as quickly and as logically as he could.
In a locker against one wall, he found several coverall suits. From among them he selected two of the dirtiest. He smeared his own hands and face with the black grease that stained them, and did likewise to Laurell. Then he donned one of the suits over his own trim attire, and similarly disguised his senseless companion.
One thing more. It was an afterthought. It Gould be of no use at all unless he could find a way to escape from this underworld in time. But if he got to the surface, it might be helpful in eluding the many dangers that would exist for him there. There was a little signaling device attached to his belt. Skilfully, he worked a button projecting through its case, striking out dots and dashes in a secret code.
NO HUMAN being would understand the message. But MZ-1 would; and MZ-1 was soulless and without fear. It did not need courage to carry out the commands of its owner. Its marvelous complexities of glass, rubber, and metal embodied at once emotionless logic and calm, cosmic power. While its armored integument remained intact, it would always obey with unruffled efficiency.
Ned Bray den finished the message quickly. Then, his face hardening, he picked up the girl and strode from the room. Though outcast, he was prepared to battle the unknown.
The engines in the huge adjoining chamber were silent and gleaming under the glow of illuminators. There was no one about. Ned passed through several other rooms and emerged into a tunnel, which was one of the many that encircled the Earth in an immense network, probing even beneath the beds of the deepest oceans to contact the cities of the Lows, located there to wrest exotic riches from the sea.
Ned leaped lithely onto a slowly traveling belt-walk on which cargo was piled. He skipped across it with his burden, and bounded onto the next belt-walk which moved faster; thence he skipped to the third walk, which moved fastest of all.
Since both he and Laurell were effectively disguised, no one hindered them. But he could not suppress a small, tweaking thrill of dread at the thought of what might happen to them should they be identified as Highs. The fact that he had given the warning, even if proven, would be of little use. When human beings go mad with fear and anger, they easily forget the gentler virtues of gratitude and justice.
The people crowding around Ned Bray den on the belt-walk seemed dazed as if they had been struck a heavy physical blow. They smelled death; the story of its sudden revelation was stamped into their grimy faces. They knew that the Grim Reaper was creeping toward them; still they could not quite realize the fact.
From along the tunnel ahead there came screams and shouts and babblings, mingling with the roar of traffic.
In a matter of five minutes, Ned Brayden was in the midst of it. The belt-walk carried him and Laurell to an immense artificial cavern, whose white-enameled dome covered what might have been called a civic plaza. There was a small park here, with grass and a few stunted trees growing under the light of great sunlamps. There were various amusement devices. Even the Lows, here in this buried world, where they were held prisoners because such had seemed the most effective means of holding them in check, had enjoyed their little scraps of natural beauty and freedom and recreation.
However, none of them thought of such things now. Ned tried to shut his eyes to the white faces around him, and he tried not to hear the whimperings of children who had never seen the sun, for these impressions made him hate himself and all his kind. Racing belt-walks were carrying thousands of people into the cavern from every direction. The din was terrific, but there was a measure of order, too. These folk had always lived in the shadows; they had learned more completely than any High could, the cheapness of existence.
Elevator cars, meant to function like projectiles in the helical coils of an old-fashioned magnetic gun, were being loaded with passengers, surface-bound. A man, clad in a gray uniform, was shouting orders and commands which the throng around him obeyed without question. Other men were distributing small, glistening weapons, made in some secret workshop. A big electro-magnetic wave-projector that could melt metal and burn human flesh to ashes was being trundled into an elevator car. Squat and ugly, it bore a curious resemblance to a giant black-and-silver toad.
THE air was hot and reeking.
Mingled in it were many odors, including the stench of sweat. Ned was surrounded by a dense-packed crowd that surged gradually forward toward the lifts. Frequently he glanced at the chronometer strapped to his wrist. Swift minutes were slipping away. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Inexorably the moment of doom was approaching. Men, waiting to board lifeboats on some sinking ship of ancient times, must have felt the same uncertain tension that he was feeling now.
Brayden looked down at the girl in his arms, and found that her amber eyes, swollen-lidded and terrified, were looking up into his. Laurell Winters was again cognizant of her surroundings.
Her habitual recklessness made him a little afraid. “I’m sorry, Laurell, for what I did to you,” he whispered. “But don’t talk now. Scold me some other time, if there is another time, but not here. If these people knew that we were Highs, we’d be torn to pieces.”
“Put me down,” the girl replied wearily. “I’m all right.”
For the moment she wasn’t quite like her usual haughty self. The peril she was aware of had subdued her to some slight extent.
He lowered her to her feet and they waited together in sullen silence. Presently flame pistols were issued to them, as to their companions. A few seconds later, they were aboard a lift, whizzing its rapid flight upward.
As they neared the surface, they heard the muffled, thudding din of what seemed to be heavy explosions. Just what the noise signified, they did not know. Nor did any of the Lows aboard the elevator seem to know either. They only whispered infrequent words and waited tensely, as if ready to spring.
A little girl of about fourteen, seeing Laurell’s chalk-white face, battered, and smeared with blood, offered her a drink of water from a dented flask. Laurell acce
pted with dazed and wondering puzzlement, as though she had doubted that such a kindness on the part of a Low was possible.
“Thanks,” she said dully, almost grudgingly, and the girl smiled an acknowledgment.
Laurell’s benefactress was strangely pretty, with her dark wavy hair, broad features, and full, red mouth. She might have been the offspring of a beautiful nymph, and a shaggy, abhorrent satyr. But in her eyes, even now, mixed with a look of fear, was a wild yearning for all that had been beyond her reach.
Events moved swiftly then; the kind angel from the underworld was gone, lost in the crowd that packed the lift. The elevator, rising from the bowels of the Earth, reached a colossal surface station. It was oval in form—a sort of crater—open to the sky. Derrick-like constructions, topping numerous shafts, dotted it.
It was night, but there was radiance more harsh than starshine to illumine the surrounding scene. The silver and crystal towers of thirty-fourth century St. Louis loomed around the pit, but they were not as they should be now. From electromagnetic wave projectors mounted in the station amphitheater, slender, misty beams slanted upward; and wherever they touched that glorious architecture, it reddened, grew incandescent, and crumbled, great chunks of it falling thousands of feet, making thunderous sounds of explosive violence. Except for a few hundred robots, already for the most part out of action, there had been none to resist the surprise onslaught of the Lows.
Ned’s warning, luck, and good preparation had combined with a certain amount of negligence on the part of the Highs, to give the people of the depths their chance to win a place in the sun. Suspicious of their proud masters, they had been making ready secretly for a long time. Their shrewd leaders had known that opportunity might come at any time; and so they had prepared to act at a moment’s notice.
