Nirvor’s voice came again. “Soon the centaur will waken. When you see him, pay homage to the Master’s skill. For the centaur was once a man of Al Bekr, a fool and a murderer, who was bestialized in body and brain by Greddar Klon’s science. He is not fed often. Nor are maidens often thrown into his den. And he is still partly human…” Ironic laughter died away into silence. Mason glanced at Alasa’s white face.
“Buck up,” he said, lapsing into English, and then in Semite, “Have courage. We’re not dead yet.”
The girl’s lips were pale. “Yet I fear—this is magic!”
“I’m quite a sorcerer myself” Mason jested with an assurance he did not feel. He had noticed that the dark bulk in the corner was stirring. It arose. Slowly it came forward into the light…
Icy horror chilled the man. A centaur—living, breathing, alive—stood before him, a monster out of mythology sprung to sudden life. The Master’s surgery had created it, Mason told himself, yet he could not force down his repulsion. The creature was monstrous!
It had the body of a beast, a dun horse, all caked and smeared with filth. From the shoulders grew the torso and arms of a man, hairy and knotted with great muscles. The head was human, and yet, in some indefinable manner—bestialized. There was no intelligence in the shallow eyes, but a pale shining of dull hatred and menace.
The eyes flickered over him, swung to the girl. Light flared within them. The monster’s loose, slobbering mouth twitched. It mouthed unintelligible sounds. The thick arm swung up. It pranced forward.
“Stay behind me,” Mason said curdy. The dagger’s hilt was cold in his hand. He lifted the weapon.
The centaur hesitated, looking down on the man. It seemed to sink down, crouching. And then it leaped.
It bounded forward, front hoofs flying, bellowing rage. As that gigantic mountain of flesh crashed down Mason thrust up desperately with the dagger. Whether his blow found a mark he did not know; a hoof smashed against his head, a glancing blow that sent him hurtling back, stunned. He fell in a limp heap on the straw.
Blackness surged up. Frantically he fought it back. His head was a blinding, throbbing ache of red agony, and when he forced open his eyes, he could not focus them properly.
Alasa’s scream brought Mason back to full consciousness.
Unable to move, his muscles water-weak, he lay staring at the horror before him. The man-beast had gripped the girl in its hairy arms. The shallow eyes glared at her. One taloned hand swept out, snatched Alasa’s garment, ripped it brutally away.
Frantically Mason battled his overpowering weakness, the sickening dizziness that nauseated him. The centaur bellowed mad laughter.
And again the scream of Alasa came—terrified, hopeless!
CHAPTER V
Madness of the Centaur
The centaur’s monstrous head bent; watery orbs avidly dwelt on the girl’s nudity. She struck out vainly, her nails ripping at the creature’s face. Though blood came, the centaur paid no attention to its wounds.
Mason managed to crawl dizzily to his feet. The dagger lay glinting in the straw near him. He bent, picked it up. He turned toward the man-beast.
Alasa lay pale and motionless in the centaur’s arms. The monster had no other thought than the girl. Its eyes were glaring and bloodshot. Spittle drooled from the sagging mouth. It did not see Mason as he crept forward.
The man had but one chance, and he knew it. Silently he stole up behind the beast. At the last moment the centaur sensed danger, started to whirl, roaring menace.
Mason’s arm slashed down. The dagger ripped into the centaur’s throat, slicing through skin and flesh and cartilage. A great gout of blood burst out, spattering the nude girl with scarlet.
With a deafening scream of agony the centaur dropped Alasa. Its hands clawed up to the ruined throat. It plunged at Mason.
He managed to dodge, though flying hoofs grazed his side. As the creature lunged past Mason put all his strength into a desperate leap. He felt iron-hard flesh under him, came down on the centaur’s back, his arms locked about the monster’s throat. The dagger was still in his hand.
The beast-man went berserk. Screaming, it flung back its hands, seeking its prey.
The taloned fingers sought Mason’s eyes.
The man ripped out blindly with the dagger. He felt himself flung through the air, fell heavily on his side, rolling over and over. Clashing hoofs thundered past. Swaying, Mason sprang up—and halted, staring.
The centaur was blind. The dagger’s chance stroke had ripped across its eyeballs, slashing them open. The beast-face was veiled with blood. And if the monster had been enraged before—now it was a demon incarnate!
Blind and dying, it shrieked mad rage and murder-lust. Hoofs grinding down viciously on the straw, great arms swinging, the centaur drove around the den, hunting the man who had slain it. Mason saw Alasa lying near by. He dashed toward her, lifted her nude body in his arms. He staggered into a corner, and the centaur flashed past him like a Juggernaut.
It was a mad, fantastic game they played there, with the dying monster blindly seeking prey, and with Mason, carrying the girl, dodging and waiting alternately, his breath a raw, singeing flame in his throat. All at once the centaur grew still, its bloody arms hanging laxly, blind head lifted questingly as it listened.
The creature stiffened as the girl in Mason’s arms moaned and stirred. Guided by the sound, it sprang forward—
And dropped—dead! It rolled in a gory, shapeless huddle over and over on the straw, the great wound in the throat ceasing to bleed as the mighty beast-heart slowed and stopped. It lay quiescent, its dreadful life ended forever.
Reaction shook Mason. Dizzily he lowered the girl to the ground, relaxed beside her, weak and sick. But after a moment he rallied his strength and turned to Alasa. She was still and white as a marble statue, her pale body splotched with the centaur’s blood. Mason’s throat was suddenly dry. Was she even alive?
Swiftly he chafed her arms, striving to bring her back to consciousness. And at last the girl’s lashes lifted; golden eyes looked into Mason’s, wide and fearful. With a shuddering little cry Alasa clung to the man, no longer the queen of a mighty city, but a girl, frightened and thoroughly human. Involuntarily Mason bent his head, kissed the soft hollow of her throat, her rounded shoulders.
A flush turned Alasa’s face rosy. She drew away, freed herself.
“There ought to be a way out of here,” Mason said abruptly, unsteadily. “The Master depended on the centaur’s killing his victims. There’d be no need to make this place a real prison. I—I’ll look around.”
In a corner Mason found a tiny stream that emerged from a hole in the wall and ran along a channel to disappear into a drain. Where the stream emerged there was a tube that slanted up into the darkness. It did not look inviting but after a careful search of the den Mason realized that it was the only means of egress.
“Want to try it, Alasa?” he asked. The girl had been watching him, and now she nodded and came to his side. “I’ll go first,” Mason offered. “If I can get through, you’ll be able to.”
He fell on hands and knees, crept into the hole. The water was not deep. It rilled beneath him, icy-cold and murmuring softly.
Mason was in a tunnel, a tube barely wider than the width of his shoulders, so smooth that at times he almost lost his footing. If the slope grew much steeper, he knew, it would be impossible to mount it. Behind him he heard the girl, her breathing soft and uneven.
The faint light that filtered from behind them grew dim and died away entirely. They clambered through utter darkness.
Interminable journey through the hidden heart of Al Bekr! More than once Mason felt chill despair touch him, but he knew that to retrace his steps would be useless, probably fatal. In the den of the centaur they would be at the mercy of Nirvor and the Master, but here they had at least a chance, though a slim one.
The tube grew level again. Fumbling in the dark, Mason felt emptiness beside him. The soun
d of falling water came. He realized that the tunnel branched here, forking into two tubes up one of which they had climbed. He called, “Not too fast, Alasa! Take hold of my foot—”
Slowly they edged past the unseen abyss. Then forward again, on hands and knees that were raw and bleeding—on and on interminably. Until, at last, a faint greenish glow heartened Mason. He increased his pace.
A mesh grating was set in the tube above him. He fumbled with it vainly. It was fast. With a word to the girl, Mason braced himself, thrusting his back against the barrier. Veins bulged in his forehead as he strained to lift it.
There was a faint creaking, but the grating did not give. Mason rested, and then tried again. This time he managed to burst open the grated metal.
Warily he lifted his head through the gap, peering around. They were in a room, green-lit and vacant, filled with water-tubes, pumps, unfamiliar machinery. Mason wriggled out through the gap he had made, helped Alasa climb free. Both of them were drenched and shuddering with cold.
“So far, so good,” Mason said grimly. “Know where we are?”
The girl shook her head. Dark hair clung damply to her bare shoulders. “This city is strange to me also. I don’t know how we can escape—or where we can hide.”
“Well, we can’t stay here,” Mason grunted. “Come along,” He led the way to a tunnel-mouth in the wall. Warily they hurried along it. Al Bekr was still sleeping—but it would awaken soon, Mason thought. Moreover, if they encountered one of the robot guards, they no longer had Murdach’s paralysis-weapon.
Twice they saw robots in the distance, but managed to evade them. It seemed hours later when, hurrying along a green-lit corridor, Mason heard footsteps approaching. He stopped short.
Alasa’s face was white. She whispered, “What—”
“We passed a door a minute ago,” Mason said softly. “Come on!”
They ran back swiftly. The door was unlocked; Mason swung it open, revealing a tiny closet bristling with switches and apparatus. “In we go,” he commanded. “Hope we don’t electrocute ourselves.”
The footsteps were louder. The two tumbled into the closet, and Mason drew the door shut. He had intended to leave a tiny crack for vision, but the panel swung closed with a click. In the darkness Mason fumbled for a latch. There was none.
The steps grew louder, hesitated, and faded in the distance. Mason could feel Alasa’s warm breath on his check. He said quietly, “We can’t get out. We’re locked in.”
The girl said nothing for a moment, and then came into his arms, shuddering with cold and fear, clinging to him. The touch of her cool flesh dried Mason’s throat. He resisted briefly—and then a flame of passion swept away his caution. His hands touched silken curves; he felt Alasa’s soft lips. Their touch was like fire.
He drew the girl close. With a little sob she put slim arms about Mason’s neck. Their lips merged, and a trembling shudder shook Alasa’s body as she strained toward him.
The footsteps came again—and another sound that electrified Mason. Soft, furious oaths—in a voice he knew.
The voice of Erech!
The girl had heard it too. She drew away, unseen in the darkness. Mason called with quiet urgency:
“Erech! Erech!”
Silence. Then the Sumerian’s low tones.
“Eh? Who’s that?”
“Mason. And Alasa. In here—”
The door swung open. Erech stood wide-eyed, his mouth open. His cloak was ribboned, his swarthy chest bleeding in a dozen places.
“I’ve found you—El-lil be praised! I’ve been searching all Al Bekr—”
He whipped off his cloak, gave it to the girl. She nodded gratefully, wrapping it around her nude form.
“I’ve no cloak for you, Ma-zhon—but you’ll be back in your apartment in a moment. What happened to you?”
Mason told him. The Sumerian whispered an oath. “That she-devil—Nirvor! You saved my life, Ma-zhon, when you cried out for me to use Murdach’s weapon. It gave me enough light to beat off the leopard. I didn’t kill it but I gave the beast some wounds to lick.” He grinned unpleasantly.
“Now listen, Ma-zhon—and you, Alasa. I went to Murdach. I told him what had happened. He said there would be no time for him to talk to you now. Al Bekr will awaken soon. If you lived—he said—give you this message. Alasa I will hide safely. You, Ma-zhon, must pretend to obey the Master. Work with him as he wishes. Try to learn his secrets. Murdach knows something of them, but not enough. Later Murdach will join his knowledge to yours, and the two of you—with my aid—may defeat Greddar Klon.”
Mason nodded. “Okay. I mean—it is well, Erech. You say Alasa will be safe?”
“For a time. I know the hidden places of Al Bekr. We must hurry. Ma-zhon—” The Sumerian gave Mason explicit directions for returning to his apartment. “Go now. Swiftly. Obey the Master till you hear from me.”
Alasa ran to the archeologist, her golden eyes anxious. “And you will guard yourself—for my sake?” She lifted her pale face, and Mason kissed her again. He heard the Sumerian whistle, shrill with astonishment. The girl turned to Erech, said imperiously, “Let us go. Now!”
Shrugging, Erech led Alasa along the corridor. His lips still fragrant with the honey-musk of the girl’s kiss, Mason went in the opposite direction, smiling a little.
And soon he found his apartment. The robot guard still stood before the door, unmoving as Mason slipped within. He cleansed and bathed his wounds as well as he could, donned a cloak that would hide them from the Master’s suspicious eyes. Then he relaxed on the mound of furs.
He slept, but not for long. The robot was beside him, gently gripping his arm, urging him to his feet. A little thrill of fear shook Mason. Had the Master discovered what had happened? Had Nirvor spoken?
No—the Silver Priestess would be silent, for her own sake. Reason told Mason that the Master would be merciless if he knew Nirvor had tried to kill the man Greddar Klon needed to aid him. With an assumption of nonchalance the archeologist accompanied the robot to the room of the green monoliths.
The Master was reclining on furs. He thrust a flask at Mason. “Drink,” the shrill voice piped. “It is not a drug. Rather a food, neutralizing the toxins of weariness.”
Mason drank. His fatigue dropped from him.
The Master made no reference to Alasa’s escape, if he knew of it, which Mason did not think likely. He arose on his bowed legs.
“Now we shall begin!”
The ordeal started. And it was a racking and cruel one; Mason’s brain had never worked so fast, and, despite the energizing effect of the liquid, a dull headache began to oppress him. He could only guess at much of the nature of the work he did. Remembering Erech’s command, he tried to memorize his activities and those of Greddar Klon.
Under the Master’s direction he moved levers, spun wheels, sent light-rays impinging on huge machines. From time to time, at the dwarf’s dictation, he made cryptic notations with a stylus upon a camera-shaped device on which a scroll was wound—a variation on a notebook. And, as Mason worked, a trickle of knowledge crept into his brain. He began to understand some of the machines and powers of the Master of Al Bekr.
Several times he had attempted to hand objects to the dwarf, and had felt an invisible solid repel his hands—a shell of energy, Greddar Klon explained, which protected him from danger. “An atomic mesh guarding my body, through the interstices of which I can breathe, but which cannot be penetrated otherwise—by weapons or rays.” The cold eyes examined Mason impassively.
Remembering the spear that had rebounded from this invisible armor, the archeologist realized its necessity. And, as they worked, Mason noticed several of the transparent ovoids about, similar to the one which had imprisoned Alasa. Several were large, fully twenty feet long. “I use them for aerial travel when I have need to leave Al Bekr,” the dwarf said.
One thing Mason learned was that the air pressure within these ovoids could be controlled—increased or decreased. This h
e remembered, though at the time he did not realize the importance of the device.
“I have given the barbarians of Al Bekr comforts they never knew before,” Greddar Klon said. “Of course, I built the city for my own comfort primarily, while I was working on my projector. But they will still have it when I’m gone, though they’ll be unable to actuate the machines. Come.”
He led the way to one of the ovoids—twenty feet long, of opaque silvery metal. Greddar Klon touched a stud, and a disk-shaped door swung open. He motioned Mason within, followed him. As he turned to the instrument panel Mason watched his movements closely. The walls of the ship shimmered, faded—became shadowy, transparent. The ovoid lifted, drove up.
They raced up swiftly beside the giant pillars. At their summit, between them, a platform had been constructed, and on this the ship alighted. At a dizzy height above the floor the work continued, amazingly intricate adjustments and calculations which Mason did his best to understand. And presently the dwarf, his voice emotionless as ever, announced, “It is finished. There remains only one thing.”
The two were within the ship, but now Greddar Klon opened the port. He pointed to a lever on the platform a dozen feet away. “Pull that over. Then return—swiftly!”
Mason obeyed. As he returned to the ship he caught a fleeting glance from the Master, curiously veiled, and wondered. The dwarf said, “I have improved my original projector. Watch.”
Silently a pale shimmer of white flame began to spread in empty air between the summits of the green towers. Glowing filaments and tentacles, like tatters of some huge curtain, danced and fluttered, spreading, ever closing the gap between the monoliths. The green light faded, fled back. In the white glare distorted shadows marched grotesquely on the distant walls.
“Before—I guessed at my destination in time. Now I can control it. The energy of the projector is being transmitted to this ship, giving it the power to move in time.”
The Time Trap Page 4
