They moved slowly through an alley, littered with refuse and foul with odors. Not a soul was visible—only a stray cur that ran past, tail between its legs.
“Across the square. The gun is in my pocket, but I have my finger on the trigger. Make no suspicious move.” Tony’s lips were white. He guessed well enough what would happen once he and his brothers were captives aboard the plane. Zadah would not stop at torture to achieve his ends. If only—But there was no sign of help. Across the square they went, toward a small gyro in its center. Loungers in the shadows of the low buildings eyed the group incuriously as they passed. They walked on, toward a cantina, past its door—
CAPTAIN BRADY came out. He hesitated, his sunken eyes intent on the spectacle. Then he moved like an uncoiled spring.
Zadah sensed danger. He started to whirl, dragging his gun from his pocket. But Brady’s hand chopped down viciously, the edge of the palm smashing against the secretary’s spine, at the nape of the neck.
A little grunt came from Zadah. He went down like a wet sack of flour. Casually Brady bent, picked up the gun, and pocketed it. His humorless eyes were without any hint of emotion.
“Time to go,” he said. “Come along.”
Silently the brothers followed Brady to the latter’s plane. Without a word they took off, speeding south until the desert-stain of Azouad was lost beneath the horizon.
And not once, during the journey, did Captain Brady refer to the affair in which he had played Saviour. Tony, grinning to himself, remarked in an undertone, “There’s no extradition from the Legion.”
“Yeah,” Phil nodded. “The devil protects his own.”
Jimmy said nothing. He was too busy peering out at the rolling dunes and endless plains of the Sahara.
Sub-Sahara! Underground labyrinth—an oasis under a burning, lifeless expanse of wilderness! To the three Martells it was, at first, a relief, after the flaming heat of the desert. Though even in the beginning there was a feeling of oppression as the metal car sank down into its shaft and the weight of earth overhead was felt almost tangibly.
It seemed hours later when the car stopped and a panel in its bare side slid open. Pale radiance flickered in through the gap, lighting the men’s faces eerily. The glow seemed to come from the walls itself.
“Phosphorescent paint,” Brady said, nodding. “Saves trouble. We spray the walls and ceiling once a year, and it’s bright enough for our needs. Come along.”
The four stepped out into a passageway. It wasn’t long. It ended before a metallic door; Brady took a rod from his pocket and held it briefly pointed at the lock. The panel opened.
Beyond the threshold lay a cavern.
Huge and dim and alien as a distant world it seemed, a gigantic hollow hemisphere in the solid Earth. It was, as far as Tony could judge, about two miles in diameter, with a jagged floor that had been cleared in a few spots. The dim light filtered down from the ceiling, as sunlight through heavy cloud. When Brady spoke, his voice was incongruous in this place of silvery soft grayness.
“There’s the fort. Over there—” He pointed. “That’s the entrance to the Coptic tunnels. We guard the entrance to the surface. Though the Copts haven’t tried to make any surface raids for a long time.” He swung out along a rough path, the others following. “They hate the Bedouins, just as the ancient Egyptians did. They don’t especially dislike us, unless we get in their way. If the mineral deposits the Copts work weren’t valuable, though, they’d be left to themselves. But the Legion’s paid to make sure the mines are kept active.”
Tony didn’t answer. His eyes were slowly accustoming themselves to this strange light. He glanced up at a ceiling that was both visible and invisible. No details could be seen. A veil of shining cloud seemed to obscure the rock far above. The vault of a world, Tony thought. A world created here, perhaps, when the Sahara was a sea instead of a desert. What had Brady said a while ago? Something about a prehistoric, mighty civilization in ante-dynastic Egypt . . . and, far and far below, the Copts still worshiped Isis, in the hidden caverns of Alu where no white man had ever penetrated. “The wreckage of a civilization down there,” Brady had said.
In this eery cavern-world it was easy to believe in almost anything. A 9crap of half-forgotten verse drifted through Tony’s mind:
“But you have seen the hieroglyphs on
the great sandstone obelisks,
And you have talked with Basilisks,
and you have walked with hippogriffs . . .”
They were at the fort. Nothing could be seen beyond a palisade of strong, dully-gleaming metal. But a bell rang sharply; a gate opened, and a man in legionnaire uniform appeared.
Even in the odd light his face seemed strangely pallid—drained of all color, like bleached papyrus. He was gaunt and fleshless almost to the point of emaciation, so that his eyes and mouth were black hollows. It seemed as though a skull wore the rakish Legion cap atop its dome.
He saluted, and Brady responded.
“Hello, Jacklyn. Tell Commander Desquer I’m here.”
JACKLYN stood aside to let the others enter. Tony discovered that within the palisade were a dozen metal shacks, prefabricated, and without sign of life. So this would be their home from now on!
Brady said, “Well? Didn’t you—” Jacklyn’s voice was strained. “Glad you’re back, sir. The commander left for the surface an hour ago. He got a message . . . There’s trouble, sir. The Copts—they’ve kidnapped Ruggiero.” Captain Brady looked at his fingernails. “It’s full moon, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. I need four men. Completely armed. Well leave as soon as they’re ready.”
Jacklyn hurried away. Tony asked, “Is this—the usual thing, down here?” Brady shook his head. “No. At full moon the Copts choose a victim to represent Osiris. The Husband of Isis. Usually it’s all done quietly, and the sacrifice is a Copt, of course.”
Jimmy inquired rather weakly, “What sort of sacrifice is it?”
“Degenerate form of Egyptian religion. According to legend, Seth, the evil god, was jealous of Osiris. He put him to death, tearing his body into fourteen pieces. The Copts are . . . literal-minded.”
Brady sucked in his breath. “I wish I knew more of their mythos. The ceremony glorifies Isis of the Moon. A Copt has always served before. But now . . .” He pulled at the clipped gray moustache. “Ruggiero has been taken to Alu to be sacrificed. This means trouble—plenty of it.” But there was no fear in the sunken eyes; only excited anticipation. “Alu! The Land of Light!”
And suddenly Tony understood. For years Brady had wondered about the half-mythical cavern world below, a place forbidden to him by rigid rules. Now, in the absence of the commander, it was Brady’s duty to rescue the kidnapped legionnaire. His duty—and his chance.
Tony said, “Let us go with you, captain. Eh?”
Jimmy and Phil exchanged surprised glances. Then Phil nodded. “Yeah! How about it?”
Brady hesitated. “You’re untrained. You don’t know the ropes—”
“We know how to handle guns.”
“Carbon-pistols?”
“We can learn easily enough.”
“Yes . . . they’re simple. But—all right,” the captain said with sudden decision. “You’re new, and that means you’re not scared stiff of Alu. The three of you and Jacklyn. Right!”
He bawled for the skull-faced man. “Jacklyn! Get equipment! I’m taking these three recruits. Allons!”
Tony grinned at his brothers. Their introduction to the Legion was to be exciting, after all—if not fatal!
CHAPTER IV
Sub-Sahara
JACKLYN said, “Fifty years nearly I’ve been here. It never changes. First time I’ve ever seen the Copts get out of hand. Sure, they’d try to get out once in a while to butcher the Bedouins, but they never had anything against us. Funny.”
The group was marching swiftly through a dim tunnel, Captain Brady in the lead, the others trailing. They had bee
n moving for an hour, in a labyrinth of passages through which the captain unerringly found his way. Now he looked back and remarked: “That’s right. I know this maze pretty well, but Jacklyn knows it blindfolded. He’s practically a Copt himself. Hasn’t been above ground for fifty years.”
“You must like it here,” Jimmy remarked.
Jacklyn said, very softly, “It’s hell. You been in New York lately? Yeah? How does the old burg look now?”
“It’s changed in fifty years,” Phil said. “But you know that already.”
“Times Square, though—that’s there, eh? I remember I used to feel empty whenever I got out of the old town. God, I’d like to see it again—but not on a televisor. In fact,” he went on slowly, “I’d like to smell fresh air again. Not this artificial ventilation. See starlight and green growing things.”
“And the Sun,” Jimmy nodded understandingly. He glanced at Jacklyn—and then caught his breath at sight of the expression on the legionnaire’s pallid face. Horror—and hate!
It was gone immediately. Jacklyn ignored the remark. He said, “I was one of the first spacemen. There’ve been plenty of improvements since my time, what with liquid fuels instead of powder, and those new magnetic induced-gravity screens they’re working on. But it’s like shipping, I guess—steam or sail, it’ll never really change. There’ll be the sea under you, or space around you. We—”
“Sh-h!” Brady held up a warning finger. “Hold it!”
They paused, but no sound came. The captain relaxed.
“Thought I heard an explosion. Guess not. Well—by the way, are you sure you know how to use the carbon-pistols?”
“It’s not hard,” Tony said. He took out his weapon, resembling an oversized revolver with a cup-shaped hollow where the hammer should have been. From his pocket he withdrew a bit of coal, slipped it into the cup, where prongs held it firmly in place, and hefted the gun. “Not so easy to sight as a Colt, but the force-charge scatters, doesn’t it?”
Jacklyn said, “Right. Watch the recoil, though. Ease the trigger-button down. And don’t run out of coal.”
“Funny,” Tony remarked. “Coal doesn’t seem much good in a pistol.” Captain Brady laughed a little. “The thing’s based on atomic force—liberation of quanta, though I don’t understand the scientific principles of it myself. Works only on carbon. Coal’s carbon—and cheap. So, if the Copts get out of hand, we fight ’em with the coal they dig for us. Rather unfair, but it’s all in the Legion’s work.”
“Practically everything is,” Tony said dryly. “How much farther, captain?”
“We’ve been going down steadily—wait! Here’s someone. Don’t touch your guns unless I give the word.”
Tony stared ahead. For a second he saw nothing; then abruptly the tunnel was filled with a dozen bizarre figures. Clad in skin-fitting garments of unfamiliar texture, white-skinned, with blue veins showing plainly through the flesh, the men’s faces were aquiline and strong, with beaked noses and abnormally large eyes, in which the pupils nearly eclipsed the irises. The Copts’ hair—they had none on their faces—was like bleached straw, tightly curled. They seemed unarmed, yet Brady’s whole body subtly tensed as he stood waiting.
The foremost of the Copts, taller than the rest, and wearing a tapering headdress, came forward, hand lifted. He spoke in English.
“Captain Brady, why are you here?”
Brady said, “If any harm comes to a legionnaire, it will not be well with the Copts, priest.”
THE man nodded. “I understand.
That was a mistake. Some of our younger men—they have already been suitably punished for meddling in affairs beyond them. Your legionnaire is back in the fort, Captain Brady. You will find him there if you return.”
Tony detected a half-veiled glance the priest sent at his fellows. Brady saw it also, and tugged at his moustache.
“You are speaking true words?”
“I speak true words.”
“Suppose we do not believe. Suppose we—go on.”
A stir shook the Copts; they looked at one another askance. The priest said, “The Moon passages begin not far from here. Those you may not enter.”
Brady seemed undecided. “We shall go back. But if our man is not safely in the fort—”
The priest’s smile was apparently guileless. “He will be there.”
“All right. About face! Allons!” Tony turned with the others. But before a foot was lifted there came an interruption. The priest’s voice was raised in an urgent command in an unfamiliar tongue. He, with the others, had seen the bloodstained, tattered, huge figure that sprang out from concealment behind a rock.
“Kill those men!” a bull voice shouted. “Blast’em down!”
“Commander Desquer!” Brady clipped—and then—
“Out guns!”
For from the ranks of the Copts a pale ray had lanced, striking full upon Desquer’s bison chest, bared by a tattered tunic. Another ray touched Tony; he felt a wave of intolerable heat as he snatched out the carbon-gun at his belt.
Cr-rack! Brady’s weapon snarled viciously, and the heat-ray left Tony. He slipped a coal-cartridge into the cup and triggered almost without aiming. The deadly little guns worked havoc. But there were almost a dozen Copts, and for a few moments the tunnel was a chaotic Maelstrom of battle, dominated by Desquer’s deep voice roaring commands.
“Get them! All of them! Aim at their bellies!”
Smoke drifted away. The Copts lay in helpless huddles amid red stains. Tony lowered his gun and stared around anxiously. Jimmy was painfully rubbing his arm where a heat-ray had cindered the cloth. Phil was apparently untouched, and so was Jacklyn, but Captain Brady was rubbing his thigh and cursing quietly. As for Commander Desquer, it was impossible to judge whether he had been injured in the conflict. He was already wounded in a dozen places.
Tony’s fascinated gaze dung to the man. The mighty body was thewed like an auroch-bull, the matted, deep chest heaving convulsively with exhaustion. The commander’s head was shaved, but nevertheless there was something leonine about his face. Shaggy, tufted eyebrows overhung glittering small eyes, and thick, sensual lips were pressed tightly together. Desquer reminded Tony, somehow, of a Nero or a Caligula—a degenerate Roman despot.
Now Desquer flung back his huge head in an arrogant gesture, “Jacklyn! See if the priest’s got a healing-ray. We need it.” As the legionnaire hurried forward the commander turned his eyes to the others. Tony felt a curious shiver ripple down his spine as the cold gaze touched him. Desquer looked long and intently at Tony, and not until he had stared equally long at Phil and Jimmy did he turn his attention to Brady.
“The fort’s gone,” he said. The Copts smashed it and massacred every man. They blew up the shaft to the surface just after I reached Sub-Sahara. I just managed to get away . . . the cavern’s overrun with ’em.”
Jacklyn came back with a small flat box, in which a lens was set. He touched a button and turned the lens to focus upon Brady’s thigh.
“Thanks . . . up a bit . . . You know they kidnapped Ruggiero?”
DESQUER nodded “Yes. I found a Copt alone and induced him to give me a little information.” He glanced at his hands, took out a small knife, and began to clean his nails. “What this means I don’t know. A jehad—a holy war, possibly. Though it’s without precedent.”
The captain lifted his hand. “Enough, Jacklyn. Tend to the commander.”
But Desquer shook his head impatiently. “No time.” He drew Brady aside, as Jacklyn turned to the others. The two officers withdrew a few steps and lowered their voices.
Tony stared at the lensed box as Jacklyn used it on Jimmy’s arm. “What the devil’s that?”
“A gadget the Copts have. Nobody knows how it works. They don’t themselves. It was handed down . . . it’s a ray that increases cell activity. Builds up cell tissue. Prevents infection . . . how’s that?”
“Swell,” said Jimmy, touching his arm. “It still hurts a bit, though.”<
br />
“It won’t for long—”
Desquer said, “You three recruits—listen to me. We’re going down. Into Alu. Jacklyn, you’ll go for help.”
The skull-faced legionnaire’s body jerked convulsively. He stared at the commander.
“For—help?”
Desquer nodded. “Right. You know these caves. There are other openings to the surface. Get help. We’ll hide out and wait for you. The Copts won’t expect us to go right to their headquarters, so that’s just what we’ll do.”
“But—” Jacklyn moistened dry lips. “I’ll have to go to the surface?” There was a curious note of horror in his voice.
“Don’t argue. Move! You’ll have a better chance alone than with companions, so—allez!”
Jacklyn moved a pace away, stopped, and turned back. He said woodenly, “I can’t go to the surface, Commander.”
Desquer said very softly, “Why not?”
“Sunlight will kill me.”
There was a little silence.
“Why?”
“I was space-burned. That’s why I joined the Legion. It’s a kind of allergy, you know—I was so badly burned in space by direct solar rays that even filtered sunlight will kill me now in a few hours.”
Tony felt his stomach move sickeningly. So that was why Jacklyn had remained in Sub-Sahara for fifty years. A prison with its mockery of freedom—
“Let one of the others go, sir!”
“I’ll go,” Jimmy offered—but Desquer snarled at him.
“Silence! You know these caves, Jacklyn—”
“The captain knows them!”
“He’s badly burned. That heat-ray touched the bone. He couldn’t stand a long trek. Here!” Desquer bent over the dead Copts and rapidly began to strip them of their garments. “If sunlight will kill you, stay out of it.”
“In the desert?”
“Bandages, you fool—bandages! Wrap yourself up in these. Travel by night if you have to, after you reach the surface.”
Silently Jacklyn began to don the garments. He said without expression, “It will kill me.”
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