by Earl
“Aletha was right all the time about things down here,” muttered Curwood.
“If we had only known the full truth at the first!”
“Mysterious business,” said Allan Rand, preoccupied. “Just who are these golden-haired people? From what civilization and time? Why the Blue Mist?” One amazing theory ran through his mind like wildfire.
Soon they came upon a hundred or more of the golden-haired people, also slaves, quarrying within a large limestone fissure at the base of the valley’s sheer northern wall. Crude saws, drills and levers were their tools, in sharp contrast to the magnificent machines in the city. Driven by the whips, the slaves were made to load the huge stone blocks on rough litters and drag them over the hard, caked ground by ropes, toward the city’s fringe. Here, a new building was being erected in much the same manner as in the Middle Ages.
It was hard hot work in the broiling sun. Curwood’s face became savagely bitter when he saw that Aletha was the only woman in the quarry. It was her punishment for engineering the near-escape. Night fell before much had been done, but they trudged cityward with already aching muscles and sweaty bodies.
They were herded into a large building, fed a weak, tasteless gruel, and then allowed to lie down on the floor to sleep, without blankets or comforts of any kind. It was barbaric slavery of the crudest sort, evidently administered to humble their spirits. Stupified, mentally fogged, the other-century men muttered among themselves for a while and went wearily to sleep.
Rand and Curwood discussed the situation in low tones. The elder Rand seemed weighed down by bewilderment and spoke little. Queto sat stolidly, philosophically inert. But his eyes gleamed a little when they spoke of escape, at night when the moon had set and all was dark. Aletha, dispirited, sat close to her equally depressed brother, both silent. For them, the interlude of the Blue Mist sleep had been but a second’s interruption of their slavehood.
Curwood had purposely chosen, for their group, a position near the open doorway. In the middle of the night, sleepless, they crept out silently. Strangely, no guards were about. The way was open. It seemed suspicious, as though the Twelve feared no escape at night for some very good reason.
They stumbled along, led by Curwood toward the slope. When they rounded the last building, they saw the reason for a strange glow ahead. A broad beam of light bathed the entire width of the slope and up for a distance of a hundred feet. Beyond was utter darkness and perhaps safety. But no one could cross that illuminated stretch without detection!
Curwood was about to suggest a desperate try when they saw several other crouching figures in the shadows ahead. Some of the more spirited of the other-century men were here, seeking freedom also. These darted forward suddenly, six of the spade-bearded Conquistadors shed of their armor, widely separated in cunning strategy.
Into the lighted area they dashed, up the slope with flying feet. Soundlessly, something stabbed from the tower back of them. The first man stopped, shriveled into something black, fell. With pauses of a second or two between, the others were picked off, charred by some horrible beam of incandescence. The last man, seeing, gave up and attempted to run back, screaming in surrender. He too. fell a blackened corpse.
Aletha said something in the dead, horrified silence. “She says it is the same now as it was before—no escape,” whispered Rand. He shuddered in nausea, as an odor of burnt human flesh wafted down to them.
“Wait!” hissed Curwood. “The other side—the hole we blasted in the rock-wall! Maybe they haven’t—” He led the way at a run. But long before they had arrived, they saw that another beam from the tower lime-lighted that single other egress from the valley of slavery.
They returned dejectedly to their sleeping place, aware as never before of the Twelve’s diabolical thoroughness. They slept a few weary hours before dawn brought the men with whips.
The next day was a nightmare. The overseers with the whips lashed often with them. Many a man staggered I around with stinging, bruised flesh. One slender Frenchman, a mere lad, collapsed in the heat. He was flogged mercilessly and left to die in the hot, sun. A friend who knelt beside him was driven away with the whips.
Water and food were distributed sparsely at noon. Rand wondered how any of the golden-haired slaves could still be alive under such treatment in the past. He surmised that there were other grades of slaves, better treated. These in the quarry were the most belligerent, most defiant. The new men were here to have their spirits thoroughly broken before being given a place in the city.
Curwood contrived to keep always near Aletha, taking half her burden whenever he could. He stepped before the lash that came her way once, and for his pains received three more. His eyes became cold, glittering orbs of slow, dangerous wrath. Yet he kept his control in the face of helplessness.
With tight jaws he worked on, until a disturbance came.
All heads, even those of the whip-holders, jerked up and stared as the huge airship at the center of the city lifted into the air silently and soared grandly, magically, over them.[2]
Then it darted away to the north, with incredible velocity.
“Gravity motors!” marvelled Allan Rand. “The science of these Twelve is that of supergenius. If only the modem world could have some of it!”
“I wish we had dropped a stick of dynamite into the Blue Mist first, and then drained it away,” growled Curwood.
The back-breaking labor went on, human souls being crushed beneath the heel of tyranny. In the late afternoon, just after the airship returned from its mysterious cruise, a guard approached Aletha, spoke, and pointed to her companions.
“An audience with Ramon,” translated Rand.
CHAPTER V
Running Death’s Gauntlet
THEY were led to the city and into a building whose interior was blessedly cool. In a room dazzling with gold floor, gold statuettes and golden table sat Ramon, now dressed in a flowing robe spangled with golden threads. A golden light of madness shone from his eyes as he stared insolently at the tired, sweaty faces of his erstwhile companions. They had to stand before him, since he occupied the only chair. “Slaves!” he greeted mockingly. “Better than being a rat!” snarled Cur wood.
Ramon ignored this. “I will tell you what I have learned of these goldenhaired people,” he continued, “so that you may know to what heights Ramon Hernando will rise. They represent a civilization and science greater than the present. After much effort with Latin, I have pieced together something of their history.”
Allan Rand leaned forward in deep interest.
“Their time flowered some fifteen thousand years ago!” pursued Ramon. “They lived on a huge island or continent known to us in legend as—Atlantis!”
“Atlantis!” breathed Rand, nodding as though he had known all the time. “But why did they come here—the Blue Mist—”
“Listen!” admonished the Castilian. “Atlantis was great and powerful for five thousand years, but in her decadence refused the leadership of—the Twelve. These Twelve were her best scientists. They were exiled for their political activities. They came to this valley, built the city, cleverly abducted these Atlantides as slaves. It took years of great planning and effort; I do not know the full story. Then they destroyed Atlantis, in fitting revenge!”
His audience stared in shocked silence. Aletha, apparently sensing of what he told, turned to her brother with a sad face. In their eyes was reflected a fresh horror at that great and terrible holocaust of a long-gone age. Millions upon millions of their people, all the world they had known, had been wiped out of existence, in a totality of stark destruction that stunned the mind to think of it.
Even Ramon’s face was solemn as he went on. “I know not how it was done, but Atlantis, and all within it, were caused to sink beneath the waves. A holocaust of land and sea in turmoil spread all over the earth of that time. But the Twelve were prepared. They had picked this valley, knowing it was safe, for it rested on faultless bedrock. Then, to escape death by the dea
dly inner-earth fumes that spewed forth from great rents in the writhing crust and saturated the air, they filled the valley with the Blue Mist, deathless, protective, unchangeable by time. Only in one thing did they miscalculate. A machine set to disperse the Blue Mist at a future time failed to work, for it, too, had succumbed to the timelessness of the Mist.
“They had set it to awaken them about a century after their time, when earth would have again quieted down, and start a new civilization under their rule. Instead, they have awakened in this late age, when the descendants of some hardy, barbaric survivors have repopulated earth and builded another civilization. They find the earth which is theirs ruled by others. But they are undaunted, the Twelve. They will conquer this modern world!”
“So, just like that?” challenged Curwood.
“Why not?” returned the Castilian easily. “The superminds that clashed the elemental forces of land, sea and inner-earth together to wreck a world can easily destroy cities and armies. Today I rode in their marvellous gravity-ship. In four hours we whisked to New York City and back, some ten thousand miles I believe, via the stratosphere. I have told them to attack that city first, in their campaign for world conquest!”
“You devils!” grated Curwood, clenching his fists.
“I am to be an important part of their plans,” went on Ramon boastfully, “They need someone like myself to tell them of a modern world they must conquer. I have already been granted authority. You, my friends, will continue to slave in the quarries, save for the girl, if she wishes. Aletha—” He switched to Latin.
Curwood could not understand the words, but by the disgust in Rand’s face and the flush in Aletha’s, he knew what the Castilian was offering.
“Damn you—” Curwood sprang forward, intent on smashing the insulting, leering face before him.
Ramon, prepared, quickly pressed a button on the table. Curwood’s body jerked to a halt, relaxed. Though the veins stood out on his forehead in effort, he could not move another inch toward his enemy. The mental control, emanating from some hidden mechanism in the room, had robbed him of volition.
“Go, fool!” commanded Ramon triumphantly. “You will labor unfed in the quarries. I will let Aletha watch you die by inches. That should soften her haughty manner!”
Out in the hot sunshine, Rand looked wonderingly around at the city. “Atlantis!” he murmured. “This is of Atlantis, of fifteen thousand years ago! The most fantastic fable of antiquity come true! A greater civilization than that we know wiped out by twelve superscientists—twelve malevolent minds which touch the heights of genius and the depths of depravity. Twelve—”
“Thirteen, you mean!” grunted Curwood. “Thirteen sadistic devils in a valley of hell! Ramon, curse him, I’ll—”
Rand grasped Curwood’s arm tightly. His lips twitched. “Tom, let’s not think of ourselves. Let’s think of the world! It may sound melodramatic, but we’re about all that stands between the Twelve and world conquest! No Alexander, or Napoleon, or Fascist dictator ever had behind him such inconceivable power as these Twelve. I am a scientist. So help me God, I have seen things impossible in my science! Their science and our science—like the machine-gun against the spear. Do you see?”
“Is it as bad—as that?” queried Curwood thoughtfully. No answer was needed.
Dog-weary from their labors, they sat down that night in the sleeping-place. The golden-haired guards that came around with food passed them by. None of the other-century men offered to share with them. The portions were pitifully small to start with.
“Ramon has ordered our death, by starvation and hard labor,” Rand sighed bitterly. “He knows alive we’d sooner or later throw a wrench around here. Perhaps tomorrow he will have us murdered in cold blood. Aletha, poor girl—”
“Tonight!” hissed Curwood, suddenly. “We must try it tonight!”
He beckoned the others of his group near him and whispered rapidly. “If both exits of the valley are rushed at once, perhaps somebody can win through, escape, warn the world! We can’t look for help from the other-century men—drugged with superstition. Nor Aletha’s people—slaves too long, broken spirited. Besides, a large crowd would be no good; alarm would spread prematurely. We must do it ourselves—our group! It’s a gamble “with death. But of course I can’t force any of you—”
The elder Rand spoke up quickly. “Count me in. I’m living on stolen time—should have been dead twenty-five years ago. Let death have me now, if it must.”
Queto grunted. “Bad medicine stay here. Me try.”
Rand translated to Aletha and Enzal in Latin. He rendered their answers in English. “Enzal says he is willing to risk life for his people. Aletha—well, Tom, I guess you know—” He smiled wanly at the flash in their eyes as they looked at each other, pledging devotion, sacrifice. He went on, “Six of us, three at the slope, three at the wall-aperture and may God save one of us!”
“No!” said Curwood sharply. “Five of us at the slope—to draw the full attention of the tower men. Only one at the wall-aperture. That’ll be you, Doc—”
“You!” returned Allan Rand. “You can run faster—more chance. Damn you”—he went on fiercely as Curwood tried to argue—“don’t think of me. This is for all of us, for all we know, love, cherish in the outer world—”
It was arranged that way. Hours later, they crept cautiously past the snoring, sprawled forms of the past-century men, stepped out in the unlighted, dead-quiet city. Only the un-diffused beams from the tower could be seen stabbing to both ends of the valley.
Curwood shook hands silently with Rand, gripping his shoulder eloquently. Aletha he kissed tenderly on the forehead, staring a moment into her tear-shining eyes. Then he waved to the others and turned.
“Wait for my signal, Tom,” admonished Rand. They separated. Curwood’s tall figure vanished in the darkness.
Rand led his silent group toward the slope. Arriving, they stooped and crept to the edge of the broad, lighted area, widely separated. Each had been told what to do, both now and later if one escaped.
Lips moving unconsciously in a prayer, Rand gripped the rock in his hand firmly, then stood and cast it with all his strength for the nearer cliff. A second later a sharp crack resounded through the silent valley.
The signal!
Rand raced forward with a shout. His four companions jumped erect and plunged up the slope, into the illuminated area of burning death. Rand winced and waited for the death-beam to shrivel him to a corpse. But it flicked to Enzal first, and the golden-haired man was the first martyr in their race against death. Rand saw Aletha stumble momentarily, scream once in sharp sorrow, and then bravely fly on.
Rand gasped as he saw Queto, to the left, leap off the ground, turn black, fall—a twitching, charred corpse. Number two! Who would be next?
A sob racked his throat then as his father staggered—Rand turned his eyes away, horrified. Number three!
Lost in a nightmare daze, racing endlessly it seemed through a ghastly white land, Allan Rand was vaguely aware of a voice screaming to him from a distance. It was Aletha, in her strange language. But he could not see her. Was she—?
Then he caught it, veered, and a second later flung himself down behind a large boulder beside Aletha. They were still in the lighted area but protected completely behind the rock’s long, slanting shadow. Safe for the moment. Rand saw the ground at their left suddenly smoke and seethe. The trail of invisible fire moved toward their rock. The tower-men had seen the two dive down behind the rock, would try to rout them out. Rand put a protective arm around the trembling, pale girl and waited for the end.
But the smoking trail ended abruptly before it reached their rock. Sudden realization smote Rand. It meant that they had discovered Curwood’s racing figure at the other end—were swinging the beam toward him—
With one sharp, peremptory word to the girl, Rand sprang erect, leaped out into the open glare, waved his arms, shrieked, anything to attract their attention to him—
Allan Rand screamed in triumph as he felt an exquisite flame bathe his body. His clothing puffed into instant vapor, searing his flesh. The horrible, invisible fire ate into his vitals, made him dance and writhe. He knew then, with a supernal second-sight, that this act had given Curwood another few seconds of grace—had assured him of escape—
The golden-haired girl behind the rock put her hands to her eyes, sobbing, Then, driven by instinct, she jumped from her place of concealment and raced fleet-footed the remaining distance toward the beckoning arms of cool shadow ahead—toward safety.
Tom Curwood, half mad with the suspense of his companions’ unknown fate, ran most of the way to their parked airplane, arriving an hour later as early dawn tinged the eastern sky with crimson. Eagerly he started the motors, let them warm up. He placed the four sticks of dynamite remaining from their supply in the second pilot seat, sat himself in the first.
The Douglas thundered into the air, plunged for the valley. He cut the throttle and made a wide, almost noiseless circle over the valley, five minutes later. He counted the little specks of black on the slope—four! One had been saved! But four had died! His plane soared over the center of the valley, directly over the tower and ship. He could see alarmed, scurrying figures stare up at him. Several were heading for the ship. If they once got into it and soared up to meet him—
Curwood grasped the first stick of dynamite, shoved it through the opened panel in the cabin floor. “For the Twelve!” he shouted aloud. Another went through. “For you, Ramon!”
Again a stick dropped. “For civilization!”
The fourth stick hurtled down toward the tower. “For the four that died!”
He watched for a moment. Now the first stick had arrived, and with graceful slow-motion, the central tower collapsed, undermined at the base. Its heavy metal girders fell athwart the ovoid ship just as it trembled from the ground, bowling it over.
