The Space Opera Novella

by Frank Belknap Long

  Coming down one of the side tunnels, Harden had caught a glimpse of a gleam of light. Turning out their torches, he and Ambrose ducked out of sight.

  * * * *

  A group of Martians filed into the chamber. There were at least fifteen of them, all armed. Apparently this was a rest point, for they all sat down and lit up cigarettes. They were so close that Harden could hear their voices. Suddenly one of them sat up. “Humans!” he said.

  He spoke in Martian but both Harden and Ambrose understood the language.

  “There are humans near us,” the Martian repeated.

  The Martians possessed a strange sixth sense which enabled them to sense the presence of humans near them. Harden had seen them use their weird ability too often for him to doubt that they possessed it. “We better get moving!” he hissed.

  “Wait,” Red Ambrose cautioned. “They’re not certain yet. Even if they do sense us, they won’t do much looking for us. They’re superstitious about this place. They won’t do much running around in here. They’re too scared of ghosts.”

  There was sound sense in what the engineer said. The two men crouched in the darkness, watching.

  “I sense humans,” the Willie repeated.

  His comrades laughed at him. “Now what would humans be doing in here?” one of them demanded.

  “They are here,” the Willie stubbornly repeated. He got to his feet and went sniffing round the chamber like a dog that suspects the presence of a dangerous animal but is not quite sure. His comrades watched him.

  “See! Here are footprints. I told you there were humans here. These footprints prove it.”

  He was pointing at the footprints Harden and Ambrose had left on the dusty floor.

  “Now it is time to be moving!” Red Ambrose gritted. “And damn it, no matter where we go, they’ll be able to follow us. This dust is as bad as snow. We’ll leave footprints in it every time we move. But maybe they won’t follow us far. Come on.”

  Fifteen minutes later they knew they had underestimated the Martians. The Willies had not caught up with them—fear of an ambush made them go slowly—but they were hanging doggedly to the trail. Harden and Ambrose could not go very fast either. They could not show a light and in consequence they had to feel their way along. If they were not careful the tunnel might drop off into nothingness under their feet.

  The tunnel did not drop off into nothingness. Instead it came to an abrupt end. Harden cursed softly as his groping fingers met the obstruction.

  “End of the trail?” Ambrose queried softly.

  “I don’t know,” Harden answered. Behind, in the distance, he could hear the Martians. They were not in sight as yet. He dared to turn on his light.

  “Turn that damned thing off,” Ambrose hissed. “If those Willies get a glimpse of that light, our goose is cooked.”

  “This is not a dead end. It’s a door!” Harden answered.

  “A door? Are you sure?”

  Harden was already at work. The light had revealed that the obstruction blocking their way was a door. Made of wood, it had been constructed long before the Martians invented the system of door they used in their cities, doors that opened at a wish or at a spoken command. This one had a heavy iron handle. Harden grasped it, turned.

  “Get a move on,” Ambrose urged him. “I can see the lights of the Willies.”

  “I’m doing the best—ah—” With a squeak of unoiled hinges the door swung open. Harden and Ambrose leaped through. Harden started to close the door before he realized they had stepped into a lighted chamber.

  * * * *

  Temporary fluorescent lights had been rigged on the walls. They revealed a large room that had apparently served as a shrine at some time in the past. There was an altar with the state of a god in a niche behind it.

  It was not the altar nor the statue that gripped Harden’s attention. It was the person in the room.

  Marion Gray! The girl he had met in Keogh’s hangout, whom, he had last seen as she walked through the lobby of her hotel, the girl who had come to Mars to do research on Martian customs for a Ph.D. was here! She was here, in the caverns under the temple of the Little Lost God, in the land of serenity!

  The squeak of the door had attracted her attention. She turned toward them. Simultaneously Red Ambrose went for the needle gun holstered at his hip.

  Ambrose did not know this girl. He had never seen her before. So far as he knew, any person he met in these caverns was an enemy. In the land of serenity you didn’t stop to think: you shot first. Otherwise you did not shoot at all.

  “Drop that gun!”

  It was not Red Ambrose who had spoken. He hadn’t had time to open his mouth. It was the girl who had given the command. At the same time she swung up the weapon she was carrying.

  It was not a needle gun she held in her hands. It was a snub-nosed submachine gun, for close quarters work, one of the deadliest weapons ever invented by the human race. Ambrose took one look at the weapon. He hesitated, undecided whether to risk a shot from his own needle gun or to drop it. The needle gun was slow in its effect. Ambrose could shoot, if he chose, but even if his needle reached its target, there would be ten seconds before it took effect. In ten seconds the girl’s gun could literally cut him in two with an almost solid stream of slugs.

  Ambrose hesitated only an instant, long enough to compute the chances. Then he dropped his gun.

  Harden had not attempted to draw. He did not want to shoot this girl. She was his friend. He had helped her out of trouble. There was a mistake somewhere. He turned to close the door.

  A slug whistled through the air within six inches of his head. The explosion of the gun was deafening in this restricted area.

  “Hey!” he yelled.

  “Loosen your gun belt and drop it to the floor,” the girl ordered.

  “But there is a bunch of Willies coming down this tunnel,” he protested.

  She seemed not to have heard him. He had turned again and was facing her. She looked straight through him. There was no hint of recognition on her face. The muzzle of the wicked little weapon she carried was centered on his heart.

  “Drop your belt!” she commanded. Her finger was on the trigger of the gun.

  “Do what she says,” Red Ambrose whispered. “She means to shoot.” Harden slowly loosened the belt, let it drop to the floor.

  Yelping, the Willies who had been following them surged out of the tunnel. Harden did not know what to expect. He waited for the ping of the needle guns, the bite of the needles digging into his flesh. The girl would go down too. She had not believed him when he said they were being followed. More, she had not recognized him. She would pay for her lack of recognition with her life. The Willies would shoot her with no more compunction than they would display in shooting him and Ambrose.

  The Willies did not shoot her. They came charging into the chamber, saw the two men, saw the girl.

  “Tie them up,” she ordered, in perfect Martian.

  * * * *

  For a second, the Martians hesitated. Then they obeyed her order. Bruce Harden and Red Ambrose found themselves tied hand and foot and lying on the floor.

  “Who are you men?” the girl demanded.

  “Who are we?” Harden choked. “Who the hell do you think we are?”

  “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

  “We’re a couple of boy scouts on vacation,” Harden bitterly answered. “I suppose you’re one of the campfire girls and that pretty soon we’ll all be roasting marshmallows around a jolly campfire.”

  Smack!

  Her hand left white marks across the scar on his face as she slapped him. The slap made him furiously angry. “Why don’t you kick me?” he raged. “You’ve got me tied up so it would be perfectly safe.”

  “A good idea,” another voice said. “I’ll just do that, since you sugge
st it.”

  Harden felt the pound of a boot against his ribs. It almost knocked the breath out of him. He turned over—and looked straight into the grinning face of Keogh.

  It was Keogh who had spoken. He had come from an adjoining room and had entered silently. He looked down at the two men.

  “Well, well,” he said. “It’s Harden. Like a bad penny you always turn up where you’re not wanted. I knew I was taking a chance when I had you dropped over the wall instead of slitting your throat, which is what I should have had done.”

  “Why in the hell didn’t you? Failing to have my throat slit was an oversight of your part—”

  “An oversight that can be easily remedied,” Keogh said grimly. “And who is this?” he asked, nudging Harden’s companion. “Well, if it isn’t Red Ambrose! My old friend Ambrose, the engineer who would rather be honest than be rich. What are you doing here in this dismal place?”

  “I just came along for the ride,” Ambrose gritted. “Damn you, Keogh, you’ve got us. Whatever it is you’re going to do with us, get it over with.”

  “You may be certain I will think of something to do with both of you,” Keogh said. “But first, I want to ask you some questions. How did you get here?”

  How they had gotten into the caverns under the temple of the Little Lost God was bothering Keogh. What they had done, others might do. He did not want any uninvited visitors until he had finished his business in this place. Harden sensed his uneasiness.

  “You’ll find out soon enough what we were doing here,” Harden said.

  “I’ll find out right now!” Keogh answered. He nodded to one of the Martians. This was important. If the prisoners in the land of serenity learned the caves under the ruined temple offered a way to escape, Keogh could anticipate an immediate invasion of hard-bitten criminals. Keogh meant to use torture to get the information he wanted.

  “I give up,” Red Ambrose said. Quietly he answered Keogh’s questions.

  * * * *

  Harden said nothing. If Ambrose wanted to talk to avoid torture, it was all right. There was nothing to be gained by defying Keogh, except slow death. Harden watched the girl.

  She had drawn back. There was a strained sick look on her face but she made no effort to interfere. Only when the questioning had reached an end did she speak.

  “What—what are we going to do with them?” she asked.

  “They don’t know anything,” Keogh answered. “Ambrose claims not to have told anybody about this place. Do with them? There’s only one thing to do with them!” He drew a thumb across his throat.

  “You mean, kill them?”

  “Of course. I left Harden alive once. I’m not going to make that mistake twice.”

  “But—” she started, in protest.

  The grin left Keogh’s face. His eyes drilled into the girl. “But what?” he questioned. “If you’ve got any silly ideas about leaving them alive—”

  “I was thinking about the danger,” she stated.

  “What danger?”

  “Well, if we kill them, and the Martian authorities ever discover it—”

  “How will they discover it?”

  Instead of answering, she glanced at the Martians surrounding them. Keogh got the idea. After all, one of his helpers might squeal. In that case, he might find himself suddenly entering the land of serenity. He hesitated.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” the girl suggested. “One that will not leave us in any danger.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve studied the legends of this place. Here’s what I suggest.” She drew Keogh to one side, spoke in a low tone of voice. Harden could not hear what she had said but from the delighted grin on Keogh’s face he knew that, whatever she was suggesting, it was bad news for them.

  “Pick ’em up,” Keogh shouted at the Willies, indicating the two men. “I’ve got a perfect place to put them.”

  CHAPTER VI

  The Maze of the Temple

  Harden looked at the candle. It would burn maybe five or six hours. No longer. He looked up. Overhead, in the ceiling of the chamber, was a round hole. He and Ambrose had been lowered down that hole on ropes. The hole was at least sixty feet deep and they were at the bottom of it.

  “I wish,” Red Ambrose said, “Keogh had cut our throats.”

  “We’re alive,” Harden said.

  “Yeah? And where are we?”

  “I know.”

  “We’re in the maze of the temple of the Little Lost God. We’re in a place where a god got lost and died because he couldn’t find his way out again. This is where the priests of the temple dumped their enemies. Right down here at the bottom of this hole is where they dumped them. And if one of them ever got out of this place—”

  A note of hysteria had crept into the engineer’s voice. He shook his fist at the hole.

  “Damn that girl! Damn her, I say. Why didn’t she let Keogh cut our throats? Why did she suggest to him that he have us dumped down here, where we will die of thirst and hunger? Why would she do such a thing?”

  Harden said nothing. The girl had suggested to Keogh that the two men be dumped here. In forgotten centuries the priests of the temple up above had dropped their enemies here. Legend had a name for this place—The Maze of the Thousand False Hopes. It was a twisting, tortuous series of interconnecting tunnels, with one true exit, and a thousand doors that looked like exits, but weren’t. It was as clever and as diabolical a method of torture as was ever designed by the devious Martian mind. There was a way out of the place. That was the catch about the whole business, that was the real torture. The poor wretch, dropped into the maze, knew that there was one way out—if he could only find it. The hope of escaping would force the victim to search until he dropped in his tracks. There were a thousand false exits and only one real way to get out.

  “I know the odds are bad,” Harden admitted.

  “Bad? They’re impossible. A thousand to one! What kind of a chance is that?”

  The giant engineer seemed to be lost in despair. He had sat down, and holding his head in his hands was looking despondently at the floor.

  “We’re not dead until we give up,” Harden reminded him.

  “Poppycock.”

  “But there is a way out of here.”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to think,” Ambrose said bitterly. “We’re supposed to wear ourselves out hunting for the way to escape. That’s what the Willies want us to do. I’m not going to do it. I’m going to sit right here.”

  “And wait?”

  “And wait for the end,” the engineer said sullenly. “To hell with trying. I’m whipped and I know it.”

  Smack! Harden’s fist pounded against the jaw of the engineer. He didn’t hit hard. He didn’t intend to hit hard.

  “Why, damn you!” Red Ambrose roared, leaping to his feet.

  Harden ducked away. “Easy, Red,” he grinned. “You were down in the dumps and I had to do something to rouse your fighting spirit. Keep away from me, you big gorilla. I socked you for your own good.”

  For an instant the engineer glared at him. Then the glare went out of his eyes and his fists, raised ready to strike, unclenched. “Okay, Harden. You win. We’ll try to get out. But I’ll bet you forty dollars that we end up right back here.”

  “I’ll take the bet,” Harden said. He picked up the candle. Keogh, in keeping with the tradition of the maze, had provided the candle. It was in reality only an added refinement of torture. It would soon burn out and when it did—Four tunnels branched out from the chamber. Harden regarded them thoughtfully. “Enny, meeny, miny, mo, catch a Willie by his toe—” He shrugged, turned toward the nearest opening. “One is as bad as another,” he said.

  As he entered the tunnel he stumbled over something lying almost buried in the dust. Looking down he saw what he had tripped over.
A skeleton.

  “He didn’t make it, out of here either,” Red Ambrose said grimly.

  * * * *

  The maze was endless. Part of the caves were natural and had apparently been formed by an underground river that had flowed here during the long gone centuries when there were still rivers on the Red Planet. Water had dug this endless system of caverns but water flowed here no longer. The place was as dry as the desert and ankle deep in dust. They poked through gloomy holes that were just big enough to crawl through; they entered caverns where the roof was hundreds of feet over their heads. Here and there additional passages had been cut, connecting various branches of the caves. The Martians had improved on what nature had provided, and their improvements had been made with the idea in mind of adding confusion to the efforts of the poor wretch who was trying to get out of this place.

  Which was the right turning?

  When there were so many choices, there was no way of knowing which way to turn. Somewhere there was a right way. All other ways were wrong.

  “We’ll never make it,” Ambrose grumbled. “We’re damned fools for trying.”

  Harden kept silent. Logically the engineer was right. There was no real hope of escape. Harden kept going because the will to fight had been bred into his bones. He was the grandson of one of the space pioneers, the hardy breed that dared to venture into the deserts of space. They hadn’t quit. They hadn’t given up. Nor would he quit while there was strength in his body to try. He stumbled again and looking down, saw another skeleton.

  “Another one that didn’t make it,” the engineer said.

  “I know,” Harden answered. “There will probably be others—”

  There were others. They found one tunnel where the floor was covered with bones. Harden looked at them, turned back. “This is not the way,” he said.

  Which was the way?

  The candle in his hand burned lower and lower. Regarding it, he silently cursed Keogh for giving it to him. Without the candle, they would have had to fumble through the darkness. That would have been bad. But when the candle was gone—

  It was going.

  He thought of Marion Gray, somewhere overhead in another series of caverns. What was she thinking, knowing that she had sent two men to this place? What was in her mind?