by Eando Binder
She looked across at him coolly, from her seat, apparently having awaited his return to consciousness. Slumberous blue eyes, spun platinum hair, snow-white skin—she was almost unreal, inhumanly perfect. A flawless gem, cold and untouchable. And yet, somehow, she was alluringly feminine.
Ellory fought off a spell of staring.
“Where—” The one word was a hoarse croak.
“You’re in our ship, on the way to Antarka,” she answered him. “As a guest.” Her eyes said “prisoner”. “You’ve been unconscious for two hours. Your burns are not serious, however. A few days and the salves will heal them.”
“What happened? What happened?” Memory, more painful than the burns, came to Ellory.
“Your little revolt failed—utterly.” Her voice held no anger or reproof, little emotion of any sort. “You and your men attacked foolishly. Bravely, I suppose you’d call it. Our flame-guns must have cut down a thousand before the rest saw the better of it. You were the ringleader, Humrelly?” Ellory declined to answer that.
“How did you find out about the revolt?” he queried, sunk in despair.
“We observed your lakeside gathering a month ago. Suspicious, we caught an outlander several ‘days later, questioned him. Under some persuasion, he told all he knew. You see the futility of it now, Humrelly?”
“I don’t!” he snapped, with returning spirit. “How do you know your other ships—”
“They were all prepared, as we were. When they report, in Antarka—”
Wild hope surged momentarily in Ellory. “They haven’t communicated with you yet, by radio? Then maybe—”
“Radio? What is that?” She was mildly curious. “We have no long-range communication means.”
Ellory stared. No radio! Their science went down a peg in his estimation. The girl stared back.
“You were the leader, Humrelly. Tell me, you’re an Ancient, aren’t you? A man from some past age. Lord from the Past, the man called you.”
Ellory hesitated, then shrugged. The secret could not be concealed further.
“If you must have me say it, I am,” he grunted briefly. “Twentieth century.”
“Old reckoning, of course. That’s—urn—three thousand years ago.” She said it calmly. “I suspected it from the first moment I saw you, almost a year ago, in Norak. Your manner, your spirit, your accent. Then, down in Thakal, I was almost sure of it. I also suspected your plan, introducing metal weapons, federating the Outland people, defying us. Defying our—tyranny?”
“Is that what you call it yourself?” he snapped. “Why didn’t you investigate sooner if you suspected?”
“For the excitement of it,” she drawled, toying with the sparkling blue diamond at her throat. “Sometimes life in Antarka is dull. A breath of danger, even under our indulgence, is a slight diversion.”
Ellory glared at her. Behind that beautiful, haughty mask reposed a mind queerly different from any he had ever known. A mind that saw the Stone-Age as a vast playground perhaps, a stage set for her enjoyment.
“I suppose my fate, as arch-conspirator, is—the ultimate?”
She shrugged. “There will be a trial. If you hadn’t attacked like a madman, you would have earned leniency. When the attack came, I told the gunners to save you.”
“For the hangman!” muttered Ellory bitterly. “What happens to the others? Jon Darm—”
“Another chance for him. But his city goes. There will be the usual hunt after a revolt—a few cities burned down, Outlanders chased to the hills, here and there. The usual lesson. Down in our safe little world, we will gossip about it for a while.”
Her voice went to sheer boredom. “I wish you had made it just a little more interesting, Humrelly. I gave you the chance. I could have reported you to the Outland Council much sooner.”
Rage at her untroubled, superior tone shook him.
“Pretty high and mighty, aren’t you?” he blazed. “Well, I’m not so sure it’s over yet!” He went on recklessly. “Several hundred tribal states, and I don’t know how many millions of people, can’t be downed so easily—united! They’ve been aroused. They sing a chant of hate, a thousand years of it. I’ve told them how to down your power, even if it takes years and years. I’ve told them!”
The girl smiled.
“You told them. Yes, Humrelly. But they forget easily, like children. It is advanced reasoning, to them. Your spell held them for a while. Without your leadership, the federation will fall apart. Each noisy, self-centered little state will crawl into its own shell, to exist as it did before you came.”
Ellory bit his lip. Devilish logic, and sound. The whole success of the rebellion had depended on Ellory, on the clear cold reasoning and planning of a mind at least equal to the Antarkans. The Stone-Age people had followed Ellory as the twentieth century might have followed a demi-god from some mighty, forgotten civilization that knew all things. Left to themselves, now, the Outlanders would forget his clear-cut mission, drop back into the tribal traditions of the past thousand years.
The Outlanders! Ellory rebelled against the term, as used by the Antarkans. It meant serfdom. Privileged lords speaking contemptuously of their slaves.
“You know,” Ellory said bitingly, “you’re tyrants. Worse than any in history. You’re part of the rottenest, vilest crudest, most vicious mishandling of the masses known!”
He watched her, hoping to disturb her complacency in some slightest degree, as revenge for his own hollow failure.
“Behind your beautiful mask, you’re a depraved creature. That’s what I think of you.”
Her azure eyes were level, amused. “You do think I’m beautiful! You said it down in Thakal. You said it with your eyes, in Norak, when you first saw me. You say it now.”
“Beautiful, yes—but vicious!” Ellory replied.
For just a moment anger flicked from her eyes. But her voice reMalned calm, without malice. “You have a wild tongue, Humrelly.”
“In my time, we spoke our minds,” he retorted. “As well hang me for a sheep as a lamb. I’ll tell all your Lords down there the same thing—tyranny in any language under the sun!”
She laughed.
“I’m afraid you’re an idealist, Humrelly. We’re realists. Those in power enjoy the good things of life. It is their good fortune. Why sacrifice it? It entails little real hardship for the Outlanders to supply us with servants and food. They still eat and live and love—”
“Good God, how can you be so smug about it?” exploded Ellory. He paced the narrow cabin, unmindful of his burns. “Bad as your tribute-taking is, without reciprocity, your sin of omission is still greater—not lifting one little finger to better their lives. Letting them go on in Stone-Age backwardness. The privileged have the responsibility of helping those less fortunate. It’s the first law of civilization. You could do something for them—”
“Exactly what?” The words, soft, nevertheless cut sharply.
“Give them something of your science, your knowledge, your material things—” He stopped, groping for expression.
“The material supplies of Antarka are limited, Humrelly. Barely enough for our small world. Spread among the rest, they would get useless bits of metal, coal, machine-woven cloth. This is a threadbare time Humrelly, not like your lush Twentieth century. If the fault lies anywhere, it rests upon your time and the directly following age, with your traditions. What of your great senseless wars, lavish waste of nature’s bounty? We’re what we are because of that!”
Ellory avoided her eyes.
“All right,” he said more quietly. “But you still can’t whitewash your social tyranny over the world. Secondly, have you ever tried to break the deadlock? The ocean is full of metals, crammed with them. Radioactivity, atomic power are possible sources of new power. Have you looked ahead? Have you tri
ed anything?”
He faced her lidded eyes. A faint unfathomable smile rested on her lips.
“You’re a dreamer, Humrelly, aren’t you?”
“Dreams are the stepping stones of progress,” he said tritely.
She was still watching him.
“I like you for it, Humrelly!” she declared candidly. “There hasn’t been such a one as you for a long time. You say disturbing things. You are impractical, emotional, foolishly optimistic. Yet you aren’t a fool.”
“Thanks!” he grunted dryly. “Now that I’ve been psychoanalyzed, would you mind getting out? I’m tired.” His nerves were jangling.
“I disturb you, Humrelly?” she queried, with a meaning he ignored.
“When do we arrive at Antarka?”
She glanced at a crystalline time-piece on her wrist.
“Three hours since we left Norak. We’ll be there in seven more.”
“A thousand miles an hour?” he gasped.
“In the stratosphere.”
She opened a door to the rear, glanced in. Turning, she said, “There’s a visitor here I think you’d like to see. She’s over her hysterics now.”
She beckoned to someone beyond the doorway.
Sharina entered, her face tear-stained. With a little cry, she darted to Ellory’s arms, choking back sobs.
“Sharina!” Ellory looked at her in amazement. “How—”
“When you had fallen and the firing stopped in the square,” explained ErMalne carelessly, “she ran to you. When we took you in the ship, she struggled so violently to get in that I permitted it.”
She looked at them, arms about one another. Expressionlessly, she left.
“Sharina, you shouldn’t have come,” Ellory murmured, patting her shoulder. “Don’t you realize that I’m—”
“Mal Radnor,” she whispered. “He’s dead! I saw him die, burning—”
“Mal Radnor—good God!” Now Ellory remembered seeing him crumple at his side during that mad attack.
The young chieftain’s sturdy face rose in his mind, his constant companion for long months. Strong bonds of friendship and mutual respect had grown between them. Ellory looked at the girl. Even she hadn’t been a separating force.
“He was a martyr, Sharina,” Ellory said huskily.
She moved out of his arms. “I came along, Humrelly, to be with you to the last.”
“To the last! You know then?” he asked gently.
She nodded. She was staring at him, waiting for him to go on, it seemed. Ellory found himself comparing her with ErMalne. Sharina, sweet, simple, lovely as a flower. ErMalne, alluring, exotic, exquisitely fragile as rare porcelain. But beneath that cold beauty was what? Was there any feeling there?
In a sudden tide of feeling against the arrogant girl of Antarka, Ellory tried to shake off the confusion in his mind. He took a step toward Sharina. Now, with Mal Radnor gone, he could declare himself.
“Angel, I—”
And then, abruptly, he stopped. Confusion again, with the patrician features of ErMalne dancing before his eyes. The past events overwhelmed him. Weakness from his throbbing burns stole into his body.
“It’s all such a mess, Sharina!” he moaned, sinking to his couch. “I’ve failed so miserably—”
He was only aware that her soft hand stroked his forehead tenderly. Then he passed into troubled sleep.
Chapter 19
LAND OF ANTARKA
Six hours later, again awake, Ellory accepted ErMalne’s invitation to look about the ship. She gave him a cape-like silken garment to throw over his shoulders. His burns had quieted. His mind was dulled, somewhat, to the recent horror of the massacre. He refused food, however. Food could not fill the emptiness he felt within him.
Sharina accompanied them. She clutched his hand half fearfully as ErMalne led them before a crystalline port. Sheer nothingness lay below, till the eyes met the atmospheric haze, and blankets of clouds over Earth.
“Fifteen miles up,” said the Lady ErMalne casually.
The ship’s ovoid cabin, supported by its wide triangular wings, was a sealed, warmed pocket within its metal shell, divided into a dozen small rooms. Fore and aft were larger spaces, control room and storage hold. The latter Ellory viewed stonily—it had carried thousands of youths to Antarka—but the control room held his interest.
A half dozen silken-clad men sat before a wide panel of dials, gauges and levers. It was faintly reminiscent of the giant experimental trans-oceanic planes of 1970. But this represented their full development, with stratosphere range and rocket motivation. This Ellory had so eagerly looked forward to, when he had crawled out of the crypt.
ErMalne was at his side.
“What fuel do you use?” queried Ellory, watching the rhythmic spurting of flame from the wings’ hind edges, propelling them forward smoothly.
“Gasoline and liquid air,” ErMalne informed him. “More energy per weight than any other chemical combination.”
Ellory was just a little startled, and disappointed. He had expected it would be some astounding new fuel. Again, curiously, the science of Antarka fell in his estimation.
“Your weapon?” Ellory indicated one of the numerous tubular devices clamped to swivels that could swing them out through open portholes.
“Yes. Little metal pellets of highly-volatile gasoline are shot out by a spring mechanism. Heat of air-friction causes the liquid to expand, bursting the shell. The vapors instantly ignite, in the air, forming a ball of fire.”
Quite horrible and effective, as Ellory had seen.
“It has a short range?” he guessed.
ErMalne nodded.
“A hundred yards. But it is all the weapon we have—or need. We do not need the monstrous guns and bombs of your time. We do not have wars in Antarka.” She smiled at him.
“In that, we are truly civilized, aren’t we, Humrelly?” She went on: “As a matter of fact, we can’t afford wars. One good one would be our end. Antarka, whatever else you may think it, is a land of peace.”
“And tyranny,” Ellory muttered.
“Look—Antarka approaches!”
Ellory had felt the floor under them pressing upward for some minutes, and the forward thrust of the ship diminished. They were gliding down toward Earth, the tremendous pace of the stratosphere cut down by air resistance.
Antarctica, land of the South Pole!
In Ellory’s day, it had been a cold, frozen, bitter wilderness usurped by unbroken ice. Now it was open brown land, with only a crown of glistening ice about the South Pole itself. It looked vaguely like a vast doughnut floating over the vaster seas.
“Earth’s axis hasn’t tilted,” Ellory said thoughtfully. The sun was low on the horizon. “But climate has changed radically since my time, Lady ErMalne.”
She nodded. “Emergence from the last Ice Age.”
“Of course!” Ellory snapped his fingers. That theory had been gaining ground in 1970, he recalled. Slowly but surely, the average temperature was rising, from the minimum of the Ice Age twenty-five thousand years or so ago. Massachusetts had been a bitter land to the Puritans of 1700. Boston had become comparatively balmy in 1970. Now, in 5000 A.D., those latitudes were Floridian.
And Antarctica, also the Arctic, after these three thousand years, had finally won free from their eon long prison of ice.
Below the clouds now, the ship passed over what Ellory surmised was Ross Sea, the outjutting crags of Admiralty Range, and the South Magnetic Pole area. A tall, cratered peak must be lonely Mount Erebus. Then over a mountain range and down into little America, where Byrd, an age before, had struggled against the elements.
The elements had been vanquished by time, since then. There was a city now.
Ellory was again di
sappointed. He had expected a forest of spires, skyscrapers, row on row of buildings. He had been yearning to see such, in this age that had elsewhere leveled all man’s works to the ground. Instead he saw only a dull, metallic object, like a shield lying there. Yet it was huge, perhaps a mile across.
“Our city is underground,” ErMalne explained, smiling at his rueful perplexity. “That is its metal cap. Though the land is clear of ice, the climate here is quite bitter still. It snows often. Underground, it is snug and warm. And down there, easy to reach, are the coal and metal veins.”
Landing on the broad metal plate, the ship halted beside a huge drome and was then wheeled in by little auto-tugs. Ellory’s sense of hearing was titillated by a familiar chug-chug, that of a gasoline combustion motor. Surviving mark of the 20th century! He felt almost proud in that thought.
The Lady ErMalne, wrapping a cloak about her, stepped out toward a low housing. Following, Sharina and Ellory shivered in the bite of chill, polar air. Entering a heat-tight door, a smooth-dropping elevator took them below the metal cap’s level. They stepped out again into warmed air that had the instant taint of city life to Ellory.
He looked around eagerly.
A new world. Or rather, an old, old one of three thousand years ago! For a moment, in broad detail, it was the twentieth century again, the heart of New York, or Chicago, or Paris. There were the clang, bustle and murmurous undertone of an active mechanical community. Ellory’s senses dizzied, as if he had been shot back in a time machine to the age he had left.
But then, taking in detail, the heady illusion left. It was a city such as had not been known or dreamed of in 1970. They were treading a metal bridge, from the bank of elevators, that overhung a deep well. ErMalne led them close to the railing, pointing down for them to look. Ellory gasped.
Down and down the sheer central pit went, as if to the center of Earth. Evenly spaced were the metal floors of successive levels. They were pinned solidly to columnar metal posts running from top to bottom of the beehive city. Ellory gave silent tribute to the engineers who had conceived this gigantic project, balancing those tremendous weights between post and pillar.
