Takeoff!

by Randall Garrett

  Once inside, the Greatest Noble was held fast while the doors were swung shut.

  Outside, the slaughter went on. All the resistance seemed to go out of the warriors when they saw their sacred monarch dragged away by the invading Earthmen. It was every man for himself and the Devil take the hindmost. And the Devil, in the form of the commander’s troops, certainly did.

  Within half an hour after it had begun, the butchery was over. More than three thousand of the natives had died, and an unknown number more had been badly wounded. Those who had managed to get out and get away from the city kept on going. They told the troops who had been left outside what had happened, and a mass exodus from the valley began.

  Safely within the fortifications of the central building, the commander allowed himself one of his rare grins of satisfaction. Not a single one of his own men had been killed, and the only wound which had been sustained by anyone in the company was the cut on his own hand. Still smiling, he went into the room where the Greatest Noble, dazed and shaken, was being held by two of the commander’s men. The commander bowed—this time, very low.

  “I believe, Your Effulgence, that we have an appointment for dinner. Come, the banquet has been laid.”

  And, as though he were still playing the gracious host, the commander led the half-paralyzed Child of the Sun to the room where the banquet had been put on a table in perfect diplomatic array.

  “Your Effulgence may sit at my right hand,” said the commander pleasantly.

  XIV

  As MacDonald said of Robert Wilson, “This is not an account of how Boosterism came to Arcadia.” It’s a devil of a long way from it. And once the high point of a story has been reached and passed, it is pointless to prolong it too much. The capture of the Greatest Noble broke the power of the Empire of the Great Nobles forever. The loyal subjects were helpless without a leader, and the disloyal ones, near the periphery of the Empire, didn’t care. The crack Imperial troops simply folded up and went home. The Greatest Noble went on issuing orders, and they were obeyed; the people were too used to taking orders from authority to care whether they were really the Greatest Noble’s own idea or not.

  In a matter of months, two hundred men had conquered an empire, with a loss of thirty-five or forty men. Eventually, they had to execute the old Greatest Noble and put his more tractable nephew on the throne, but that was a mere incident.

  Gold? It flowed as though there were an endless supply. The commander shipped enough back on the first load to make them all wealthy.

  The commander didn’t go back home to spend his wealth amid the luxuries of the Imperial court, even though Emperor Carl appointed him to the nobility. That sort of thing wasn’t the commander’s meat. There, he would be a fourth-rate noble; here, he was the Imperial Viceroy, responsible only to the distant Emperor. There, he would be nothing; here, he was almost a king.

  Two years after the capture of the Greatest Noble, he established a new capital on the coast and named it Kingston. And from Kingston he ruled with an iron hand.

  As has been intimated, this was not Arcadia. A year after the founding of Kingston, the old capital was attacked, burned, and almost fell under siege, due to a sudden uprising of the natives under the new Greatest Noble, who had managed to escape. But the uprising collapsed because of the approach of the planting season; the warriors had to go back home and plant their crops or the whole of the agriculture-based country would starve—except the invading Earthmen.

  Except in a few instances, the natives were never again any trouble.

  But the commander—now the Viceroy—had not seen the end of his troubles.

  He had known his limitations, and realized that the governing of a whole planet—or even one continent—was too much for one man when the population consists primarily of barbarians and savages. So he had delegated the rule of a vast area to the south to another—a Lieutenant Commander James, known as “One-Eye,” a man who had helped finance the original expedition, and had arrived after the conquest.

  One-Eye went south and made very small headway against the more barbaric tribes there. He did not become rich, and he did not achieve anywhere near the success that the Viceroy had. So he came back north with his army and decided to unseat the Viceroy and take his place. That was five years after the capture of the Greatest Noble.

  One-Eye took Center City, the old capital, and started to work his way northward, toward Kingston. The Viceroy’s forces met him at a place known as Salt Flats and thoroughly trounced him. He was captured, tried for high treason, and executed.

  One would think that the execution ended the threat of Lieutenant Commander I ames, but not so. He had a son, and he had followers.

  XV

  Nine years. Nine years since the breaking of a vast empire. It really didn’t seem like it. The Viceroy looked at his hands. They were veined and thin, and the callouses were gone. Was he getting soft, or just getting old? A little bit—no, a great deal of both.

  He sat in his study, in the Viceregal Palace at Kingston, chewing over the events of the past weeks. Twice, rumors had come that he was to be assassinated. He and two of his councilors had been hanged in effigy in the public square not long back. He had been snubbed publicly by some of the lesser nobles.

  Had he ruled harshly, or was it just jealousy? And was it, really, as some said, caused by the Southerners and the followers of Young Jim?

  He didn’t know. And sometimes, it seemed as if it didn’t matter.

  Here he was, sitting alone in his study, when he should have gone to a public function. And he had stayed because of fear of assassination.

  Was it—

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come In.”

  A servant entered. “Sir Martin is here, my lord.”

  The Viceroy got to his feet. “Show him in. by all means.”

  Sir Martin, just behind the servant, stepped in, smiling, and the Viceroy returned his smile. “Well, everything went off well enough without you,” said Sir Martin.

  “Any sign of trouble?”

  “None, my lord; none whatsoever. The—”

  “Damn!” the Viceroy interrupted savagely. “I should have known! What have I done but display my cowardice? I’m getting yellow in my old age!”

  Sir Martin shook his head. “Cowardice, my lord? Nothing of the sort. Prudence, I should call it. By the by, the judge and a few others are coming over.” He chuckled softly. “We thought we might talk you out of a meal.”

  The Viceroy grinned widely. “Nothing easier. I suspected all you hangers-on would come around for your handouts. Come along, my friend; we’ll have a drink before the others get here.”

  There were nearly twenty people at dinner, all, presumably, friends of the Viceroy. At least, it is certain that they were friends in so far as they had no part in the assassination plot. I t was a gay party; the Viceroy’s friends were doing their best to cheer him up, and were succeeding pretty well. One of the nobles, known for his wit, had just essayed a somewhat off-color jest, and the others were roaring with laughter at the punch line when a shout rang out.

  There was a sudden silence around the table.

  “What was that?” asked someone. “What did—”

  “Help!” There was the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairway from the lower floor.

  “Help! The Southerners have come to kill the Viceroy!”

  From the sounds, there was no doubt in any of the minds of the people seated around the table that the shout was true. For a moment, there was shock. Then panic took over .

  There were only a dozen or so men in the attacking party; if the “friends” of the Viceroy had stuck by him, they could have held off the assassins with ease.

  But no one ran to lock the doors that stood between the Viceroy and his enemies, and only a few drew their weapons to defend him. The others fled. Getting out of a window from the second floor of a building isn’t easy, but fear can lend wings, and, although none of them actually f
lew down, the retreat went fast enough.

  Characteristically, the Viceroy headed, not for the window, but for his own room where his armor—long unused, except for state functions—hung waiting in the closet. With him went Sir Martin.

  But there wasn’t even an opportunity to get into the armor. The rebel band charged into the hallway that led to the bedroom, screaming: “Death to the Tyrant! Long live the Emperor!”

  It was personal anger, then, not rebellion against the Empire which had appointed the ex-commander to his post as Viceroy.

  “Where is the Viceroy? Death to the Tyrant!” The assassins moved in.

  Swords in hand, and cloaks wrapped around their left arms, Sir Martin and the Viceroy moved to meet the oncoming attackers.

  “Traitors”‘ bellowed the Viceroy. “Cowards! Have you come to kill me in my own house?”

  Parry, thrust! Parry, thrust! Two of the attackers fell before the snake-tongue blade of the fighting viceroy. Sir Martin accounted for two more before he fell in a flood of his own blood.

  The Viceroy was alone, now. His blade flickered as though inspired, and two more died under its tireless onslaught. Even more would have died if the head of the conspiracy, a supporter of Young Jim named Rada, hadn’t pulled a trick that not even the Viceroy would have pulled.

  Rada grabbed one of his own men and shoved him toward the Viceroy’s sword, impaling the hapless man upon that deadly blade.

  And, in the moment while the Viceroy’s weapon was buried to the hilt in an enemy’s body, the others leaped around the dying man and ran their blades through the Viceroy.

  He dropped to the floor, blood gushing from half a dozen wounds.

  Even so, his fighting heart still had seconds more to beat. As he propped himself up on one arm, the assassins stood back; even they recognized that they had killed something bigger and stronger than they. A better man than any of them lay dying at their feet.

  He clawed with one hand at the river of red that flowed from his pierced throat and then fell forward across the stone floor. With his crimson hand. he traced the great symbol of his Faith on the stone—the Sign of the Cross. He bent his head to kiss it. and, with a final cry of “Jesus!” he died. At the age of seventy, it had taken a dozen men to kill him with treachery, something all the hell of nine years of conquest and rule had been unable to do.

  And thus died Francisco Pizarro, the Conqueror of Peru.

  Despoilers is, of course, a takeoff on history. It was actually the brainchild of John W. Campbell, Jr.. the great editor who guided Astounding Science Fiction from 1938, through its metamorphosis into Analog in 1962, until his untimely death in 1971.

  I was in his office one day, and he said; “There may be supermen in the future; have there ever been any in the past?”

  Anyone who ever worked with John knows that that was a trick question. It, and others like it, were designed to make one think.

  I hedged. (We all did.) “It’s possible.”

  “Possible?” He sniffed. “Historical evidence shows that it was true.”

  I, of course, was thinking of “superman” in terms of Kimball Kinnison, Jommy Cross, or even Clark Kent. “You mean Biblical—”

  “I mean historical. Four hundred years ago!” He paused. Then, in a low voice; “Do you realize that less than five hundred men conquered the Empire of Peru?”

  Well—hell—with that to go on, what else could I do but write the story?

  THE HORROR OUT OF TIME

  H. P. Lovecraft was a master at writing creepy horror. Those who know him—among them Robert Bloch and Donald Wollheim—were aware of his horror of the sea and the things that lived in it.

  This story is dedicated to H. P., Robert, and Don, to assure them that there are more horrid things beneath the sea than Chthulu.

  It all depends on your viewpoint.

  By Randall Garrett

  It has been more than thirty years now since I saw that terrifying thing in the crypt-like temple, but I remember it as clearly, and with all the horror, as if I had seen it but an hour ago.

  In those days, twenty years before the turn of the century, the sailing ship still held sway over most of the world’s waters; now, the steam-driven vessels cover in days distances that took months. All that no longer matters to me; I have not been abroad since I returned from that South Sea voyage, still weak from fever and delirium, over thirty years ago.

  I think that before the end of this new century, scientific researchers will have proven as fact things which I already know to be true. What facts lie behind the mysteries of certain megalithic ruined cities found buried beneath the shifting sands on three separate continents? Are they merely the constructs of our prehistoric ancestors? Or are they much older than we know, the products of some primal race, perhaps from this planet, perhaps from another, far distant in space? The latter sounds wild, phantastick, perhaps even...mad, but I believe it to be true, and may hap this narrative will be of some service to those researchers who already suspect the truth. Long before our ancestors discovered the use of fire, even before they had evolved beyond animal form and intellect, there were beings of vast power and malignant intelligence who ruled supreme over this planet.

  I have always been a person of leisure, spending my time in historical research, in reading books on philosophy, both natural and metaphysical, and in writing what I believe to be scholarly articles for various learned journals. When I was younger, I was more adventurous; I travelled a great deal, not only to read and research in the great universities of the world, but to do original research in hidden places of the earth, where few learned folk have gone. I was fearless then; neither the rotten foetidness of tropic jungles, nor the arid heat of harsh deserts, nor the freezing cold of polar regions daunted me.

  Until the summer of my twenty-sixth year.

  I was aboard the White Moon, sailing homeward through the South Seas, after having spent some months exploring the ancient ruins on one of the larger islands. (Their age can be measured in mere centuries; they have nothing to do with the present narrative. )

  During the time I had been aboard, I had become quite friendly with Captain Bork, the commander of the three-masted vessel. He was a heavy-set, bluff, hearty fellow, an excellent ship’s officer, and well-read in many subjects far divergent from mere nautical lore. Although self-educated, his behavior was that of one gently born, far above that of the common sailor of the day. He was perhaps a dozen years older than I, but we spent many an hour during that tedious journey discussing various subjects, and I dare say I learned as much from him as he learned from me. We became, I think, good friends.

  One evening, I recall, we sat up rather late in his cabin, discoursing on daemonology.

  “I’m not a superstitious chap, myself, sir,” said he, “but I will tell you that there are things take place at sea that could never happen on land. Things I couldn’t explain if I tried.”

  “And you attribute them to non-material spirits, Captain?” I asked. “Surely not.”

  In the dim light shed by the oil-lamp swinging gently overhead, his face took on a solemn expression. “Not spirits, perhaps, sir. No, not spirits exactly. Something...else.”

  I became interested. I knew the captain’s sincerity, and I knew that, whatever he had to tell me, it would be told as he knew it to be.

  “What, then, if not spirits?” I asked.

  He looked broodingly out the porthole of his cabin. “I don’t really know,” he said slowly in his low, rumbling voice, staring out at the moonless sea-night. After a moment, he looked back at me, but there was no change in his expression. “I don’t really know,” he repeated. “It may be daemons or spirits or whatever, but it’s not the feeling one gets in a graveyard, if you see what I mean. It’s different, somehow. It’s as if there were something down there—”

  And he pointed straight downward, as though he were directing my attention down past the deck, past the hull, to the dreadful black sea-bottom so far beneath. I could say
nothing.

  “Way down there,” he continued solemnly. “There is something old down there—something old, but living. It is far older than we can know. It goes far back beyond the dawn of time. But it is there and it...waits.”

  A feeling of revulsion came over me-not against the captain, but against the sea itself, and I realized that I, too, had felt that nameless fear without knowing it.

  But of course I could not fall prey to that weird feeling.

  “Come, Captain,” said I, in what I hoped was a pleasant tone, “this is surely your imagination. What intelligence could live at the bottom of the sea?”

  He looked at me for a long moment, then his countenance changed. There was a look of forced cheerfulness upon his broad face. “ Aye, sir; you’re right. A person gets broody at sea, that’s all. I fear I’ve been at sea too long. Have to take a long rest ashore, I will. I’ve been planning a month in port, and it’ll rid me of these silly notions. Will you have another drink, sir?”

  I did, and by the time I was in my own cabin, I had almost forgotten the conversation. I lay down in my bunk and went fast asleep.

  I was awakened by the howling of the wind through the rigging. The ship was heaving from side to side, and I realized that heavy seas had overtaken her. From above, I heard the shouts of the captain and the first mate. I do not remember what they were, for I am not fully conversant with nautical terms, but I could hear the various members of the crew shouting in reply.

  It was still dark, and, as it was summertime in the southern hemisphere, that meant that it was still early. I hadn’t the faintest notion of the time, but I knew I had not slept long.

  I got out of my bunk and headed topside.