The roaring, buffeting of the wind died abruptly. Mark understood that, even though he noted that their speed had apparently increased. The waves beneath were an endless, gray blur. Omega had merely included a portion of the surrounding air in the bubble of vibrant force which was carrying them along. It insulated them from the effects of their speed.
As they flew along Mark became aware of an acute and annoying humming sound. Under his breath the sinister mandarin was singing a few discordant bars of Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny.
“Michigan,” Mark corrected hoarsely.
Chapter 4: City for Mars
“THIS,” Omega finally explained, “is the type of thing you should be able to do yourself, instead of playing around with a primitive sailboat. This form of levitation and locomotion is the simplest manifestation of telekinesis, an ability which is inherent in every mind, even the humble human one. Look at the old Babylonian wizards. What brains they had!”
“Do you mean that there were better brains then than there were during the twentieth century?” asked Mark incredulously.
“Well,” Omega started, “I’m not sure what you’d call better. They were better in certain respects, and not so good in others.
“They were able to utilize, to a certain extent, all the latent powers of their minds. They could control all the wave-bands of the phenomenon known as thought. They were masters of telepathy. That’s the second shortest of the thought waves. And they were masters of hypnotism, the longest of the thought waves. They could do a few things with telekinesis, also.
“Not much, I’ll admit, considering the scope of that ability. They couldn’t create matter from energy, or vice versa, but that was mainly because humans don’t live long enough to fully develop their powers. But some of these wizards did learn how to transport themselves from place to place, which is more than you have done.
“Even so I’d hesitate to say that their minds were superior. You see, the civilization of the twentieth century concentrated on developing one portion of the mind, and they didn’t do so badly — for humans.
“Your people far outstripped the Babylonians in reasoning power. You explored realms in which the Babylonian merely scratched the surface. Mathematics, astronomy, physics, and such. That is why your people built a mechanical civilization.
“But you were only tapping one band of the thought group, that of reason and logic. The complete intelligence should be adept in the use of all of the brain’s powers. If you had learned to really control the telekinesis band, you wouldn’t need your mechanisms, not even the simple boat. And you’d be able to create the most complicated structure, using only the boundless energy of space as your building blocks and tools.”
For some minutes they rushed along in silence. In the distance Mark could see the shore line of America’s Atlantic coast. He was about to speak when Omega interrupted the attempt.
“I hope that’s sinking in,” he said. “Twelve years ago I tickled that portion of your brain which emits the waves of hypnosis. How many times have you used the ability?”
“Four or five times,” answered Mark. “But then there’s been no need. I wouldn’t use it on anybody except in an emergency. Wouldn’t be fair.”
“There you go, you ingrate! If you don’t use it, you can’t develop it. Not fair, eh? Well, for cat’s sake. Was it fair for a brainy man to use his powers to acquire a fortune, when his less intellectual brothers starved?”
“That’s different,” Mark claimed. “That’s ordinary competition.”
“Ordinary competition, eh? If you ask me, it’s just that one man used his equipment and the other was too lazy. But the point is that you have failed to exercise the ability I gave you. Yet I’ll bet you’re on the point of asking me to tickle the telekinesis portion of your brain, so that you can get about quicker. Well, I won’t do it!”
MARK watched Mount Desert slide past beneath him. “Well I was going to ask you,” he admitted. “But then this is not a thing which I’d have to use in competition with anyone. That’s why I’ve seldom used hypnotism. In a fair fight each fighter has to have the same weapons. And that’s a weapon the other fellow never seems to possess.”
“You should be wearing your old school tie, you Rover Boy.” Omega chuckled. “Wait’ll you get to Detroit,” he said, enigmatically. “But you’re all off again. You haven’t fought a fair fight in years. You’ve always had an advantage.
“The other guy didn’t have the kind of blood which would heal a wound instantly, did he? He didn’t have muscles which were eternally rejuvenated by a radioactive element in his blood, did he?
“No, he got tired, like any weak human. He was licked before he started. You’ve got to get it into your head that all competition resolves itself into a battle between two unequal forces. The better equipped force wins, barring unforeseen accidents. And the weaker force invariably thinks it is the stronger, or it wouldn’t seek a battle.
“So when you get embroiled in any sort of competition, always use every weapon you have. To do less only prolongs the agony of the other guy.”
Mark listened, and in the main agreed, though with certain mental reservations. Though he had to privately admit that he had never fought anybody who didn’t think he was a pushover. The apparent odds had always been on the other fellow’s side. Which had conveniently removed Mark’s scruples about taking advantage of his superior equipment.
“You know,” said Mark. “This ability to move about at high speeds without an airplane would come in handy if I’m to keep an eye on developments here on the earth. Things like this Detroit business wouldn’t be so apt to escape me.”
“None of your Blarney,” Omega snorted. “I won’t lift a finger. You’ve got to develop it for yourself.”
“But I don’t know how to get started,” Mark complained. “It’s like trying to play a piano with your toes. Only a few people can do it, and yet all people have the proper muscles. The trouble is that they don’t know how to use them. The nerves are atrophied, or something. Same thing with this telekinesis. You say my brain is capable of manipulating the energies of space. That may be so, fast enough, but I don’t know how to do it. And I can’t learn unless I get a start... I’ll tell you — I’ll make a bargain with you.”
The Oriental features took on an interested expression. “I’se a listenin’, white boy,” said Omega.
“Will you cut that out? Well, when you gave me the use of that portion of my brain which emits hypnosis waves, you developed the faculty to perfection. All in one dose. I didn’t have to do a thing. Now with this telekinesis faculty, suppose you just excite that region of my brain sufficiently for me to realize the sort of effort needed to exercise it. Then I’ll do the rest myself. I’ll develop it from scratch, without any more help.”
Omega didn’t answer immediately. “It doesn’t seem quite like a bargain,” he mused. “What do I get?”
“You gave me a job to do here, didn’t you?” Mark pressed. “It was all your idea to provide Nona with the same kind of blood as mine, so that the earth would eventually become populated with a more durable species of human. And you’ve appointed me to see that things don’t happen the way they always have when humans became wise enough to annihilate each other. So you should help provide me with the tools to carry out the project. You can’t beat logic, you know.”
“No, but you can twist it all out of shape,” said Omega. “That’s a habit of yours... I don’t know why I ever monkeyed in human affairs anyway. Once you start, you can’t stop. All right, chuckle-head, I’ll operate on you.”
LAKE Ontario and Lake Erie had slid beneath as they talked, and Mark noticed that they were now poised almost directly above the Detroit River, once called the Dardanelles of the New World. On its western shore sprawled the new Detroit, and at the sight of it Mark forgot all about Omega’s promise. For Mark had once, six thousand years before, flown in a transport plane over that city, and it had looked almost the same as it did now!
> A sudden wave of nostalgia gripped him at the sight of factories belching smoke, and automobiles speeding along the broad streets. Since his awakening, twelve years before, he had only experienced this feeling a few times, and then he had been too busy to let it bother him. But then it was only his memory that had made him homesick.
Here was something much stronger. Here was an American city in full throb of prosperous industry. A piece of the twentieth century transplanted into the eightieth!
It was almost too much.
Omega must have sensed something amiss, for he took immediate action to cure the disease.
Mark felt a sudden rush of air, accompanied by the same all-gone feeling in the pit of his stomach which had accompanied his rise from the deck of the ship. But this time he was descending, and much faster than he had gone up. His course was a slanting one, aimed in the general direction of a building on one of the busier streets. Alarmed, he noticed that he no longer felt the restraining arm of Omega. Frantically he looked around.
Omega was gone!
HE EXPERIENCED an instant of panic as the building became larger and closer. Then he smiled, albeit a bit sickishly. Falling bodies went straight down — apparently, at least. He wasn’t doing that, and therefore wasn’t a falling body. His descent was being directed. Which meant that his friend had merely abandoned his human form and was in his natural disembodied state.
Mark was right. His slanting course carried him down into the canyon of the street barely clearing the roof of a skyscraper. “Whoops!” he yelped nervously. His descent became as vertical as the fall of a stone. Then, a few feet from the pavement he stopped plummeting and went swooping through the doorway of a store on the street level.
He caught a fleeting vision of a sign which read Apparel for Misses and his heart sank. He knew what was coming as well as if he had seen a moving picture of it. For Omega had little respect for the conventions of humans. Anatomy was anatomy to him and gender merely an affectation.
This was bad!
Mark’s blurring flight didn’t stop in the store immediately until he had soared the whole length of the store and crashed through a French door at its end. He landed with grace and precision directly in the center of three ladies of almost certain age who were trying on various intimate items of women’s apparel. Three screams in different keys rent the air as Mark wheeled like a dervish and made for the shattered door. He passed through it even faster than he had come in, pursued by outraged female yelps.
Mark slowed to a walk as he reached the street. Curious stares greeted him in the vicinity of the store-front, but as he walked down the street they died away and Mark breathed a sigh of relief.
“You applebrain!” came a harsh whisper in his ear. “I operated on you just before I dropped you. I gave you the power you asked for, and did you make the slightest use of it? Not you! The way you’ve started you’ll never make even a halfway decent Mercury to my Jupiter. See if you can improve by the time I get back. And look out for Vargo! Whoever he is. Toodle-Doo.”
THE voice trailed off in the sounds of traffic. Mark looked around him observing the people who thronged the sidewalks. He was pleased to note that, contrary to twentieth-century practice, the men were far more scantily clothed than the women. Since he wore nothing above the waist and only short leather breeches below, it was just as well that the male Detroiters were not turned out much more completely.
Because of the radioactivity of his blood, Mark wore the same garments, winter and summer. Trunks and a pair of sandals provided all the covering he needed or wanted. A broad belt, which bolstered his axe and dagger, completed the costume.
It was warmish and most of the men he saw wore trunks, like his own. Some had belts, slightly narrower than his, which contained short-swords and automatic pistols. Soldiers or police, he decided. The others were unarmed.
Mark attracted little attention; but there were a few curious, even suspicious, looks directed at his axe. Axes evidently weren’t standard weapons in these parts. More curiosity was evinced when people happened to notice his dented, but shiny, winged helmet. That, very likely, had no counterpart in the city of Detroit. But Mark was determined not to part with it, even if it did make him conspicuous. That helmet had protected his skull though through many a battle and he had a certain understandable attachment for it.
He was considering the possibility of passing himself off as one of the constabulary in order to pick up few vital statistics, when the thing was settled for him. A young man equipped with short-sword, pistol and a smooth helmet which resembled the coal-scuttle variety used by the Germans in the first World War, stopped before him and respectfully saluted.
“I’m a recruit in the First Division, sir,” he said, eyeing Mark’s accoutrements uncertainly. “Can you tell me... You are an officer, aren’t you?”
Mark smiled indulgently, his mind racing at top speed as he hesitated before answering. The man’s clipped shorthand English was intelligible though it was quite changed from the twentieth-century language he had known. Mark knew that he could duplicate it without any trouble. He’d had a lot of practice in learning new dialects in the past twelve years. But the trouble was that he had no notion of what to say. He decided to take a chance.
“A commander, sonny,” he answered. “Mercury Division. What’s on your mind?”
THE man responded with a friendly, though slightly puzzled smile. “I haven’t heard of that one, sir,” he said. “Everything seems to be so upside down these days that nobody knows exactly what’s going on. I guess that’ll all be straightened out, though. But what I need to know is when I’m to report again. They shooed us out so quick when they issue our swords and guns, that nobody remembered to tell us. I tried to get back in, but when the guard saw my equipment he just waved me away. There was such a crowd at the recruiting station that I had to give it up. Do you know when we start our march?”
Mark nodded. “You’ll be notified when to appear for further orders,” he said. “You’ll have to be trained a little, you know.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Trained? I never heard of that. I thought that we were to march in a week or so.”
“Did you say you were just recruited today?” asked Mark.
The man nodded. “I understand the recruits are to be placed under the leadership of seasoned men from the caravan guards. They know how to handle the nomads and they will be our officers when we attack other cities.”
Mark bit back his astonishment. Raw recruits sent to war, without training, with caravan guards as officers! An armed mob nothing more.
Then Mark remembered the primitive state of the nomadic tribes which roamed the countryside, and decided that maybe an armed mob would do the trick nicely. On the other hand the nomads were fighters and a good many of these recruits were sure to be slaughtered, even though they were armed with guns.
“You’ll be notified,” he repeated. “Keep close to home.”
“I hope it’s soon,” asserted the youth, an ecstatic expression on his face. “Our civilization will lift the world from savagery! This generation will go down in history. Vargo’s name will be glorified forever. The Ancestors will be proud!”
Chapter 5: The Ancestors Live
MARK walked along and tried to make some sense out of what he had heard. The projected campaign was imminent, that seemed certain. Yet the whole affair seemed to be being slapped together in the most half-baked sort of way.
Could it be that the powers who were running the show, this Vargo for instance, had no conception of the necessary approach to a war of conquest? It certainly looked like it. Young men who probably had never handled a weapon in their lives were blithely babbling about conquering the world. Of course they might be able to pull it off, considering the guns and automobiles; but most of them would wish they had never heard of a war, before they were through.
Then there was that mention of the Ancestors.
The youth had pronounced the word with a decided degree o
f reverence. It had sounded to Mark like a form of religion, though ancestor-worship and progress never had gone hand-in-hand, as far as he knew. There was nothing to do but try to gather further information and improvise from there.
Mark, idly walking down the street and pondering his next move, fell to inspecting the types of cars and trucks which passed up and down the city’s busy streets.
By the sound of the motors, they were almost all high-powered vehicles, yet there seemed to have been little attempt made on the part of the designers to make them look well. This may have been partly due to the fact that most of them were trucks and strictly utilitarian; but their design would make a Model T look like a gleaming Rolls by comparison. Even the passenger cars. They were all squarish, and built on the general lines of taffy boxes. Closer inspection made him think that this might be because of old-fashioned methods used in the stamping mills. The bodies weren’t stamped in one piece, but rather were welded together from a dozen or more pieces.
Mark paused at the next corner and waited for a break in the stream of vehicles. Several others were waiting, more patiently than he. There seemed to be no traffic system worthy of the name. True, there was a policeman on the corner, but he seemed to be doing nothing in the way of giving the pedestrian even a good opening. He merely observed the movements of the vehicles and occasionally waved his hand to hurry the speed of a car or truck coming from the lesser-used side street.
But he made no attempt to halt traffic on the larger of the two streets. Cars on the smaller one sped across as the opportunity offered. As near as Mark could tell this larger street had a definite right of way over the smaller. And pedestrians had no rights at all. It wasn’t so different from the twentieth century, and at least you knew definitely where you stood.
The Best of Argosy #7 - Minions of Mercury Page 3
