Flash Gordon 2 - The Plague of Sound

by Alex Raymond

  The old man took the weapon and said nothing.

  Jillian turned toward the watching freeman. “You can wait for us out here if you like,” she said. “If everything goes well, maybe some of your friends and relatives will also be free soon.”

  A few minutes later the three were moving through the night closer to the buried city.

  CHAPTER 30

  Time had passed. Flash knew that. He awoke in utter darkness once again.

  He sat up, hurting, feeling as though his skeleton was somehow outside his body. His head ached and, when he tried to stand, he found himself swaying.

  Carefully Flash lowered himself to the padded floor. “There’s got to be a way out of here,” he told himself. “I can’t let Pan . . .”

  The pale-blue light started illuminating the room. The control room beyond the oval window blossomed with light as well.

  “You don’t look rested, Flash Gordon,” said the voice of Pan, laughing.

  The laughter came rasping out of the ceiling speakers.

  Flash made himself get up and face the bearded man.

  “Apparently, my first persuasive treatment was not sufficient,” observed Pan. “I see you’re still able to stand.”

  His laughter filled the room.

  Flash made no reply.

  “You no doubt realize,” continued Pan, “that I am only amusing myself with you, Flash Gordon, showing you what power I control. There actually is no need to persuade you with sound to tell me what I wish to know.”

  “You’re going to have to use something, Pan.”

  “Exactly,” Pan said. “But I have merely to put this on your handsome head and you will do whatever I ask,” A slave helmet dangled from his hand. “To show you how effective this little piece of headgear is, I’ve brought along someone to watch this current interrogation.”

  “Dale,” said Flash.

  The girl was beside Pan now. She wore one of the slave helmets. She glanced casually at Flash through the tinted glass, a bland smile on her face.

  “Say hello to Flash Gordon, my dear,” suggested the smiling Pan.

  “Hello, Flash Gordon,” said Dale in a level voice.

  “Damn you, Pan!” Flash charged at the oval window, slamming both his fists against it.

  Then the sounds started again. Worse, much worse, than before.

  Dale continued to smile.

  Manyon, Pan’s heavyset green aide, walked cautiously across the living room of his own private suite. Glancing around, he got down on all fours to pull a palm-sized music-playing unit out from under a sideboard. Then from a pocket in his nightrobe, he took a microcassette that had been smuggled in to him that morning.

  Smiling, the green man settled down in a floating armchair and inserted the cassette into the player in his hand. He thrust the earjack into one green ear, leaned back. Jazz music, with blaring brass and tinny piano, poured into his ear. Popular stuff, the kind of music Pan did not allow in Perfect City. Manyon closed his eyes, tapping his fingers on the chair arm in time with the music.

  “Fool, is this how you spend the eve of my greatest triumph?”

  Manyon’s eyes flapped open. The earjack popped out of his ear. “I was merely checking over prior speeches of yours, Master Pan, to locate further brilliant phrases of yours for use in—”

  “Enough of your simpering, Manyon.” Pan stood a few feet from the seated man, a dark cloak wrapped around himself. “Do you have the keys to the prisoner cells?”

  “Of course, Master Pan,” replied the green man. He got up, letting the little cassette player drop to the chair seat. “You know only you and I have the keys, since I am the most trusted—”

  “I want the keys to the room where Flash Gordon is,” demanded Pan. “Also that of Dale Arden’s place of imprisonment.”

  “Here, sir, is the key to Flash Gordon’s interrogation cell,” said the green man. He took a ring of keys from the pocket of his robe. “But surely you remember, Master Pan, that Dale Arden is now a slave and does not require locking up.” He tilted his head to the right, eying his employer. “In fact, I had the impression you were with Flash Gordon at this very moment.”

  “Which is why you thought you might get in a little illicit listening, dolt.” Pan strode up to Manyon, gripping the green man’s shoulder. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Manyon.”

  “What, Master Pan?”

  “Well, for one thing, daddy, I ain’t Master Pan. You dig? And now I’m going to turn into you for a while, dude. So forgive me for this.”

  Manyon’s mouth formed an O. He had the impression, as he fell to the floor from a blow to the chin, that he’d been slugged by himself.

  CHAPTER 31

  The corridor was long and straight, lit by strips of pale-yellow light. Three slaves in black tunics moved silently along it. After their noiseless passage, it was empty.

  A minute passed, then a circular section in the floor of the corridor lifted partially. Sawtel, alone now, emerged and pulled himself up. Once he’d shut the round trap door there was no trace of it.

  The white-bearded man began making his way along the hall.

  A lone slave appeared at the far end. “Halt there,” he ordered. “Who are—?”

  Sawtel’s stunpistol flashed out of his tunic and quietly whirred.

  The slave took one step in the old man’s direction before freezing.

  Sawtel ran to the stunned man. “Now, if I remember rightly there’s a door right about here.” He pressed with his gnarled fingers at the smooth ivory wall.

  A section of the wall eased open. Straining, the old man tumbled the slave guard into the cubicle beyond the secret door. “You’ll be able to get yourself out of there shortly.”

  He continued on his way. Three corridors branched off the end of that one, each lit with a different color of light. Without hesitating, the old man chose the hall which glowed in pale blue. This one curved and zigzagged down and down.

  “Final bend coming up,” said Sawtel to himself. He slowed, scanning the blank wall. “Yes, here.” He pressed and another concealed door opened to him.

  This time the old man stepped into the wall. A very narrow passageway was hidden there; there was no light. Sawtel needed none, for he knew where he was going.

  When he came to the end of the dark passage, the old man stopped and listened. Then he reached out, pressing his fingertips against the padded metal.

  A huge room opened before Sawtel now, filled with bright machinery and an intricacy of metal catwalks and walkways. There were three slave technicians in the room, all with their backs to the old man.

  “You’ll soon be free,” the old man said to himself as he fired his stun pistol.

  Slowly the nearest slave began to slide from the workstool he’d been working on. As his stiffened body toppled over sideways, his right hand brushed an electric screwdriver from his table.

  The screwdriver hit the metal leg of the stool and made a pinging sound.

  The other two technicians spun, reaching for the blaster pistols strapped to their sides.

  Sawtel’s stun pistol whirred again.

  “Now to get to work,” he said, moving into the room and bypassing the three stunned figures. “I should have had the nerve to do this all by myself long ago.”

  He climbed a metal ladder, inched along a catwalk, and stopped in front of a complex control panel. After studying it for several seconds, the old man turned off a dozen switches and toggles. “There now,” he said, chuckling. “Now, there are no more slaves.” He twisted a finger into his beard. “Better make certain there won’t be any more again.”

  With considerable agility, Sawtel hurried down the ladder to the worktable. He selected a silver hammer and went rapidly back up to the panel controlling the slave helmets. “This ought to do it,” he said, and began smashing.

  Everything was different in the white square in the center of Perfect City. The silence was gone. People were talking, shouting, calling to
each other.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Something’s broken down.”

  “We’re not slaves any more.”

  “Let’s get off these damn helmets quick.”

  “What could have happened?”

  “It could be a trick, another of his cruel tricks.”

  “Trick or not, we’re not slaves.”

  “Let’s get him!”

  “Let’s get Pan!”

  “The hell with that. Let’s just get out of here!”

  “Yeah, he’s right. Let’s get out.”

  “We’ll have to fight our way out. There’s no way to open the exit ways.”

  “There is—look!”

  “Look, they’re all opening.”

  “There’s the jungle up there.”

  “Let’s go, let’s get out of here!”

  “It may be a trick.*’

  “I’ll risk it.”

  “Look, he’s made it. He’s outside and nothing’s happened.”

  “Come on, I’m going too.”

  Noise filled the streets and the ramps. The people who had been trapped there by Pan were free and they swarmed away from Perfect City. Laughter echoed through the spotless streets.

  “He’s done it,” said Tad, a few minutes earlier.

  “Is he all right?” asked Jillian.

  “Yes,” answered the lanky boy. “Sawtel’s going to remain in the control room for a while longer. He has a few more things to take care of.”

  The two of them were making their way through a tunnel beneath the building which housed Pan and his pipe organ.

  “What about my brother?” asked the red-haired girl.

  “He’s working here in the palace,” said Tad. “We’ll find him soon.”

  “Let’s get to Flash Gordon first,” said the girl. “He’s been suffering much more.”

  Tad held out a restraining arm. He frowned, eyes nearly closed. “No one in this corridor now,” he said after a moment. He touched the wall and a portion of it slid aside.

  “Listen to that,” said Jillian.

  The shouting and laughing of the freed slaves could be heard dimly in the corridor they had stepped into.

  “They’re realizing they aren’t slaves any more,” said Tad. “Most of them are going to leave Perfect City right away.”

  “Do you know where Pan is?”

  “He’s stopped torturing Flash again,” answered the youth. “He’s in his sanctum playing his pipe organ. Dale Arden is with him.”

  “Then we’ll have a chance to get to Flash.”

  “Yes,” said Tad. “We can go there. But wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve just picked up Flip’s thoughts.” Tad laughed. “He even thinks in that old-fashioned jargon. But he seems to be about to rescue Flash himself. Yes, that’s what he’s up to, so we can concentrate on your brother.”

  “You’re sure Flash is okay?”

  “Yes, Flip can . . . oh, no, you can’t . . .” The boy stopped, his face white.

  “What’s wrong, Tad. What’s happened?”

  The boy didn’t answer for a moment. “I . . . it’s nothing. I happened to catch one of Sawtel’s thoughts. It’s nothing to worry about, Jillian. Let’s get moving.”

  “She took hold of his hand. “Tad, what did you find out?”

  “It’s nothing,” Tad answered. “Really. Come on, I’ll lead you to your brother.”

  The girl hesitated, then followed him.

  CHAPTER 32

  Bare green feet were coming down through the ceiling.

  Flash had been lying sprawled on his back. Pushing with his elbows, he began to rise. “Now what?”

  “Be cool, daddy, and don’t flip your wig like. The marines have landed, you know.”

  Flash shook his head, trying to clear some of the pain out of himself. “Flip, is that you?”

  “Nobody else but, man. In person and in the flesh. I’m impersonating this cat name of Manyon who’s a big wheel here in PC.” He dropped to the floor. “They been giving you a bad time, man?”

  “Not so good,” admitted Flash.

  “Okay, you think as how you can climb out of this-here hole through that opening up there?”

  Narrowing his eyes, Flash glanced upward. “Yeah, with a boost from you.”

  “Good enough, daddy.” Flip linked his now green fingers together to form a stirrup.

  Flash stepped on it with one foot and pushed upward. He had a few seconds of dizziness, but was able to catch hold of the edge of the opening in the ceiling. “Got it,” he said as he caught hold of the rim of the exit hole.

  “Way to go, daddy,” said Flip. “Now I sure hope you can tug me on out of here.”

  Flash rolled across the padded metal roof of the cell he’d been confined in. This was a corridor up here, white-walled and lit with strips of pale-orange light. He went back to the opening and was about to reach his arms down for Flip to catch.

  “Here now, what goes on?” A tall black slave was trotting down the corridor toward him, hand hovering over his holster.

  “Sounds like something’s going on wrong,” said Flip down in the cell.

  Flash stood to face the charging guard. “You better listen to the man down there,” he said, pointing at the opening.

  “You’re Flash Gordon,” said the slave. His gun appeared in his hand, pointing right at Flash.

  Tensing, Flash threw himself sideways. A shot from the blaster went sizzling through the spot where he had been.

  “Surrender,” shouted the slave.

  Flash rose to make a dive for the black man. But another wave of dizziness hit him. He took one step and stumbled.

  Down in the cell Flip was making a concerted effort to jump up and get a grip on the edge of the opening. “Higher, man, jump higher.” He was not succeeding.

  The slave took careful aim at Flash with his gun. Then he straightened, beginning to laugh. “Hey, what happened? What am I doing this for?” He ripped the helmet from his head. “You okay, friend?”

  Flash stared at him. “What’s happened to you?”

  “I’m not quite sure, friend,” replied the slave. “Except this helmet just turned off and I don’t work for Pan anymore. Anything I can do for you before I take off and get myself far away from here?”

  “Can you help me haul my friend up out of there?”

  “Sure thing, friend.” The big black man knelt beside the opening. “Grab hold, buddy.”

  Flip had returned to his natural self now. “Hi, brother,” he said, catching hold of the proffered hand. In a moment he was standing beside Flash, “Much obliged, daddy.”

  “Nice meeting you,” said the freed slave as he wandered off.

  “That’s very cool,” said Flip. “What you think done happened, Flash baby?”

  “It could be that only that guy’s helmet broke down,” said Flash. “I think, though, that maybe Sawtel decided to come into the city and take a hand.”

  “You mean like he maybe got to the central controls and cut off everybody’s water at the same time, man?”

  “We can soon find out,” said Flash. “Do you know where Pan is holding Dale?”

  “Yeah, man,” replied Flip. “I know this place inside and out now. She’s up in his music room.”

  “Where he controls the sound plague?”

  “No, that’s over in the control area. I mean like where he plays music, you dig? Seems like this cat is fond of laying down sounds on a pipe organ. How do you like that, a pipe organ?”

  “Can you lead me there?”

  “Oh, yeah, daddy. Just follow along in my wake.” Flip began walking rapidly along the corridor.

  “Thanks for bailing me out,” said Flash. “How’d you manage it?”

  “Well, when all those dudes jumped us, I said to myself, Flip, my boy, if you wasn’t a carbon copy of this technical cat, they wouldn’t know who you was maybe. So I whipped off my white smock, changed into a bland-looking pink
-colored slave and started yelling like the rest of them. You will recall I was wearing my old slave threads under that smock.” He jabbed a finger to the left. “We go this way, baby.”

  There was noise in the new corridor they’d entered. The slaves who worked there were talking among themselves, helmets held in their hands or tossed on the metal floor.

  “Looks like it is all of them, then,” said Flash.

  “That’s very cool,” observed Flip. “No more slaves.”

  He beckoned Flash to follow him up a stairway. No one paid much attention to the two of them.

  “Anyways,” continued Flip, “I did my slave bit for a while until I wormed my way into this-here building. Then I kind of skulked around and listened to this and that. I remember this Manyon cat and that he was pretty high up in the flunky ranks. So I did me a little snooping and found out he might have a set of keys to unlock your prison. Then I did one of my best impersonations yet. I swiped a cloak out of a vacant suite of rooms and I came on to Manyon like I was Pan himself. Fooled him long enough to get the keys.”

  Flash grinned. “I’m glad I got the benefit of some of your finest performances.”

  “Oh, man, I’m good all the time,” said Flip. “But, yeah, I think I’m really zinging tonight.” He slowed down and stopped. “We got to go careful now. We’re getting mighty close.”

  CHAPTER 33

  President Bentancourt sat at his semicircular metal desk, forlornly shuffling through reports on the effects of the plague of sound in his territory. He pushed back, stood up from the desk, and walked with shoulders hunched to the window of his office. Ribbons of fog were floating by through the dark. Hands behind his back, he stood watching the night. “What’s become of Zarkov?” he mused. “It’s been hours since he was here, with his beard shaved off and demanding the loan of an airtruck. I wish he’d told me exactly what he was . . .”

  Honking sounded outside his window. An airtruck was circling the executive building.

  Down below in the courtyard appeared two secret service men, waving their arms at the president and shouting. “Get away from the windows, sir.”