The Lost Master - The Collected Works

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  "I won't go," he said in a subdued voice. "You've got to listen to me, Evanie."

  "Please!" she murmured. "Be quiet, Tom. I've been waiting here six hours."

  "For what?"

  She made no reply. He subsided into gloomy silence, watching the great column of water that gushed from the jaws of the huge stone lion at the far end of the pool. The water, smooth as a steel pillar, fell with suprisingly little sound.

  But while he gazed, it changed. The smoothness was broken. Bubbles flashed, and then the flow ceased altogether while a huge bubble glistened, billowed and broke. Something white and shining and large as a man shot with a small splash into the pool. The column of water crashed instantly back.

  A webbed hand holding a silk wrapped package rose suddenly from the black water. An amphimorph!

  Evanie seized the bundle, crammed it beneath an Urban cape at her side.

  "Quick!" she said tensely. "Stand here beside me, Tom, so we'll block the scanner."

  He obeyed wonderingly. A queer low coo came from Evanie's lips. The black waters parted again and he glimpsed the tiny round mouth and horrible face of the creature in the pool. It flopped to the bank, scuttled desperately along into the bushes. He saw it raise the lid of a manhole of a storm-sewer, and it was gone.

  Pale and trembling Evanie sank down on the bank, her bronzed legs dangling toward the water. "If only we weren't seen!" she whispered. "How the devil did that thing get here?" Connor demanded.

  "It rode a bubble down the water tunnel from the mountains, fifty miles. An amphimorph doesn't need much air. A big bubble will last."

  "But—"

  "Don't ask me how it found the maze of mains in Urbs. I don't know. I only know they have queer instinctive ways of getting where they want to go. Now it's gone into the storm-sewer. It will find its way to the Canal and so up rivers to its mountains."

  "But what was that it brought, and from whom?"

  "From King Orm."

  "From whom?" he persisted.

  "Tom," she said quietly, "I'm not going to tell you."

  "What was in that package, Evanie?"

  "I won't tell you that, either." She threw the cape over her arm, concealing the package. "I can't trust you, Tom. You and I are enemies."

  SHE backed away at his anger.

  "Tom, please! You promised to help me escape, didn't you?"

  "All right," he yielded dully. "Evanie, I sought you out here because I wanted to end this misunderstanding. Please give me a chance to convince you I love you!"

  He held out his arms to her. She backed another step.

  "I won't come near you, Tom. I won't trust myself in your arms. I'm afraid of you, and I'm afraid of myself. You're strong—too strong for me physically, and perhaps too strong otherwise. You wakened my love once. I dare not chance it again."

  "Oh, Evanie! Now of all times, when I need you!"

  "Need me?" A queer expression flickered over her face. "So the Black Flame burns at last!" Her voice dropped to a murmur. "I'm sorry for you, Tom. I'm sorry for anyone who loves her, because she's utterly heartless. But I can't come near you. I don't dare!"

  She turned and darted suddenly into the Palace, leaving him to stare hopelessly after, and then to follow slowly.

  He slept little that night. Restless, tortured hours were filled with dreams of Margaret of Urbs and the sound of her laughter. He arose early and wandered dully from his room.

  The halls were crowded with arriving Immortals, among whom he stalked as silent and grave as themselves. At last, tired of aimless wandering, he went into the shaded Gardens, and sat glumly down beside the pool.

  Far overhead Triangles drifted with muffled, throbbing roars, and a bird sang in the bushes. Deep in his own perturbed thoughts, he was startled when he heard his name spoken softly, almost timidly.

  "Tom."

  He looked up. Margaret of Urbs stood beside him, garbed in the most magnificent gown he had ever seen, golden and black, and concealing her tiny feet. Instead of the circlet of the previous evening, she wore now a coronet of scintillant brilliance, and the strange flower flamed at her waist.

  "Official robes," she said and smiled. "I preside this morning."

  She looked a little worn, he thought. There was a pallor on her cheeks, and a subdued air about her. Her smile, almost wistful, tore at him.

  "You didn't give me a chance to thank you for last night," he said.

  "Did you want to thank me? For—everything?"

  "No," he said stonily. "Not for everything."

  She dropped listlessly to the bench beside him.

  "I'm tired," she said wearily. "I didn't sleep well, and my head aches. That Grecian wine. I must see Martin Sair."

  "My head aches for other reasons," he said grimly.

  "I'm sorry, Tom."

  "Were you laughing at me last night?" he blazed.

  "No," she said gently. "No."

  "I don't believe you!"

  "No matter. Tom, I came here to tell you something." She paused and gazed steadily at him. "The Master will grant you immortality."

  "What?"

  SHE nodded. "He considers you worthy."

  "Worthy! What of the children of mine he was so anxious about?"

  "You're to have them first."

  He laughed bitterly. "Then I'll be old and feeble by the time I'm ready for immortality. Evanie has refused me—and I refuse him! I'll live my life out in my own way."

  "Think well of it first," she said slowly, and something in her voice caught him.

  "Now I know I won't accept," he flashed. "You begged him for it! Do you think I'd take favors of you?"

  "I didn't—" She was silent. After a moment she said, "Would you believe one statement of mine, Tom?"

  "Not one."

  At last his bitterness touched her. She flushed faintly. The old gleam of mockery shone for an instant.

  "You're right, of course," she snapped. "There's nothing real remaining of Margaret of Urbs. She's the Black Flame that burns on illusion's altar. You must never believe a single word of hers."

  "Nor do I!"

  "But will you believe one sentence if I swear it by something sacred to me? One thing, Tom?"

  "What's sacred to you? God? Honor? Not even yourself!"

  "By the one thing I love," she said steadily, "I swear I'm speaking the truth now. Will you believe me?"

  It was on his very tongue to say no. He was thoroughly surprised to hear himself mutter "Yes"—and mean it.

  "Then do you remember that day in the Triangle when I said I was going to commit suicide? I swear that is the only lie I've ever told you. Do you understand? The only lie!"

  She arose as he stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  "I want to be alone," she whispered. "I'm going to"— a brief, wistful smile—"my thinking room."

  CONNOR’S brain was whirling. He did believe her. What of it? Evanie didn't love him. He knew that now. And he didn't love Evanie. And Margaret of Urbs—said she loved him! Could it be possible . . .

  A blinding light in his brain! The Black Flame—his! The unearthly beauty of her, the wild, untamed character, his to tame—if he could. The Satanic spirit, the fiery soul, all his for life. For life? For immortality, if he chose!

  An exultant shout burst from him and went echoing between the walls as he leaped to the Palace door, flung himself through.

  Memory of Evanie had vanished like mist. Where was the Princess? In her thinking room? Then he remembered. The laboratory behind the Throne Room.

  A SPEAKER blared down the hall as he ran: "Conclave in thirty minutes."

  The corridors were thronged; he jostled his way past crowds of guards, servants, officials, and austere Immortals. Curious eyes followed him, but no one moved to halt him.

  Not, at least, until he reached the great arch of the Throne Room itself. The crystal doors were shut and a line of four impassive guards blocked the way. He moved to step between them, and a sharp challenge sounded.

&nb
sp; He paused. "I want to see the Princess." he said firmly.

  "None to pass," snapped the guard. "Master's orders."

  "But is the Princess in there?"

  "Her Highness," responded the guard, "entered here five minutes ago. She said nothing of any one to follow."

  CHAPTER XXIV

  The Atomic Bomb

  RELUCTANTLY, Tom Connor fell back. This was the only way to her laboratory; of that he was certain. He leaned against the wall and clenched his fists in a frenzy of impatience.

  The glass doors opened and the Master emerged, accompanied by Martin Sair, and two other tall Immortals.

  "Sir," Connor begged eagerly, "tell this fellow to pass me. I want to see the Princess."

  A curious, quizzical expression flickered in the eyes of the great ruler. He shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, Thomas," he said mildly. "In fifteen minutes the Princess will be needed. You can wait."

  "But—I think she wants to see me!"

  'Then she can wait as well." His eyes flickered again. "She has waited, not too patiently, for more than seven centuries." He moved away down the corridor, leaving Connor nonplussed.

  He curbed his impatience. After all, the Master was right. Time stretched before him and Margaret of Urbs —years upon years of it. But it was hard to lose these precious moments.

  He thought of the vision screens. Just behind him was the vast office opposite the Throne Room. He turned in there, bursting in upon a scene of feverish activity as the records of half the world were made ready for the Immortals of the Southern Hemisphere. Glancing about, he descried a screen on a table at the far end of the room, and twisted his way down the line of desks, ignoring a thousand staring clerks.

  "The Princess," he said eagerly, snapping the switch. "In her laboratory behind the Throne Room."

  On the screen flashed a girl's face, but not that of Margaret of Urbs.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "No calls to any at the Conclave. Master's orders." The screen clicked blank again as he growled an angry epithet.

  In the hallway he saw Evanie, staring with strange intentness at the closed glass doors. He pushed his way to her side.

  "Hello," he said, and was puzzled by her sudden look of fear. But she recovered herself and glanced coolly at him.

  "Oh, it's you," she said briefly.

  He thought wonderingly how different was this Evanie from the timid, modest little Ormon girl of so few days ago. But he hardly cared. The Flame had burned him free of Evanie.

  "Waiting for the parade of the Immortals?" he asked with a quiet smile.

  "Perhaps."

  "I thought you hated them so that you'd prefer not even looking at them."

  Her voice changed to bitterness. "I do."

  "Well, what's the answer, then?"

  She glanced at a watch on her wrist.

  "You'll know in a moment or two." She gave him a curiously sardonic smile. "I'm not afraid to tell you now. I'll even tell you what was in the package I took from the amphimorph. Would you like to know?"

  "Of course."

  Her voice quivered excitedly. "In that package was an atomic bomb!"

  "An atomic bomb?"

  "Yes. And do you know where it is now?" The voice rose exultant, fanatically elated. "At the wall behind the Throne of Urbs! Behind the throne where the Master's sitting this moment!" She laughed at his horrified face. "My thanks for sponsoring my request for freedom, Tom. It helped."

  "The Master isn't in there," he said tightly. "I saw him leave."

  He saw her face whiten—and then an appalling thought struck him.

  "Oh, God! But the Princess is! The Princess is!"

  HE dashed toward the guarded door, disregarding Evanie's cry of warning: "Tom, it's due! It's due!"

  He rushed at the impassive guards, but before their challenge was uttered a thunderous roar reverberated in the vast hall like the rumbling thunder of a collapsing mountain.

  A continuous screaming bellow like the clamor in hell rose in an ear-blasting crescendo, and beyond the glass doors rolled billowing clouds of steam, shot through with jagged fires.

  Maddened to desperation, Tom Connor plunged against the doors. They swung inward and closed behind him, and he was in the room of the blast. Far down, behind the Master's throne, an erupting geyser of destruction appalled him—a mighty, roaring, billowing cloud of smoke-streaked steam that shrieked louder than the tortured souls of the seventh circle of hell.

  Crashing discharges of stray energy etched flames through the cloud, like lightning behind a thunder-head, and the reverberations echoed above the roar of the disrupting hydrogen. The Master's throne was hidden by the bellowing fires that grounded to it.

  But even that holocaust had not yet filled the vast concave of the Throne Room. The end where Connor stood, momentarily bewildered, was as yet clouded only by shreds and streamers. He lowered his head, and charged into the inferno. Margaret was caught somewhere behind that hellish blast!

  Scalding steam licked at him, swirling about his body. His bare legs and shoulders stung at the touch, his face burned, but he gained the line of thrones and paused a single moment on the shielded side. What an engine of destruction! A bomb that, instead of venting its force in a single blast, kept on exploding as successive billions of atoms shattered.

  No need to look for the door. The detonation, the first blast, had blown the wall open. Instantly he made a dash over the scorching debris, where the mighty girders were fantastically twisted and bent away from the roaring center, pointed up in the misty light. He launched himself at the edge of the opening, passing close to the very threshold of the trap-door of Tophet.

  Gamma radiations excoriated his body. The shriek of dying atoms thundered against his tortured eardrums, and he was burning—blistering. But an implacable thrust urged him on. He was responsible for this chaos, this holocaust, and Margaret of Urbs— He had violated his oath to the Master! Evanie had betrayed him into that! She had tricked him into sponsoring her plea for freedom, and because he had aided her this had happened! Jan Orm could have done no damage alone. Only Evanie, because of the inhuman blood in her, could have dealt with an amphimorph. Evanie, with whom he had thought himself in love!

  And the Princess, whom he did love, was somewhere beyond. He raged on, his mind turbulent as the blast itself, into Martin Sair's laboratory, a flaming outer region of hell clouded to invisibility. Suffocating, scorching, he crashed against its farther wall, slid along it, at last found the door.

  THE luxurious room of the Princess was in chaotic disorder, but only lazy wisps of steam drifted there, and the bellow of the blast was muffled. But even now the wall was cracking.

  "Margaret!" he cried. "Margaret of Urbs!"

  Her voice answered him. She was in a corner, crouching. Injured? No, she was searching earnestly through a pile of debris that had been swept across the room by the first concussion. He rushed toward her.

  "Come on!" he shouted. "We'll break a window and get out."

  She glanced coolly up.

  "A window? Try it. A bullet might, but nothing less."

  He snatched up a chair, spun it fiercely against the pane. The chair shattered; two tiny dents showed in the crystal, and that was all. And in the Palace, ventilated by washed air from the topmost pinnacles of the Twin Towers, no windows opened. He whirled on her.

  "Then it will have to be back through the blast!" he roared. "Come on!"

  She stood up, facing him. She had slipped off the gold-black robe in the steaming heat, wore now the typical revealing garb of Urbs save that the material was of black velvet instead of metallic scales.

  "You can't go through in clothes like that!" he shouted.

  "My Venus," she said. "It was blown somewhere here. I want it."

  "You'll come now!"

  "I want my ivory Venus."

  The pale flash of ivory caught his eye.

  "Here it is, then," he snapped, thrusting the statuette into his belt. "Now come."


  Faint mockery flashed in her eyes.

  "What if I don't?"

  He shook a rugged fist. "You will or I'll take you."

  "Why," she asked, "do you risk your life to reach me?"

  "Because," he snarled in exasperation, "I was unwittingly responsible for this. I was tricked into breaking my word. Do you think I can let the Master—or you —suffer for my stupidity?"

  "Oh," she said, her eyes dropping. "Well—I won't go."

  "By God, you will!" He sprang to seize her but she evaded him.

  But only for a moment, as again he saw the gleam of mockery in her eyes.

  "Very well," she said, suddenly submissive.

  He snatched the flowing robe from the floor as she turned and walked steadily toward the wall that now heaved and cracked and groaned. Before he could reach her she had flung open the door—and hell roared in upon them.

  Martin Sair's laboratory was a mass of smoke and steam like the crater of Erebus that flames in the eternal ice of Antarctica. Flinging the robe over the Princess like an enshrouding blanket, Connor propelled her, muffled and stumbling, toward the evil effulgence of the screaming blast.

  At the break in the wall he put his weight into a mighty thrust that sent her sliding, staggering, sprawling into the room where the fiery cloud closed, billowing, about her. Then he leaped through, his flesh writhing in the torment of the stinging rays, and blistering at the touch of scalding steam.

  MARGARET of Urbs was clambering to her feet, stumbling in the entangling robe, in the all but unbearable shelter of the thrones. She choked as the searing air reached her lungs. "You hurt!" she cried. "Come on!"

  Again the taunting gleam, even with blistering death staring them in the face. But she followed unresisting as he seized her arm and plunged through the blinding fog of steam and smoke that now filled the mighty room to the distant ceiling. Blind chance was their guide as they rushed ahead, staggering, coughing, teary-eyed. It seemed a long way. Were they circling in the gloom of the monstrous chamber?

  The Princess dragged against Connor's arm. "No," she gasped. "This way—this way." He let her lead. They struggled through billowing masses that began to take fantastic shapes—charging monsters; heaving mountains. She staggered, stumbled, but shook off the arm he raised to support her.