Twin of the Amazon

by John Russell Fearn

  “Very well, Amazon,” the astronomer answered, somewhat coldly. “Will they not land in the usual place?”

  “That—I don’t know.” The Amazon hoped that her brief hesitation passed unnoticed. “In any event, keep me advised.”

  She snapped off the contact and returned to her work of planning out the blueprint of the supersonic projector. She remained at the desk—except when she had refreshment brought in to her by Tana—until dusk; then Mount Wilson came through again with the information that the twenty flying saucers were, as before, heading for the main London space-port.

  “The infernal impudence of the woman!” the Amazon breathed. “She has actually taken over the Dodd Space Line grounds for her flying saucers...!”

  Wasting no further time, she hurried into the house, donned a light dust coat, and then returned to the smaller hangar annexed to her laboratory, releasing the roof switch as she entered. In a few moments she was in her helicoplane, streaking for the centre of London. It was essential that she arrive at the space-ground before the “transferred” Earthlings had the chance to mingle with the myriads of the metropolis.

  She found that her fears had no foundation. Though the flying saucers had landed when she arrived and were standing edgewise on their braced struts like titanic wheels, there was no sign of a general exodus. Instead, a tall Martian pilot stood outside each machine, waiting.

  The utter quietness of everything puzzled the Amazon for a moment when she had stepped from her helicoplane, then she realized that evidently the Metrix had made this a forbidden area to the public so that the saucers could land without interference or observation.

  As for the space-ground’s normal duty of carrying passengers back and forth to Venus, there was nothing at all going on, and the huge Dodd Building in the distance was dark and apparently deserted instead of blazing with light and activity. How deep the tragedy of the Martian domination had struck, the Amazon knew only at that moment.

  She hurried across to where the pilots were waiting. They saluted as she approached them in the glare of the arclights drenching the big area. She was satisfied that she was adopting the right procedure: evidently Valina had made such journeys as these when flying saucers had landed.

  “Awaiting orders,” the leading pilot said, and saluted again.

  “You have forty Earthlings?” the Amazon asked, having carefully rehearsed her words beforehand.

  “Yes, Metrix. It is for you to decide where they shall go.”

  “Not this time,” the Amazon responded, with a wave of her hand. “Let them mingle with people as they choose. In that way they are best fitted to pick up information.”

  Since to question the decision of the “Metrix” was impossible, the pilot turned to his colleagues and spoke briefly in his fluid tongue. In response the air-locks were opened, and the Amazon stood silently watching as forty Earth people, men and women, in topcoats and hats, filed out of the vessels and began to disperse into the dark towards the space-ground gates.

  The Amazon’s eyes narrowed a little as she singled out a woman whom she had seen once or twice on the stage. She was Claire Del Foye, famous star of many a musical comedy. With hands deep in her overcoat pockets, the Amazon walked over to her.

  “Miss Foye, if you’ve a moment I’d like a word with you.”

  The woman stopped. Her beautiful, sensitive face was placid, controlled, as was the body, by a Martian brain.

  “Yes?”

  “You will be continuing your stage work as before?”

  “I hope to.”

  “Good. You know your duty. These people of Earth must be made to realize that we of Valdon are the masters. Incite them to destroy themselves. It will make things so much easier. From the stage you have a supreme chance. You understand?”

  “Yes, Metrix,” the woman replied, with a quiet smile. “I understand very well. And I am honoured to be thus singled out by you.”

  The Amazon waved a hand briefly, and the woman went on her way. Slowly the Amazon returned to the assembled pilots.

  “You will need forty new subjects to take back with you,” she said. “Find them—making no particular selection—and then go. That is all.”

  Again the salutes, and the Amazon returned to her helicoplane. As she streaked it back towards her home, she took an object like a photoelectric exposure meter from her pocket and looked at the reading on it.

  “Aura nine seven eight,” she murmured. “Claire Del Foye will not be very difficult to find—and even less so if she still continues to use the same hotel in London.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Some time after midnight a helicoplane landed on the flat roof of the Barrington Hotel in the heart of London, and the black-garbed figure of the Amazon descended from it, what faint starlight there was reflecting from the belt about her waist.

  Upon her wrist, faintly illumined by internal radium light, was a small compass on universal bearings, the diamond-tipped needle revolving on a flawless pivot. Energized to Aura 978 it automatically trained itself on whatever human being possessed that aura, and with no two human beings possessing an identical aura, there could be no mistakes.

  Nor were there. The Amazon had watched the needle during her helicoplane flight from her home, and it had guided her straight to this hotel. Now the needle was pointing downwards, to a room somewhere directly beneath her feet. In that room must be the owner of Aura 978—Claire Del Foye.

  Without a sound, the Amazon climbed over the roof parapet and, using the ledges in the massive stone blocks—for the Barrington was one of the older-type buildings of a half century before—as toe and finger hold, she went downwards swiftly, regardless of the three-hundred foot drop into the street below.

  Now and again she paused and looked at the compass. It now pointed diagonally downwards, indicating a further floor below. When she was at the window of that floor, the Amazon found the needle pointing horizontally, straight into the room behind the glass.

  Carefully she eased herself on to the window-ledge and sat on it, taking a small glass-cutter and suction-cup from her belt. In a few seconds she had removed a circle from the glass and reached inside to unfasten the catch. Then, pushing up the sash, she dropped silently into the room, using her uncanny faculty for seeing in the dark to look about her. As she had expected, there was a blonde-headed figure in the bed.

  Reaching out to the bedside lamp, the Amazon switched it on and took a proton-gun from her belt. She nudged the hard, cold muzzle in the woman’s neck.

  “Get up,” she ordered. “And make no sounds!”

  Claire Del Foye stirred sleepily and squinted into the glow of light, then she started at the vision of the Amazon.

  “Metrix!” she gasped, in the Martian tongue. “This— this is most—”

  “I’m not the Metrix; I’m the Golden Amazon,” the Amazon interrupted. “And I’m in no mood to play games with a Martian skulking around in an Earth woman’s body. Get up and dress! And talk English if you have to talk at all. I’ll understand you better.”

  “Then you—” The woman stopped and stared with a pair of blank grey eyes.

  With her free hand the Amazon reached out and scooped up clothes and trifles from a nearby chair.

  “Dress,” she commanded.

  The woman had no choice, and her eyes on the levelled gun, she began to hastily attire herself—then she looked at the Amazon in undisguised viciousness.

  “Well, what now?” she demanded.

  “Get out of that window and start climbing. If you drop you’ll kill yourself and I’ll have to find somebody else. It’s up to you. Go on.”

  Claire Del Foye went to the window and climbed outside, looked appalled at the darkness and the dizzying drop down the side of the building, and then as the gun prodded at her hastily she began to climb.

  The Amazon came up below her, and after twelve minutes of hard ascent—as far as the actress was concerned— the two women came up on to the roof.

  “In you ge
t,” the Amazon snapped, nodding to her helicoplane in the starlight.

  She bundled the woman ahead of her as she hesitated and took good care to strap her down whilst she made the swift flight back to her home. Not until she had the woman securely belted down on a long bench in the laboratory did she put her proton-gun away in its holster once more.

  “What—what are you going to do?” There was plain fright in the woman’s voice.

  “First I am going to get some information from you, and then I...” The Amazon considered and smiled coldly. “And then I am going to kill you! Martians, I believe, are much safer dead than alive.”

  “You can’t! I’m only obeying orders! You know I am! I wouldn’t have my brain in this body but for the Metrix.

  It is she who is the cause of—”

  “I’m not interested in the reasons. You are a Martian, and as such about as interesting to me as a puff adder!” The Amazon turned away in contempt and wheeled over a curious electromagnetic contrivance supported on a rubber-wheeled stand. From it she picked up an object like a flying helmet, to which were attached a series of fine wires all leading back into the heart of the queer apparatus.

  “If you must kill me, do it cleanly!” the woman implored, tearing and straining uselessly at the straps. “Not—by electricity! That is the—”

  “As yet,” the Amazon interrupted, “I have no intention of killing you.” She fitted the helmet tightly into place over the woman’s head and strapped it under her chin. “Just the same, I like to see you squirm. You have a brief idea how I felt when I was at the mercy of your filthy Metrix. And you may be interested to know that she is dead.”

  “Dead!” The woman gazed, appalled.

  “Exactly—just as the rest of your overbearing race will be before I have finished with them. Since they are none of them willing to listen to reason or co-operate, and instead have turned their heinous science full blast on the Earth, I am going to destroy them—likewise with science; and you are going to be a great help to me in the accomplishment of my purpose.”

  “But how can I—”

  The woman broke off and winced as the Amazon switched on the current of the strange machine.

  “It won’t kill you,” the Amazon said, folding her arms and watching the tortured woman dispassionately. “This instrument is an idea of my own—a probe for the brain. It stores up the impressions which are in your mind, just as a record stores sounds. At this moment electric probes are delving deep into your conscious and subconscious regions, bringing out all the knowledge that is hidden there....” The woman could not speak: the pain created by the electrical absorber was too intense to permit of words. She writhed and squirmed in the straps, and her mouth set in a half-snarl amidst the anguish she was suffering. The Amazon studied her pensively, turning only occasionally to consult the instrument’s dials.

  For nearly ten minutes she continued the merciless onslaught, and then she switched off. Quivering, her face gleaming with perspiration, the woman relaxed and lay breathing hard.

  “You—you fiend!” she whispered, closing her eyes. “You soulless devil....”

  “I admit,” the Amazon said, pushing the stand away, “that our two races have little in common. As for me being soulless, what do you think of a Metrix who has destroyed unnumbered lives with the ursugas, and shattered bodies so that she can put brains like yours inside them? I would add, my friend, that the after-effects of the brain-probing I used on you are even more painful than the actual operation....” The woman opened her eyes abruptly, horror twisting her lips again.

  “I have decided,” the Amazon added, “to spare you that agony. I think you have suffered enough.”

  She picked up a cone-shaped object with a switch on top and clamped it down hard on the woman’s face, snicking the switch with her thumb. The woman tore again to try and free herself, straining to the uttermost, but gradually her struggles grew less violent, and at last she relaxed and became motionless.

  Calmly the Amazon raised the cone, waited a moment, and then laid it on one side and took the woman’s wrist. The pulse of life had ceased.

  To the Amazon the remainder was merely routine. She lifted the body from the bench and carried it to the disintegrator chamber in which she destroyed all things, organic or inorganic, for which she no longer had use. The switches closed, and when the Amazon opened the doors of the chamber again there was only a dispersing cloud of acrid vapours.

  “Famous musical comedy star, alias a Martian, mysteriously disappears,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “Mmmm—and I wonder what kind of a brain she had? From it I should not only learn the language, but a great deal more besides.”

  She settled herself in a comfortable chair and drew the helmet-machine towards her. Fixing the helmet on her head, she switched on the current, and then had to set her mouth tightly against the searing pain the probes inflicted as they imparted vibratory stored-up thought-impressions. For nearly fifteen minutes she fought against the urge to faint, so murderous was the anguish; then realizing that the information had ceased she switched off and lay back in the chair, her limbs and eyes twitching as she fought her way back to normal.

  “Perhaps Claire Del Foye had the right to complain after all,” she mused. “The thing does hurt—abominably. But at least there is no reaction after receiving thoughts as there is after imparting them.”

  She got to her feet, swaying a little with a hand to her forehead, and poured herself a glass of restorative fluid. The keen fire of it surging through her system brought relief and clear-headedness. Turning, she switched on the visiphone and contacted Chris Wilson.

  His voice sounded sleepy as he replied, and glancing up at the clock the Amazon saw with some surprise that it was just three in the early hours.

  “Something the matter, Vi?” Chris mumbled, recognizing her voice.

  “Hardly the matter. I’ve been conducting an interesting experiment....” She outlined briefly what had happened, and then added, “That woman’s brain has proven a little gold-mine to me. I have a complete knowledge of the language, the social set-up of the Martians, their organizational methods—everything. That being so, I’m ready for the final part of my plan. In three hours, after a sleep, I’m returning to Mars in the Ultra, as the Metrix.”

  “I still don’t like the idea of that,” Chris objected. “They might know it’s you. They’re smart scientists, remember!”

  “I’m no fool at the game myself,” she retorted.

  “I know that, but—Look, suppose they’ve something equivalent to your aura-compass and know by its reading that you are not the Metrix?”

  “The body I had—which the Metrix stole—and this present one both have identical readings because they’re duplicates,” the Amazon replied. “There’s nothing to fear, Chris—or if there is the unforeseen I’ll deal with it. The fact remains that I’m going, and before I return I think the menace will have been destroyed for good. Your job will be to have the engineers push on with all speed with the ultrasonic projectors with which the Earth can be freed of the metal-eaters. You know as well as I do where the iron-eaters are thickest and the best places to attack them. When the moment comes for you to go ahead I’ll radio you...

  The Amazon thought for a moment, and then said: “There are, of course, a few Martians in Earth bodies amongst us, which I’ll weed out when I return to Earth. Of themselves they can do nothing with the rest of their race destroyed.... That, I think, covers everything. Once the Martians are cleared out of their planet it is ours by right of conquest, and colonization can go ahead.”

  “And I suppose you still won’t give me any hint as to what you are driving at?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m taking no chances. ’Bye, Chris.”

  The Amazon switched off, left the laboratory, and went into the house. Arousing Tana, she informed her that she was leaving for an indefinite period; then she went into her own room and threw herself on the bed, not troubling to remove her black suit, since she would
need it on her approaching journey.

  Towards dawn, fully refreshed, she awoke again, breakfasted on concentrates, and then went into the hangar where the Ultra was housed. Full daylight saw the giant submarine-shaped machine streaking skywards with ever-increasing speed, hurtling finally into the eternal wilderness of the void.

  Using the automatic pilot, and thoroughly conversant with every detail of her own machine, the Amazon made the trip across the 40,000,000 mile gap in comparative comfort, on the watch part of the time and resting during the other part.

  She began to become active again only when at last the criss-crossed disk of Mars filled all the void before her. Turning to the short-wave radio, she switched it on.

  “Attention, my Governing Council!” she commanded, calling on her store of Martian knowledge. “Your Metrix is returning to Valdon. I shall reach it in two hours.”

  After a moment there was a response, also in the Martian language.

  “Greetings, Metrix. Your orders will instantly be obeyed.”

  “They’d better be,” the Amazon muttered, when she had switched off, and settling herself in the control chair she gave herself up to manoeuvring the great space-craft as it dropped lower and lower towards the Martian surface. Still calling on her “stolen” knowledge, she drove straight to the situation of the Central Valve and found it opening as she neared it.

  Smoothly she guided the machine through the gigantic orifice, downwards, and into the Martian underworld. The old familiar scene of the twin synthetic suns and countless buildings, roofs, streets, and park-like spaces was before her. With diminishing speed she descended, finally bringing the Ultra to rest on the same park to which she and Kerrigan had been brought in the metal crates.

  She switched off the atomic power-plant, took the precaution of removing the central desseminator-pin; and then opened the air-lock. Six tall Martians in full regalia were standing outside, and they bowed as she stepped out amongst them. With difficulty she remained straight, remembering the awkward pull of the gravity just in time.