by Earl
“The determined air attack decided them to separate for a better chance to survive the fury of the queer earth beings whose intellect was so low that they could think only of battle when they saw something beyond their ken. Y got his robot as far as the Pennsylvania borderline before a certain clever general ambushed it and blew it to a million worthless pieces, little realizing that he had in one mad moment destroyed a lifetime of work by a being ten times more intelligent and worthy than himself.
l “It is not for me to judge, nor to condemn, as to the manner in which the authorities acted when the Robot Aliens confronted human eyes, but I think that the mere reading of these facts will bring a flush of shame to many a man who had something to do with the welcome accorded our ambassadors from Mars. Perhaps the alibi should be that their coming was so unexpected and startling—a flaming meteor which excited the superstition of every person thereabouts—or that the newspapers with their desire to ‘scoop’ one another piled lie upon lie till no one knew the truth. Or perhaps world conditions were such that any such advent was looked upon as a threat of war from a foreign power. Nevertheless X says that he is glad he finally came into communication with earthly people and that he hopes much interchange of information will take place.
“All technical questions will have to be left in the ah at present till we are able to teach X the finer intricacies of our language. After all, as yet, he knows less of the language than any ten-year-old on Earth—which is the best I have been able to do in two months. I know there are many puzzling questions that scientists will think of, not the least of which is how the Martian is able to so closely control his robot when there is a vast gulf of millions of miles between them. Light takes an appreciable time to cross that distance. How then could the robots dodge the bombs in that aerial attack, when the very impulse from Mars, if it traveled at the speed of light (which is the fastest thing we know of) would take minutes to get here? X intimates, although it is not clear to me, that his controlling impulses, and the return impulses (of eyesight and hearing), travel instantaneously by means of some bizarre higher physics of which earthly science knows nothing.
“At the first request from the authorities, I will turn over the Robot Alien into the hands of scientists who will be able to do far more than I have in the matter of interchanging thought. But they must have patience, for communicating solely by writing is laborious, especially when one subject must be taught the meaning of each new word, sometimes by lengthy processes.
“With greetings from X on Mars, I end this brief work.”
* * *
Bert Boddel pointed dramatically skyward as he looked around the group of young boys and girls collected about his ‘scope.
“Here comes Mars! Now let me adjust the clock and point the ‘scope and then we’ll all take a look.”
This done, one after the other they peeped through at a small lumpy orange in the sky; some had to be dragged away from the eyepiece.
One girl’s voice came awed from the darkness; “Who’d think it possible for those funny things to come from away-y-y up there!”
* * *
“. . . So I just stood there kinda fierce-like,” said Lieutenant Arpy for the 864th time, “an’ looked back at it. Damn’ thing was chilly to look at, but it-didn’t really scare me. You don’t believe the papers, do ya Murphy, when they says everybody ran? I’m telling ya, so help me Hannah, I stood there all the while . . .”
Murphy rolled a haggard, wistful eye at the clock. Two a.m.! And he hadn’t had a wink of sleep yet! In fact, he hadn’t had much sleep on night duty at the switchboard any more since the meteor had landed.
Lieutenant Arpy started version number 865 . . .
* * *
“Now, I had a suspicion all the time, Peabody, that those Robot Aliens were from Mars. Of course, I didn’t say so in my interview because I wasn’t quite decided at the time and thought it better to make it general. But, if I’m not mistaken, I was the first to even suggest an extra-terrestrial origin for the Robot Aliens. Wasn’t I, Peabody?”
“Yes, Professor Honstein. By the way, sir, you speak tonight at the Astronomy Conclave on the subject of ‘The New Orbit of Pluto.’ ”
Peabody was the forgetful professor’s faithful Boswell and memorandum pad. Such reminders as this he had just made were absolutely necessary in the savant’s haphazard life.
“Oh, tut, tut, Peabody. ‘The New Orbit of Pluto’ be hanged! I am going to speak tonight to my brother astronomers, yes, but not about Pluto. I shall speak, Peabody, on my personal experiences with the Robot Aliens! We must not forget that I was the first to suggest that they came from extra-terrestrial regions . . .”
* * *
“Confidentially, though,” whispered Captain Pompersnap to his ogling relatives, “I myself saw the folly of attacking the Robot Aliens without first ascertaining if they had any belligerent tendencies! You know, we men of the Army must obey our superiors without question, mentioning no names!”
His sly manner told much to the listeners, who one and all thought his actions had been above reproach . . .
At the same moment, the arrogant Major Whinny was subtly hinting to a group of fellow politicians that higher authority had also misled him . . .
Under similar circumstances, Colonel Snoosharp pointed an accusing finger at Washington . . .
Secretary of War Rukke and the President volubly agreed that the “misinformation from Fort Sheridan” had caused the war-action on peaceful ambassadors. They, obviously (with a suitable air of innocence), were hardly to be blamed at all . . .
A week after the work called “The Robot Aliens” was published, a mob stormed the Miller mansion at Owensboro, dynamited the last Robot Alien to nothingness, and burned Frank Miller alive. Their reason (later published) stated that Frank Miller was a Frankenstein who had loosed his irresponsible brain-children on a peaceful world and then attempted to cover his malign sin by concocting his cock-and-bull Mars story. Having always been a decided recluse, not given to associating much with general society, the mob had no trouble in believing he had always been a secret experimenter and had “made” the Robot Aliens in a spell of madness.
Of the storm of controversy and denouncement which that hideous action aroused, and of the bloody but short civil war that followed, we will say nothing. But we will add that Frank Miller is only one of many geniuses who died martyrs to their enlightened beliefs. People of reason and high intelligence admit that some day Mars will again send proxy ambassadors and vindicate his memory.
After all (it should be plain by now), “civilization” on Earth has only begun.
THE END
SHADOWS OF BLOOD
A grim story of torture in the cruel days of the Roman Emperor Caligula
IT WAS late in the fall. Over the shadow-engulfed waters of the Tiber a raw wind blew down from the north. A cold white moon swung over the Seven Hills, riding half submerged through a bank of heavy black clouds. The night was eery, made for evil things.
A guard, standing before the portals of a secluded villa, drew his long cloak more tightly about him. Sullenly, he cursed his metallic accouterments that seemed to absorb thricefold the chill of the night. Crouching closer into the small cubicle hewn into the marble of the wall beside the entrance, teeth chattering, he wondered if it were not better to be up north fighting the barbarians. True, there the cold was yet more intense, but one could warm his blood in the heat of battle, and not stand like this, silently, like an evil spirit of the night, freezing and shivering.
As he stood there holding his great spear in cloak-muffled hands, the moon broke for a short spell through the dense clouds and momentarily illuminated the park-like expanse before him. Suddenly a shadow detached itself from a blotch of blackness cast by a group of poplars, and slithered toward him. Tago Titus flung aside his cloak and took firmer grip of the spear. His Emperor, Caligula Cæsar, was within, and it was his duty to see that no enemy, or evil thing of the night, should pass beyond the entrance.
Closer and closer came the moving shadow. The fitful light of the moon made it appear as if an ugly portion of the black wraith above had been cast to earth. With appendages like beating wings, it seemed not human as it floated toward him over the shadowy lawn. Brave Titus of the Roman legions fought off a momentary awesome fear, and, forgetting the cold, stepped forth to battle this gruesome, unearthly thing. It was nearly upon him as he leveled his great spear.
“Who goes there?” he challenged with a throaty rasp.
The shadow stopped as if surprized to find opposition to its approach. The guard heaved a sigh of relief, for now he saw it was human after all. Anything earthly a Legionary could fight. He called his challenge again, this time with a more confident ring in his voice.
“It is I, Junga of the Huns,” came a hoarse voice from the head-folds of the cloak worn by the newcomer. At the same time the concealing cloth was withdrawn somewhat to reveal a visage of extreme ugliness. The swarthy, parched skin was drawn tightly over the bones. It was like the face of a mummified corpse.
“Bah—a barbarian!” rumbled the guard, angered because of his own superstitious fears. “Away with you, Hun! You have no business here.”
“But I seek audience with the Emperor!” the trespasser remonstrated, not retreating a step.
Titus’ lips curled scornfully. “Caligula Cæsar does not give audience to every heathen from the north. Have you some talisman, some mark or sign of the Cæsar’s favor?”
“Nay, that I have not.”
“Then you can not enter these portals!”
“But I say that Cæsar——”
The guard Titus wasted no further words. It was not the custom in that time to listen to audacious persons of no authority. His huge hands showed white knuckles as he raised his spear to transfix the unlucky person before him. As he was about to deal the death blow, a voice spoke over his shoulder, staying his hand.
“Tago, hold your thrust. It is the Cæsar’s wish to speak to the barbarian.” Titus froze to attention as the voice from behind continued: “Know you not the chamber of spotless white marble within these walls? Perhaps”—here the voice became a whisper—“this newcomer would like to see it!”
The guard trembled. Well he knew of that chamber. Many were the nights he had heard the shrieks of the tortured and dying within its confines, despite the thickness of the marble walls. The voice that had spoken was that of Caligula, the wanton butcher, whom all Rome feared and hated. Here at this seemingly peaceful villa the mad Cæsar held nightly debauches so cruel and vicious as to bring shame to his high office. It was whispered that Caligula was the nether-world spirit in the guise of man.
“See that he has no weapons, Tago.” The guard did as his master commanded and stepped aside, having found the barbarian unarmed.
“Come,” Caligula spoke, a note of suppressed satisfaction in his voice.
Junga the Hun hesitated not a whit. With an alacrity that astounded the guard, he followed his unholy host. But he slowed and turned his head momentarily. “Wretched man!” he snarled at the Legionary. “You raised your spear against my life this night. I shall not soon forget.” Then he slunk after the Emperor, having lost but a few steps by the pause.
WITH Caligula in the lead, they passed through an anteroom in which a half-dozen guards stood as though carven into the marble walls about them, and thence into a sumptuous audience chamber. The Emperor made his way to a silk-carpeted dais and seated himself upon a throne-like chair of exquisite ivory workmanship.
The barbarian fell to his knees to await the Cæsar’s command to speak, but his sharp black eyes bored unflinchingly into the narrowed eyes of the other. He looked upon the face that could smile at a victim’s screams of tortured agony, and there was no hint of fear in his manner. Caligula was impressed despite himself.
“Either you are a great fool,” spoke the man on the throne, “or you have a silly courage without reason. To attempt entrance to my villa at night is the height of folly. Only by chance I passed the gate during a midnight stroll, and stayed my faithful guard’s hand. Furthermore, your people, the Huns, have always been Rome’s bitterest enemies. Speak! I will hear a word from you before I take your life.”
The ragged clothes of the stranger shook convulsively for a moment, and then the Hun rose slowly to his feet. “You Romans speak of death and bloodshed as if they were nothing. Yet tonight is not my time to die.”
“If I command it, you die!” said Caligula, whitening in sudden anger.
“Ah, Cæsar, Master of the World, I come first because I fear not death, and secondly because I have been commanded hither by the Sorceress of Belshewawar. ’Go,’ said her High Priest to me, ’go to the south where there is one whose destiny has been written within the Holy Circle. Through you and your priestly knowledge of our secret powers shall he know of Rome’s greatest hour.’ These were the words spoken to me, and I have come, Cæsar.”
Caligula stared at the unflinching black eyes of the barbarian as though seeking to read his mind and soul. “Rome’s greatest hour?” He repeated the words almost involuntarily, mystified at their suggestive rhythm. Prompted by a desire to call the wretch before him a wily liar, he yet withheld the words. He was known to have openly sneered at the impotent gods of Rome, but at heart his bloody soul quaked before powers which were reputed to sway the destiny of human life.
Junga the Hun smiled inwardly. He could read the human face like a well-lettered book. Furthermore, there was something else that gave him secret amusement. Caligula had saved his life! Yet had he (Junga) but spoken one word out there by the gate, before the spear was thrown—a powerful sorcery would have seized the guard and rendered him helpless. And that same witchcraft could be used against even an emperor. . . .
“Do you think, barbarian dog,” the Emperor broke the silence, “that I, Cæsar of Rome, would forsake the gods of Rome?”
“Ah, Cæsar, this is not a religious rite, but a strange power discovered by the Sorceress of Belshewawar that is beyond the knowledge of other men’s minds. You can keep your gods. Take my life if you will, too, but I say to you that your destiny of knowing ’Rome’s greatest hour’ shall then die with me!”
The barbarian’s beady eyes gleamed strangely. Caligula sat long in silent thought. The stranger’s utter fearlessness and the tremendous portent of his words meant much to the Roman’s superstitious nature.
“Have you proof, Priest of Belshewawar?” Already he addressed him respectfully and Junga was not slow to see his victory.
“That I have,” Junga spoke confidently.
“Lie not to me, Junga, or your body shall know pain no speaking tongue could describe. I have half a mind yet to take you to the White Chamber and wring the truth from your lips.”
“If it please you, Cæsar, take me there now. Such a chamber, I think, will suit me better than any other!”
Caligula started to his feet in astonishment. Then, with a sudden gesture, he led the way out of the room.
THE White Chamber was vaulted and of massive proportions. It was the private sanctum of one of Rome’s most heartless kings. On its snow-white marble floor human blood had splashed too often, and its walls had echoed the groans of hellish agonies of torture. Tribune and slave, general and soldier, mistress and harlot, all had seen the dazzling whiteness only as a mock to their horrible death.
Scrubbed daily by slaves, the floor glistened like new-fallen snow in the dancing light of suspended lamps. One not knowing its ghastly history would think the chamber suited for some fair princess, with its priceless statuettes and costly furniture tastefully distributed around the room. But the whole central portion had been reserved for instruments of torture—shuddery things of steel and bronze that contrasted horribly with the other fittings.
Junga the Hun surveyed the chamber without comment, while Caligula watched him surreptitiously, marveling that he had not even blanched at the sight of the machines of torture. The stranger nodded as though he found the cham
ber suited to his bizarre purpose.
“August Cassar, at the break of dawn I must have the best mosaic-worker in Rome. And before the noon sun shines upon the Tiber, the Magic Circle of Belshewawar shall be completed here upon this marble floor. Then will I show you I spoke not vain words, and will prove to you the power of the priests of Belshewawar, of whom I am one.”
“It shall be done, Junga.” The mad Cæsar gloated, for already he believed. His weak, cruel mind had a new toy for its amusement.
IT WAS shortly after the noon repast that a slave announced to the Emperor that all was in readiness in the White Chamber. Glutted with food and reeking from the fumes of overmuch wine, Caligula strode on sandaled feet across the marble floor.
Junga the Hun was not now the ragged barbarian of the night before. Attired in the villa’s best choice of costly garments, he might have passed as one of the Roman nobility, except for the alien cast of his yellow, sharp-featured visage. He genuflected before the Cæsar with a smirk that Caligula might have seen if he had had less wine to befuddle his eyes.
“Master of the World!” spoke Junga as the Emperor seated himself on a silken couch. “See there the two posts with bolted shackles so that a man in them stands with legs and arms stretched to the limit. Before them notice the mosaic upon the marble floor in the form of a circle. That is the Holy Circle—yea, the Magic Circle—of Belshewawar, whose designs and symbols only a priest of our cult can read and interpret.”
“Ah, then you need a victim!” cried the Roman joyfully.
“That I do, Cæsar. Where formerly human blood was wasted, I shall show you how it can be put to good advantage, enabling me to see many things hidden to ordinary eyes, and even to foretell the future. Through its powers I will bring you—‘Rome’s greatest hour!’ ”
Again that strangely suggestive phrase, and, despite the barbarian’s bluntness in speaking of his wanton butchery, Caligula’s head came up expectantly. He mused silently over its cryptical meaning for a moment.
