It was over very quickly—before Court could recover from his surprise. The silk-clad youth wrenched his arm free. A ray of brilliant, pale light shot out, striking the girl full on her breast.
She stiffened, head thrown back, mouth a square of screaming agony.
She dropped—lay motionless.
The running man who had warned Hardony had almost reached his goal, the killer. But he was not swift enough. Again the white ray lanced out, splashing over dun cloth and brown skin.
Momentum carried the victim forward in a hurtling rush. He crashed against the dais and toppled, his cry dying out.
Beyond the rosy cloud-veil the figure of the youth seemed to loom gigantic. He swung around, eyes blazing, and his glare centered on Court.
“Ethan Court!” he shouted.
The blue weapon rose.
Court flung himself forward, bending low. But he knew that he could not hope to reach his opponent in time.
Over his head a whistling streak raced. Through the distortion of the mists he saw something flicker toward the killer and smash home upon his forehead.
The foppish youth dropped without a sound.
Then came tumult. Court, recovering his balance, saw Hardony run past him, a subsonic whistle at his lips. The espionage chief, grinning fiercely, caught up the blue weapon and thrust it into a pocket. He knelt beside the unconscious man, beckoning to Court.
“What the devil, Hardony! What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know. Lucky my aim’s accurate.” Hardony recovered his snake-headed dagger, drove it into its scabbard, and indicated the rising welt on the prostrate man’s brow. “You were right, anyway. Our friend here wasn’t as drunk as he seemed.”
Hardony hesitated, and then, with a swift motion, tore open the youth’s tunic at the throat. He reached up, took a half-filled glass, and spilled the liquor over the bared chest. With a scrap of silk he scrubbed at the smooth skin.
Beneath dissolving pigments the ghost of symbol began to show—a cross within a circle.
* * *
A gasp went up from the surrounding crowd. “A Deccan,” someone said.
“That’s the Deccan sign, Court,” Hardony said quietly. “A spy.” He stood up, frowning. Uniformed figures were filtering in now, unobtrusively taking over, summoned by their chief’s sub-sonic whistle.
Hardony beckoned to one.
“Court, go with this man. I want you in a safe place.”
“I’m staying here.”
“Don’t be a fool. I’ll use force if I have to. You’re unprotected against such weapons as the Deccans seem to have, and this spy may not have been alone. Go along, now.”
A hand gripped Court’s arm. Unwillingly he let himself be urged toward the door. The musky perfume of the tavern gave place to the crisp freshness of the night air.
Back in the apartment that had been furnished him, Court began to pace nervously, longing for a cigarette and gradually growing more restive. There were guards at the door, he saw. Till now, they had at least kept out of sight. The hours dragged past, until Court felt about ready to explode. At last the door slipped upward. He whirled, ready to vent his annoyance on Hardony—but it was the giant Den Barlen who entered.
His yellow beard was bristling, his blue eyes were ablaze. Over his shoulder he snarled an oath at the guards.
“I’ll deal with Hardony myself! Since when does he deny Den Barlen entrance anywhere in Lyra?” The big man moved swiftly to Court, gripped the latter’s shoulders with hard hands.
“You’re all right? You weren’t injured?”
But Court was in no mood for sympathy.
“I can take care of myself.” he growled, pulling free. “If you can order those guards around, tell them to let me out of here.”
“No,” Barlen said. “He’s right in that one thing. But in nothing else. Taking you out—unguarded— in the dives where anyone could slip a knife between your ribs—it’s disgraceful! He isn’t capable of protecting you. All he can do is hatch his rotten, twisted plots.”
“I told you I wasn’t hurt,” Court snapped.
“But you might have been. I came as soon as I got word. From now on you’re under my protection, and mine only.”
His eyes dark with suppressed anger, Court faced the giant. His lips were tight.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “Too much. I’m used to being a human being. For three weeks I’ve been carried around like a baby, showed this and that, treated like a semi-invalid. Bah! I know how to feed myself! The next time I see a guard trailing me, I’m going to knock his teeth loose.”
That made Barlen pause. His face troubled, the giant muttered under his breath, uneasily fumbling at his beard.
“You—well, perhaps you’re right. I can see your point of view. But it isn’t only that, Court. You’re in a very special position.”
Court grimaced. “I’m an ordinary mug who overslept. Nothing more.”
“It’s not all,” Barlen said firmly. “You’re not a super-intelligent person or anything like that. We’ve got brains of our own in Lyra. But you’ve got one faculty that’s completely missing from the race—the creatively aggressive spirit. Lyra’s like a machine that’s fueled and ready to work. Yet she’s without means of making the spark that’ll activate the fuel. You’re that spark, Court. Unless the machine begins to move under its own power—and that soon—it will be crushed.”
“It will be crushed to powder unless it explodes first because of internal tension,” a new voice broke in. Hardony walked into the room, red hair catching the light, a half-mocking smile on his face. “Court, you’re either Lyra’s saviour or its destruction. I’m not sure which, yet.”
Scarlet mounted to Barlen’s cheeks. “If there’s trouble, you’re behind it, red fox! I half suspect you of aiming at Court’s death yourself.”
Hardony groaned wearily. “Don’t be that much of a fool, Den Barlen. I could have killed Court a hundred times before now, if I’d wanted that. But I don’t. He must make weapons for us, that’s all.”
“What happened tonight?” Barlen demanded. “A Deccan spy in Green Tavern?”
“Yes. He tried to murder Court—to wipe out the knowledge in his brain before it could be used. He failed, though. He managed to kill a woman there, and one of my operatives.”
“What was that weapon he had?” Court asked.
* * *
Hardony made a small, wry sound. “I don’t know. It was turned over to our technicians to analyze. And it exploded as they were working on it. One of them is dead, two seriously wounded. The spy—we questioned him. But he apparently doesn’t know the mechanism. He was given it, with orders to kill Ethan Court.”
“And you took Court down to Green Tavern!”
Hardony shrugged. “It’s showed me one thing, anyway. We’ll have to move fast. There’s unrest everywhere. The people know about Court. Word’s got out. That filthy Underground Group—they take orders from the Deccans, and they’re starting dissension. Barlen, your own men would start a fight with my agents at the least excuse.”
“What is this Underground Group?” Court asked. “I’ve heard something about them, but not much.”
“It’s some sort of secret organization,” Hardony said. “Traitors and criminals. They should be stamped out and they will be.”
Abruptly Hardony slipped up his sleeves, revealing a blood-stained bandage about his biceps.
“I got this coming here through the streets. Yes—there’s dissension.”
“Who did it?” Court asked.
“I don’t know. He escaped.”
“It might have been anybody,” Barlen said unpleasantly. “Anybody who recognized you, that is.”
The two men looked at each other, bristling. Then Hardony let his sleeve fall back into place and laughed softly.
“I think it’s time for you to decide, Court. For we can’t promise you a home indefinitely. If the Deccans don’t invade first, there’ll probably be c
ivil war, and if not that, somebody’s apt to kill you for not aiding us when you’ve got the knowledge we need.”
Court hesitated. “But the Deccans have some sort of death-ray. I don’t know anything about weapons of that type.”
Barlen gripped his shoulder. “Bosh! Any weapons will do. A fair chance is what we want. We’ll fight ’em with swords if we have to.”
Court was remembering the girl the Deccan spy had killed so ruthlessly. He was still angry about that.
‘The Throne wants to see you,” Hardony said. “Will you come? ‘Why not?” Court said. For he had made his decision.
CHAPTER VI Globe of Colors
Ethan Court had no reason to change his mind as, with Barlen and Hardony, he hurried through the night, via air-car, toward the palace on the mountain. Beneath him Valyra hummed with music. But under its beat he could detect an ominous and growing tension, a discordance that might swell into a shattering, cataclymsic fury. Here was a land strained to the breaking-point, threatened by invasion, wanting only weapons.
The Throne—Irelle—was waiting in one of the great reception halls, an enormous room crowded with the gaily-clad nobles of Lyra. A strained anxiety pervaded in the palace, too. Irelle was talking to an enormously fat man whose gross body was incongruously clad in fluttering silks, red, purple, and green. He looked like a mediaeval jester, Court thought.
“We need supplies,” the fat man was saying unhappily, his pouting lips scarlet against the sagging whiteness of his cheeks. “No supplies. I must have them. The least one can expect is to live with a minimum of comfort.”
“That is out of my province,” Irelle said patiently. “Technical supplies are needed elsewhere, Farr. You know that.”
Farr tugged at a green tassel on his bulging stomach.
“Surely a few appliances to help keep me in comfort wouldn’t be missed?”
Barlen clapped his hand on the fat man’s back. “Comfort, Farr? You’ve got luxuries in your castle which would keep most men busy, although I don’t envy you them. What brings you away from your dreams?” His voice was mocking.
Farr drew himself up. “My pleasures are my own affair,” he said sharply. “I interfere with no one else. I ask only to be let alone, and to have a few supplies when I need them.”
“Those supplies are needed elsewhere,” Irelle said. “You’ve forgotten that there are other worlds than your dream-ones. Lyra is, I think, more important.”
“But I require so little!”
Irelle cut him short. “Barlen, Hardony, Court—come with me.” She turned, and led them into a small adjoining chamber.
“Well?”
Hardony spread his hands. “It’s entirely up to Court now. I can do no more. My men are ready, but have no weapons.”
“My men are equally ready,” Barlen said.
Irelle looked at Court. “I heard what happened tonight. It seems to me I’d be justified in resorting to —anything—to save Lyra. Even torture.” Her blue eyes were hard now.
Court was silent.
“Listen to me,” she lashed out at him. “Thus far you have refused me weapons. You come from the past, from a world that destroyed itself by its own vileness, and you presume to sit in judgment on us. On Lyra! Are you God, then?” Her voice had become shrewish. Her face contorted with fury.
“No,” Court said. “No, I’m not God.”
“Then—what?”
“I’ll help you. There’s nothing else I can do. I see that now.” His voice was very low. “The world isn’t ready for peace even yet. I didn’t sleep long enough.”
Barlen’s triumphant oath rattled against the ceiling. “Good, Court! Good! You were a soldier once, and you’re still one. With weapons we’ll have a chance against the Deccans.”
Hardony’s smile twisted into faint wryness. “It took you long enough,” he said. “But perhaps that’s a good thing. Lyra’s at white-hot pitch now, and can be moulded easily. Once the people know you’re with us, you—you may be God, after all.”
Court was watching Irene. Her hard lips had softened, he saw, and the spark had gone from her eyes. Once more she looked like the woman who had kissed him—not the ruler who coldly threatened torture.
“So you did not die, then,” she said, and only Court knew what she meant….
A half hour later Court walked alone on a terrace of the palace, waiting and pondering. Above him an alien sky was glittering with cold stars, immutable as eternity itself, compared to the chaotic affairs of mankind. Beyond the balustrade lay Valyra, a rose-pearl stain against the night. Behind him the palace seethed with subdued excitement.
Soon, now, technicians and scientists, long held in readiness, would be gathered together.
“Speeches aren’t necessary,” Hardony had said. “They want to ask you questions. They want a basis to work on, and there’s no time to waste. Even a single night lost now might be disastrous.”
* * *
Court did not know what to say. How could he describe the world in which he had lived? It was the little things that he remembered most clearly, a tree-lined street, green and cool on a blazing summer day, kids bicycling along it, an ice-cream wagon driving slowly along, bell tinkling. He didn’t want to talk about weapons to the Lyran scientists. He wanted to tell them of other things—the things of peace.
It was so futile now. For, it seemed, there would always be wars to destroy. Was there no solution, ever? He stared up at the unanswering stars. Wars there, too, probably. Hardony was right. Men were vermin.
No, Hardony was not right. For an answer existed somewhere. Not yet, perhaps. Far in the dim, unborn days of the future, in a land and a time not yet come, but it would come. He would not see it. Even after his long, long sleep, the cravings of conquest and death pulsed too strongly in man’s blood. War had almost destroyed the world, but men had forgotten that. The sword was being drawn from its scabbard once more.
This time it would flame across an earth that lay unprotected against its edge.
“Science,” Court said under his breath, bitterly. “So it’s got to be used for war again. And this is the future!” His tone was heavy with disgust.
“War is a folly,” a voice said. An enormously fat figure appeared from the gloom, waddling forward awkwardly. The gay colors of Farr’s garments were hidden in the dusk, but Court could dimly distinguish his gross face and body.
“War is folly,” Farr repeated. “But I never argue with folly. The Throne rules, and let her rule, I say, so long as I’m permitted to live my own life. But I’m not. They won’t let me have the equipment I need for my happiness.”
Court turned away, but the fat man dodged in front of him. “Please wait.” His high-pitched voice was thin with anxiety. “You can do me a great favor. Irelle would grant you anything, and it isn’t much I ask. But it means a great deal to me. Don’t go; listen to me for a moment.”
“Well, what is it?” Court said ungraciously. He was annoyed at the intrusion.
“Surely a man’s entitled to happiness, if he interferes with no one?” Farr said. “I need a little more equipment, and they tell me it’s needed elsewhere. But a few power-sources and dynars won’t make any difference to Lyra. You’ll find me a valuable friend, Court, and I’m asking such a small favor. A word in Irelle’s ear would serve the purpose.”
“Settle it yourself,” Court growled. He swung back. “What do you need special equipment for, anyway?”
“To be happy,” Farr said. “I weave dreams.”
“What?”
“I weave dreams,” the fat man repeated. “Science can be turned to other ends than war. Years ago I retired to my castle and made my own worlds. There I can do as I please. I have certain—sciences.” He hesitated. “Not that I’m a scientist. I’m an artist.”
“Yeah?” Court said. “I thought I was one myself, a long time ago.”
Farr smiled. “Then you can understand, I’m sure. In beauty and strangeness and—and new worlds, I forget the ugliness
of this one. Science can give art life. If you could step into a picture you had painted, all would be well.”
“If,” Court said.
“But I can,” Farr told him. “I paint with certain—forces, certain energies that can mould matter until it’s real, to the artisan’s eye. And more than that. It isn’t static. It grows. It develops from its seeds of color and designs and sound, as a plant would grow.”
“Do the technicians know about this?” Court asked doubtfully.
“Certainly. Some of them worked out the basic principles for me, as a worker would build a musical instrument. But I am the one who plays that instrument.”
Court’s skepticism fought against his interest. There might be a weapon here, some possible adaptation.
“How does this set-up work?” Court asked.
* * *
Farr took a black globe, the size of an orange, from his garments.
“Man is attracted by art-forms, which are the materialization of his subconscious self—his ego. He strives to create his personalized conception of pure thought. By transmuting them into color and form —and sound—the realities possible in this world. Even in your day, I imagine, men did that.”
“They did,” Court said. “Sometimes they succeeded pretty well.”
“Only in art is perfection,” Farr said. “That’s because man can achieve absolute freedom. He is prisoned in his body and limited by his five senses. But his mind can stretch out in the infinity and conceive miracles. If he were not bound by the flesh, if the worlds his mind created were real—to him —there would be perfection. The prison walls would be down. Free mind, in a world self-conceived and self-realized. Here, now, is color.” Farr’s hairy finger traced a line over the black globe, and it became milky white. A slow whirl of color moved in its depths, reminiscent of a spiral nebula.
That gave place to pure abstract design, racing tints that dissolved and grew and darted out brilliantly as Curt stared.
“This is incomplete, of course,” Farr said. “It’s a small device I carry with me for—for refreshment. In my castle I have more complete equipment. You will see why I need material that is refused me— and my need is more important than the building of a few more weapons. Here is color, Court—color that isn’t entirely objective. It is a chameleon. It draws shading from your watching mind.”
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