The Arthur Leo Zagat Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur Leo Zagat

  “Yes, that’s it,” he thought, “Go slow. Lull him into unwariness, then I’ll get my two hands around that skinny throat, and—”

  “Great Priest,” he raised his hand in salutation, “I am convinced. Your power is greater far than any man has yet attained. I shall be glad to join and work with you. From now on I am yours to command!”

  The old priest’s reception of this speech, which seemed to be so complete a victory for him, was astounding. His face grew livid, his claw-hands were extended in trembling rage. “Liar!” he shouted, “Fool! Do you dare to mock me? Do you dream to deceive me? Look behind you, fool!”

  Dunton, in consternation, whirled about. On the screen behind him he saw—himself, with his hands clasped about the throat of the lama. Dumbfounded, he stepped back—as he left the platform the screen went blank.

  “Fool!” the old man was still shrieking, “Did you think I would bare to you all my secrets? That platform, that screen, form my thought reading device. Every secret thought of him who stands there is pictured in vivid pantomime on that screen. And you thought to deceive me!”

  Laughter filled the great hemisphere. The lama clapped his hands. Two maroon guards rushed in and seized the American. “Take him away, he dies tomorrow.

  “No!—wait, John Dunton, I have changed my mind. You shall die the slow Death of a Thousand Needles. To the lowest dungeon with him, to await his end.”

  Struggling vainly, the American was unceremoniously pushed to the well, and floated down to the main hall. There, one of the guards pressed another button, and a black, seemingly bottomless pit yawned in front of him. Into this he was pushed. As he staggered over the verge, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the girl just entering the hall. A glimpse of horror depicted on her beautiful face—and he was precipitated into the yawning pit. Down—down into emptiness…

  * * * *

  For what seemed an interminable distance he fell, and just as his nerves were snapping from the imminent crash, his flight was suddenly checked and cushioned, and he was deposited slowly on the ground.

  “Well, this looks like the old man means business,” Dunton muttered, as he looked about the cell in which he found himself. A dim phosphorescence came from the decaying filth about, and revealed a noisome chamber, whose rough stone walls were black with shiny moisture, and whose floor was covered with rotting debris. Walls and floors were alive with pale crawling creatures of decay.

  “God, I’d like to have that mad apostle of evil at my pistol’s end!” What a hell the world will be when he is master of it!”

  Back and forth, back and forth he paced, tramping a path through the foul ordure. One wild scheme for escape after another passed through his tortured brain, only to be despairingly rejected as their utter futility was quickly revealed. Black despair oppressed him. But all his planning, all his despair, could not keep his thoughts from returning always to the girl, the beautiful jewel in this foul setting.

  And so, the long night through, the prisoner paced back and forth in his narrow cell. Sleep was an impossibility, what with the filth of the dungeon and the torturings of his reeling brain. The silence was broken only by the squidge, squidge of Dunton’s steps through the slime.

  What seemed many hours dragged slowly past. Then, startlingly, the American heard a sharp grating as of stone on stone behind him. Fists clenched, the American whirled. But no human antagonist met his startled eye. Instead from the walls now protruded long needles, gleaming sinister. “The Death of a Thousand Needles.” The mad lama’s phrase flashed into his mind. A thousand needles indeed, aye, more than a thousand surrounded him on every hand!

  But wait. No need for panic. As long as he remained away from the bristling walls he was safe. Did the old man expect him to rush headlong on the point? He laughed aloud in relief.

  Again the grating of stone upon stone smote his ears. What was this? A moment ago there had been an irregular smear at the base of the wall before him. It was gone! From wall to wall his glance darted. The space seemed smaller. Or did his eyes deceive him. Swiftly he paced the distance. A long moment he waited, while the ominous rasping continued. Again he measured the distance between the imprisoning walls. An icy hand closed about his heart. They were closer together! Slowly, imperceptibly, the bristling ranks of needles were approaching each other. Inexorably a horrible death was closing in on him.

  Then indeed, Dunton gave up all hope! “The devil, the inhuman monster! Even the Inquisition had no horror such as this. Well, I’ll not stand here quiet to be slowly impaled. When those needles begin to sting me I’ll thrust myself upon them and make a quick end of it. I’ll not give him the satisfaction of witnessing my lingering agonies.”

  Grimly the American took his stand, arms folded, in the centre of the cell. Slowly, oh so slowly, the needle points approached. Long minutes passed.

  At last the end was at hand. Already some of the fatal points were entering the doomed man’s clothing. He closed his eyes and began a last prayer to the God of his fathers. He was resigned. Suddenly the pressure relaxed—a breath of moving air fanned him. He opened his eyes. Miracle of miracles, the walls were swiftly retreating. The needles had disappeared. In a moment all was as before.

  Again he heard stone grating on stone. “What, again. Was the release merely a trick to make the torture more lingering?” A black oblong showed in the wall. “Hush,” a soft voice came to his ears.

  Dunton relaxed. Dimly he descried in the black rectangle the form of the beautiful girl who had so haunted his thoughts.

  “Here, quickly, take this,” and to his astonishment he found in his hand his beloved automatic.

  “Now I feel like a man again! But how in the name of all that’s good were you able to make those damnable walls recede? And why have you done this for me? Who are you?”—a thousand questions tumbled from his lips.

  “Hush! softly! or we both die the Death. Should he find us here he will condemn us both to eternity in Hell.

  “I am called Leila,” the soft voice went on in low voiced murmuring. “I am the foster daughter of the great lama, and I serve him in his noble work. Who my own people are, I know not. Sometimes I dream—but this is not the time for that. I have lived here many years, and he has taught me many things—the motions of the moon and the stars, and the greater knowledge that great Shaitan has vouchsafed only to him. He has taught me the languages of all the earth so that when the great day comes I might aid him, the Vicar of Shaitan on earth, to rule wisely—that the greatest evil might come to His people.

  “Always have I prayed to Shaitan that the day might come soon. Never have I doubted the true faith. Till—woe is me!—till you came, fair skinned as I. When I first beheld you something within me drew towards you, somehow I felt a kinship with you. Somehow, then, doubt crept into my mind, doubt of Shaitan and of His teachings. I fought against it, I had nigh won the fight, till I saw them drag you straggling to this foul dungeon. Then I knew, John Dunton, that he was wrong, that Evil was not the great principle, I knew that God was the greater. All this I knew, John Dunton, because—” A flush made more beautiful that flowerlike cheek— “Because—”

  “Because you love me,” Dunton burst forth, “And I love you, my dearest!” And in that cell the two were enfolded in each other’s arms.

  A long minute they remained thus; their horrible surroundings forgotten. Then, lingeringly they parted, and Leila spoke again.

  “It was the best of luck, my dear one, that you were put in this, the cell of a Thousand Needles. Many years ago I found a secret passage in the walls, a passage which was unknown even to him, and I traced it to this cell. There is a spring that causes the walls to withdraw. There is another spring which moves aside one of the great rocks that form the wall.

  “I waited till the small hours of the morning, then I stole to where they had placed the clothes in which you were brought. I found your weapon, then I made my way to the entrance of the secret passage, just below the great hall, within the stati
on of the outer guard, and came here, to you!”

  “My brave, my dear Leila! Thanks only to you am I still alive. But enough of this, we have work to do—my God, the opening has shut itself.”

  Aghast, the two sprang to the wall where Leila had appeared. It was true. While they had forgotten the world in their rapture, something had moved the great stone and barred the exit. Frantically they pulled and pushed at the great rock, but it was immovable. Then Dunton’s usual calmness returned.

  “Think a moment, dearest. This device must be planned along the lines of the other secret panels in the tower. How do they work?”

  “You are right, there must be some marks which indicate the proper places to press the hidden springs. But it is too dark to see them.”

  “Then let us wait for the morning. There seems to be a window way up on that wall. See there, where that dark circle breaks the phosphorescent glow. Perhaps, when the sun rises there will be light enough to see the marks.”

  “The waiting will not be too long, together.”

  Dunton slipped off the jeweled robe which he still wore and spread it in a corner. “Come, dear, sit here with me and tell me of the dreams of which you referred. Since first I set eyes on your dear face I have been haunted by some strange familiarity in your features. Perhaps your dreams will give some clue as to who you are.”

  Leila nestled close against her stalwart lover, and began:

  “These dreams of mine are not at all vivid. They are confused and shadowy, but they come back again and again. I seem to be living in a small white house. I have many toys, and I am very happy. There are yellow skinned people about; they sweep and clean. One, a woman, does not sweep and clean, but she is always near me.

  “There is another woman, not yellow but white. She seems very dear to me. When I see her in my dreams my heart aches, and an unbearable yearning comes over me.

  “There are white men too, sometimes many of them tramp about. They are dressed in beautiful red clothes. Sometimes they give me shiny buttons to play with. At other times there is just one white man in a red coat. He too seems very dear to me. I kiss him, and he throws me up in the air, and laughs.

  “But the dream I have oftenest is not pleasant. Time and again I have waked up screaming from its terrors. It is night, and I seem to be awakened by a terrible scream. There are muffled thumpings as of many men rushing about softly. Then my door opens and two dark men run in. One of them holds a cloth in his hand which he throws over my head. There is a sweetish smell—then I wake up.”

  “By the seven stars, I’ve got it!” Dunton sat up straight in his excitement. “I know who you are. Great guns, what a coincidence! I know whom you remind me of, now. Major Blakely! You’re his daughter, stolen fifteen years ago!

  Swiftly he told her of the tale he had heard in the Shanghai Club. Wide-eyed Leila drank in the tale. “Then I’m an Englishwoman. And that old man is planning to ruin my own people. John, we must save them. Oh, if it were only light so that I could see how to get out of here. But tell me all about my father, and my country.”

  * * * *

  For a long time Dunton talked to the girl in his arms, till he saw her pretty head droop and her blue eyes veiled in sleep. Gently he held her, until he too dozed off, exhausted by the stirring emotions of that fateful day.

  His adventurous years had habituated Dunton to awakening at any prearranged time, and so, just as a faint paling of the black aperture in the wall told of the near approach of dawn, his eyes opened. He waited yet a moment, till the blackness of the cell had a little lightened; then awakened his new found sweetheart with a kiss.

  “Come dear, wake up! We must work quickly. The old man set sunrise as the hour when he will throw the switch. We must get to him before that.”

  Leila sprang up, and the two ran to the wall through which she had entered. “It should be just about here,” the girl murmured. “You see this depression is too regular in shape to be accidental. Here is another, there should be a third so that the three make a triangle—here it is. Now to find the right combination!”

  A moment of tentative pressings—then the great rock swung aside. Beyond Dunton glimpsed the beginning of a steep staircase of stone, shiny with the moist drippings of ages. Swiftly Leila closed it.

  “There’s some of the old devil’s magic for him to ponder over,” Dunton laughed grimly. “Now, keep behind me and direct me by touching my back—left, right, and the small of my back for stop. Don’t talk!”

  Guided thus, the explorer and the long-lost English girl hastened silently upward. The staircase seemed interminable as the pressing need for haste goaded them. At last Dunton felt the signal to halt.

  They listened. Not a sound penetrated to them. In a barely perceptible whisper Dunton directed. “Open the door, then jump aside. When I have gone out, close it again, and you stay here till I knock six times on the wall—three slow, three fast.”

  A rectangle of opalescent light appeared. Beyond was the spiral slope that first had brought the American to the dome. Just above him a maroon guard was floating upward.

  Dunton stepped out onto the slope. At once he felt the levitating force grip him. He floated on and up.

  Almost at once the summit of the slope was reached. As the attraction was released momentarily for the opening of the trap above, Dunton viciously struck the guard’s head with his clubbed automatic. Then immediately the explorer ripped off the now unconscious Mongol’s maroon robe and hat, and donned them in mid-air as he rose to pass into the great hemisphere above.

  A scene of great activity burst on Dunton as he reached the floor of his objective. A horde of the lama’s minions were rushing about in the ordered confusion of an enormous enterprise. A hum slowly rising in pitch told of the starting of the huge generator. The screen was gone, and the great tubes were beginning to glow cherry red as the electrical current commenced to heat their filaments.

  Dunton merged himself with the busy throng till he reached the rear of the thought transference screen; then crouched there, securely hidden. To his delight, he found that the screen was a network of fine wire, and thus, from his dark vantage point the explorer could see every corner of the brilliantly lighted room, himself unseen. Before him Shaitan’s High Priest was seated on his throne, listening to reports and dispatching orders through a constant stream of messengers.

  A deep-toned gong reverberated through the space. The old lama arose as a sudden paralysis seized the scurrying crowd. The priest raised his right hand high, and spoke:

  “All is now prepared. In a moment the sun’s rays will gild the topmost peaks of the mountains, and the Shaitan’s Day will dawn. I would be alone in the hour of His triumph, alone with Shaitan. Ye have done well, ye faithful servants of the true Master of the World. Go ye now each to his quarters, and await my call. When next ye behold me ye shall have received your reward.”

  As the crowded space cleared, Dunton gasped with horror. Leila, whom he thought safely hidden in the secret passage, was making her way through the retreating mob to the lama’s throne. The priest saw her. “What do you here, maiden? Have you not heard my command?”

  “Father,” the clear voice replied, “Think you that I could be any other where at this moment. Despite your command or that of any other one, my place is here.”

  Dunton realized that the speech was for his ears. In spite of his distress he glowed with pride at her desire to be at his side in the hour of danger.

  “So be it! I had not thought of thee, but I am indeed glad that thou art here. For look you, those fools who have labored here, and whose usefulness to Shaitan and to me is now at an end will indeed receive their reward ere they again behold me. Their quarters are filled with a most deadly gas, and their next meeting with me will be in Shaitan’s realm. Silence now, while I invoke Him to witness His triumph.”

  The old man strode to the center of the room, raised his arms to the image of his Master on the dome overhead, and intoned a prayer.

  �
�O Lord of Evil, great Shaitan, Thy humble servant brings thee now the great gift which he so long ago vowed to make Thee. The whole world and all its people I lay at thy feet, asking no reward, content but that Thou shall be glorified. I invoke that Thou accept this my offering!”

  Did Dunton dream it, or did an unholy expression of evil triumph illumine the face of the fiend painted on the dome?

  “And now to throw the master switch,” the priest turned toward the great board.

  “Stop!” Dunton had leaped from his hiding place with his menacing automatic outthrust. “Stop, or I shoot!”

  The startled priest stared incredulously at the sudden apparition. A moment of realization, then with a snarl of baffled rage he turned. With uncanny swiftness he seized Leila and swung her before him as a living shield. Then only he spoke—

  “So, you think to defeat me in the very instant of realization. Shoot then, but your woman’s God will not let you shoot a woman even in his defense.” With this he commenced backing slowly toward the switch which would debase the globe.

  Dunton was aghast. He must choose between killing his beloved and the ruin of the world. White-faced he tried to force his reeling brain to make the awful decision. But Leila was not quiescent. Frantically she beat and clawed at the old man’s face, frenziedly she kicked and struggled. That slight form seemed to be invested with a strength almost equal to the madman’s own. He reeled and staggered. Then with a final surge of desperate force she broke loose from the lama’s clutch—he fell with her fierce thrust. But as he fell, he reached for the switch—his hands grasped—not the switch but two huge terminals. A scream of agony—a blinding flash—a smell of burnt flesh—and an inert body dropped to the floor.

  When the two saviors of the world somewhat recovered from the terrific strain of that scene, and determined that the arch-enemy was indeed dead, Dunton seized a small ebony chair and turned toward the intricate maze of apparatus. Leila detained him.