by Don Wilcox
One of the doctors started to raise a warning hand. Lasher’s eyes snapped, his head tossed with confidence. “Tomorrow they shall hear! They must hear!” He shouted with fervor. “The world must know my plans for PEACE!!!”
Down went Gade Lasher! As if that final word set off a bolt of lightning in the war lord’s brain. He looked up, stung with more than pain, humiliated, shaken by a dread something he couldn’t understand.
The doctors helped him up from the floor and ushered him away. The people walked out shaking their heads sadly. The only person left in the room was a girl, whose eyes glistened with tears.
Doraine cried because she wanted to tell her master the awful secret that burned in her heart. She couldn’t. Not only because of her promise to Retterlic. There was Lasher’s faith in Retterlic. She could not think of exposing the doctor as a traitor, knowing how the dictator valued that friendship. Gade Lasher would go to pieces before her very eyes—the thought sickened her—but he must never know.
She burst into tears afresh as she thought of Retterlic’s dilemma. At this moment he was on his way to his doom—a dungeon or perhaps death. A word from her might save him—but what tragedy would follow! Lasher would probe him regarding head pains. Sooner or later the truth would out! And then—who knows where the knife of the purge might fall?
And if the dictator should have another operation, he might emerge the demon of hate once more. No, Doraine’s lips were sealed. She must avoid conferences with Lasher for fear her sentiments break her silence.
Gade Lasher made no more speeches that week, nor the next, nor the next. He cancelled all public appearances, press interviews, conferences with the inner circle. But he did not hide himself away completely. He strode through the executive offices of the palace like a walking bomb that might explode without warning. Secretaries could feel the tension the instant he entered a room.
No one who saw him could think him ill. On the contrary, he bristled with energy and purpose. What purpose, no one could guess. He went from desk to desk, examined official documents, orders that bore his signature. He carried a cancellation stamp and used it freely to veto former arrangements. He removed the colored pins from the maps of projected campaigns.
His actions were swift and decisive, hardly the rash, desperate movements of a mad man. But he was plainly under terrific strain. He spoke only in the thick, restrained voice of one in great conflict.
He pressed the police to find Retterlic, without effect.
The Troxian propagandists were embarrassed, along with editorialists, military officials, and a host of others, to explain and justify the mystery man before a bewildered public. Since Lasher made no statement, they were forced to make what they could of his unfinished speech. After, much squirming, they centered upon a suitable interpretation.
“We know Gade Lasher too well to be disappointed by his opening cry for peace. Had he been able to finish his speech, he would of course have told how our armed forces must achieve that peace. Timovia stands as a barrier to our progress. As soon as our leader sees fit, we shall move forward.”
The spokesmen of outside nations came to practically the same conclusion, only their version was, “We know Gade Lasher too well to be fooled by his opening cry for peace—”
The ruler of Troxia sat in his private study, alone. His fingers pushed over his white forehead and through his fine black hair. His amber eyes looked up, glared at themselves in a mirror across the room, studied the coal black mustache and sharp pointed beard, saw lines of hateful scorn about the lips, the lust for death in the flaring nostrils. That was the Gade Lasher the world knew. The most obeyed, most feared, most despised man alive.
And now he hated himself, hated every word he had spoken, every deed he had done for the past nineteen years. He had loosed his flood of hate upon civilization. He would drown in that flood. Though he glimpsed the light of peace and craved with all his being to bear that torch, it was surely too late. Every hour brought greater pressures upon him from those poor, blind, dogged Troxians he had taught to hunger for the shabby glories of war.
If he could only cry out against it all! Cry out with his vibrant voice until he went down under the fire of his enraged, betrayed followers! Cry out for peace!
But now the very word chilled him. He dare not cry his feelings. Even his voice, his unfailing weapon, turned on him, stabbed him with unbearable pains.
Bitter irony, to writhe with power and burn with a zeal to save the world from catastrophe, and yet be bound to himself! He could not endure it! He would go mad—
He turned away from the mirror, listened. Drums, marching feet sounded up from the streets. More soldiers arriving for his inspection before they departed for the border of Timovia.
CHAPTER IV
A Ruler Against Himself
A rhythmic thud came closer, echoed up through the spacious open hallways of the palace. Gade Lasher froze. His habits revolted. Body and will refused to function. Every ounce of his being rebelled against duty.
Troops ready for the Timovian border! Yet he, the master of Troxia, could not make himself march down to review them! A ruler divided against himself! God, what a numbness!
The telephone buzzed. That was someone calling to tell him the regiments waited, ready for inspection. He could not move. He was paralyzed as in a nightmare. Perhaps this was hysteria—the beginning of the end—the brink of collapse? For days he had dodged crises, avoided contacts with the inner circle, postponed his conference with Blegoff, refused to answer notes from foreign powers.
And now this tiny thing caught him cold, tipped the scales of inner rebellion. A review of troops! Absurd! Ordinarily he took such matters in his stride. That was the old Lasher. He gloated to parade before his armies, to watch them catch fire from his torch of hate.
Breaking out of his freeze, he forced himself to the telephone. He would take refuge in a subterfuge. He must maintain a front.
“Officer? . . . March your troops through the left wing of the palace, past the giant television mirror. I shall review them from where I am, by television.”
“Very well, your honor.”
As soon as the images of marching men began to cross the rectangular televisor in his study, the feverish Lasher signed an okay and cut the switch. He paced, tore at the tails of his black lounging coat, threw his head of fine black hair this way and that. He was a trapped mad man. This psychological torture could not go on. If only he could speak—! If only Dr. Retterlic could be found! Perhaps Retterlic could stop the pains. But that would not check his madness. How could he hope to weld peace out of the flames of war? That conflict had no answer—none except mental collapse—the tragic answer that nature held before him so temptingly at this very moment.
“If I could only talk with someone—” His thoughts shot out on erratic tangents. “Doraine . . . lovely . . . Damned Blegoff! Retterlic wouldn’t desert . . . Someone murdered him . . . I can’t shout . . . can’t cry . . . Wild pains . . . Yet I am the Troxian ideal . . . the world’s bad boy . . . Those last purges cut too deep . . . Rogler and Ance were a bloody mess . . . I was acting . . . acting for the world . . . How soon will the powers close in? . . . I’m wasting time . . . But it’s too late for peace . . . They’ll never believe I’ve changed . . . My very face . . . That mirror is too searching . . . If I shaved them off . . . But Doraine . . . She’d never believe there could be love in my heart . . . If I shave them off . . . A new man? . . . But what? . . . Escape in a plane? . . . Some desert isle? . . . Burn out with remorse . . . with the world in flames? . . . Must get a grip on myself . . . Peace! . . . Cry for it . . . Let the pain kill me . . . Damned telephones . . . Blegoff . . . He’s waiting . . . Face him! He doesn’t know I’ve turned . . . He wouldn’t dare. . . Cow him! . . . Then prepare . . . Tell Doraine . . . Give her a code. Shave them off . . . go . . . take a chance on the fates . . . Now, pull myself together!”
He snatched up the telephone.
“Doraine, I’ve got to
talk with you . . . Yes, I remembered that I ordered Blegoff to come for an interview . . . Very well, send him in.”
The two men faced each other, charged the room with the electric clash of sensitive nerves.
“General Blegoff,” the dictator spoke in a brittle voice, “I can’t understand why your secret police fail to find any trace of Dr. Retterlic. Is this particular disappearance beyond their powers?”
The black coated little ruler moved dramatically across the lush carpeted floor, held his penetrating amber eyes on the general. Blegoff’s handsome uniformed figure stood solidly; his face betrayed no emotion as he spoke.
“I’m not surprised at your concern, your honor. I realize the doctor was indispensable to your physical welfare.”
Lasher caught the implication—a jibe at his unfinished speech—but revealed no anger.
“More than that, Blegoff,” he said with intense sincerity, “he is a friend.”
“And a counsellor,” the general added. His tone carried jealousy and accusation.
“You’re jumping at conclusions,
Blegoff,” Lasher snapped. “I want your secret police to find Retterlic, whether he’s living or dead. Do you understand?”
The general hesitated, his face warmed. He played for an offense as the best defence. “These are very trying times for the secret police, your honor, especially since you cancelled some of our powers for swift executions. You realize—” A sharp flash of amber eyes told the general to be careful how he spoke. But he was desperate. “Unfortunately, some misinterpretations of your speech have started an ugly wave of peace agitators—”
“Blegoff!”
The general made a perfunctory salute. “My apologies if the reminder is painful. Possibly my anxiety for the Troxian ideal has overworked my nerves.” He met Lasher’s glare. “Now that all the unfriendly powers are packing troops on the farther boundaries of Timovia, and we have passed up our original date to strike, perhaps my anxiety—”
The dictator cut in. “There’s no occasion for anxiety if we don’t strike,” he stormed. “As long as we keep out of Timovia—”
He caught himself. Blegoff’s mouth opened with shock. For a moment neither man spoke, but both knew that last speech was a severe blunder. A bad slip for a dictator. Anyone else who dared question Troxia’s destiny in Timovia could expect arrest.
Blegoff fought back an evil smile, lit a cigaret, walked around his tempestuous little master, who breathed like a racer caught changing colors before the finish.
“Gade Lasher, something’s happened to you. What is it?”
The little volcano did not trust himself to answer.
“I’ve got a right to know!” the general demanded. “As head of your armed forces, I’m the life blood of your personal power. But I’ve got to tell you, your honor, that my allegiance is not to any man, but to an ideal—the destiny of Troxia! It permeates every drop of my blood. For that ideal I’ll send armies into hell—and they’ll obey without a question. They’re a blind mechanism, built to advance the Troxian ideal, and by God they’ll die advancing it. BUT—if they suspect their figurehead has changed one iota—” Blegoff paused, wondered how far he dared go. The dramatic little figure sat in a frozen stare, a strange mood for the proud, bristling Gade Lasher. The general lowered his voice.
“You’ve changed, Lasher. I see through it now. Retterlic is at the bottom of it. After the operation you were too warm toward him—gave him too much rope.”
“You’re off on the wrong foot,” Lasher said quietly, but the general, drunk with his own boldness, plunged on:
“He poured his poison peace talk in your ears. You fell for it. Then, when you started to pass it on to the people in your speech, he walked out on you—left you dancing to his music—” Blegoff couldn’t stop now. “But you saw the people didn’t swallow it, so you used your quick wits and passed out with a headache! Very neat.”
“Is that all?” Lasher asked, his face tinged with an angry smile.
“I hope I make myself clear that I consider Retterlic has been a menace—”
“You make yourself perfectly clear, Blegoff.” As Lasher spoke he picked up a telephone that connected with his personal bodyguards who waited beyond his immediate walls.
“Purple Guards! Stand ready for emergency. I’ve just learned who is responsible for Retterlic’s disappearance.”
He turned on Blegoff. The husky general went white, tried to move his quivering lips.
“All right, Blegoff, where is he?” The little man moved toward him. The general’s words wouldn’t come. His glibness was spent. He moved backward, step by step, his eyes locked by the maniacal gleam of Lasher’s face, his blood chilled by the knowledge that Purple Guards might be pointing guns through partitions.
“He—he—isn’t dead,” he stammered. Wild fear shook incoherent words from his mouth as he tried to explain. “I’ll find him—”
His fingers trembled, his burning cigaret dropped to the rug. Lasher’s slight gesture told him to pick it up. He obeyed, but as he straightened up, his eyes still looked to the floor. Something held his attention—an ugly dark patch on the carpet—a blood stain reminiscent of another night in Lasher’s study. He remembered well. Rogler and Ance had been members of the inner circle too. A messy deal, even for Blegoff. Lasher had helped him finish it.
His terrified eyes came up. He quailed. “Don’t kill me, Lasher!—I promise—”
“I’m not going to kill you. Go. Don’t come back till you bring me Retterlic. Our armies stand where they are until further notice. Go.”
The general mustered strength to make a nervous salute and march out.
Lasher seized a telephone. “Doraine? . . . Thanks for the favor. I was in deep water until you flashed that note on the televisor. Didn’t know you had the goods on him.”
“I’ve tried to inform you for several days but—”
“I understand. I’ve got to talk with you at once, Doraine—got to make some plans before hell breaks loose.” He hung up and bolted for Doraine’s private office.
Doraine touched her face with make-up. She wished she could put sealing wax over her lips. It was dreadful—even criminal—keeping explosive secrets from her ruler. But she remembered the wise old doctor’s vision of a saner Troxia and a happier world, once Lasher’s terrible power collapsed.
Then the dramatic figure strode in and her heart pounded. She forgot nations and destinies and thought only of this tortured man. He needed her. The least she could do was help him cushion his inevitable fall.
He talked rapidly, erratically. His quarrel with Blegoff hung over him. He loosed his inner thoughts as a tornado scatters debris.
Doraine shuddered. He was cracking up, all right. No wonder. Hungry, famished for peace, yet haunted constantly by his own war menace. Hurled into the faces of world powers by his own catapult. Utterly powerless to resist his own momentum, now that his voice—his whip over the people—cut him down.
“Maybe there’ll still be a chance for me,” he gritted, “after Retterlic comes back and mends my head.”
The girl trembled. How strong would his peaceful sentiments be, she wondered, if he knew the truth? Blegoff was already on the spot for his deceit. What chance would the doctor have who planted torture in the ruler’s head? Or the confidential secretary who kept secrets from him? Or the Troxian Empire, if a reign of terror broke loose from the palace?
She felt his hand grip hers as he pressed her for advice. Desperate, his judgment frayed, he was on the ragged edge of rash action. A word from her would start him off toward the North Pole or the Moon—so long as he went on a mission of peace. He would go forth and arouse the world—
But there was that stubborn barrier again. It intruded upon every plan. The very word “PEACE!” recalled it. If Dr. Retterlic—
A buzzer sounded. Blegoff called from his quarters, much disturbed. Doraine turned the televisor to Lasher.
“I regret to report,” the general said w
ith alarm, “that upon phoning Molingbad Castle for Dr. Retterlic’s release, I learn that he has escaped—”
“Escaped!!”
“There’s no trace as yet, your honor.”
“Well, there’d better be a trace!”
“I’ll go to Molingbad at once to investigate personally,” said Blegoff.
Lasher nodded and snapped off with a groan. Retterlic—his one hope! Out of the picture—perhaps for good. He would never trust anyone else to treat his head. He began to rave.
“Your honor.” The girl’s sympathetic manner quieted him. “I’ve something to tell you . . . You mustn’t hope that Dr. Retterlic will ever stop the pains that come with your emotional voice . . . Don’t ask me to tell you why. Just—believe me.”
With his hands clamped over his head and his wide eyes staring, the crushed little man froze. Minutes passed, an hour, and more. The figure did not move. Doraine spoke to him, placed coffee before him, tried to divert his thoughts. He remained immovable. At last she went out to get an attendant, and when she returned he was gone.
CHAPTER V
On the Border
Months later the weary figure of Dr. Retterlic plodded along the mountain path toward the hidden Kaable Inn. The teasing notes of old Kaable’s bassoon echoed closer. There sat the Timovian inn keeper himself, his long legs dangling over the precipitous porch steps, his peasant clothes giving off brilliant colors under the spring sun. Brilliant music he made, too, thought the doctor.
The notes stopped, the angling figure came forward with a ready handshake.
“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Doc!” He could never remember Retterlic’s name. “Back for another visit. Welcome! How do you find things in Troxia?”
The doctor dropped into a rustic chair and sketched his story. “I haven’t been back to Troxia. Been working on this side of the border. So many refugees needed assistance that I changed my plans. In fact, I may never return to Troxia again.”
