“I saw it,” Dale grunted. “I don’t kill deer. Rhinos, elephant, water buffalo are my favorite game. It’s the sport of the game I like. A fair chance for both hunter and hunted. I don’t
shoot rabbits,” Dale grunted.
“You missed that six-legged lizard this morning.”
“I burned it a little—too bad about that. I could have killed it, but not without burning the head off. So I let it go. Only way to get big game is with a needle-beam, unless it’s as big as an elephant. I’m bored. Might as well be back in New York.”
“Well, come on up the valley with me,” Easter suggested. “I’m going to pay a call on Krana.” He put a whistle to his mouth and blew shrilly, the blast thin in the attenuated air. A half dozen men, armed and ready, came tumbling out of the ship.
They fell into line behind Easter and Dale. Anderson said, “Luck,” and lifted a welding torch. Feet slogged into the omnipresent red dust.
“How’s the hothouse going?” Dale asked as they marched along.
“Hothouse?”
“Krana’s suite. The place you’re fixing up for him in the ship.”
“Fair enough. It’ll be ready soon. Krana’s a self-contained unit. It’s just a matter of moving him, chiefly.”
“He gives me the creeps,” Dale said.
Easter chuckled. “He is a bit odd. But he’s the last Martian, and the race naturally evolved. Basically he’s as human as we are. He—look out!”
Instinctively Dale went for his ray-gun. As they rounded a huge boulder, they had come face to face with Tharg, fanged and hideous. The Martian beast had been drawing a design in the dust—mathematical symbols, and a chart of the solar system. It was necessarily clumsy work, for Tharg’s paws were awkward, but if the Earthmen recognized it for what it was, they would realize that Tharg was intelligent.
But they did not see. A blast of hot wind gusted down, erasing the Martian’s work in a swirl of red dust. Tharg, suddenly sick at heart, hesitated, almost too long. Dale’s gun, set to needle-beam, roared out like a thunderclap. The blast seared Tharg’s plated head as he dived forward, crouching low, the impact of his great body scattering the men right and left.
For an instant there was such confusion that no one dared fire. Then Tharg was gone, ducking and dodging, losing himself among scarlet bushes.
Dale holstered his gun. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Krana’s right. They’re dangerous. Next time I’ll be ready.”
Easter said, “Well, he’s gone now. Close shave, though. Come on.” He led the way forward, toward the black cube near the head of the valley.
Hidden in the shadows of a rock, Tharg watched, shivering a little, as the duped Earthmen moved toward the lair of the Rigellian.
FOR centuries the Cursed Valley had been shunned by Martians, and only genuine courage on Tharg’s part could have brought him to disregard the fetish of his race, the inbred conditioning of generations. He watched the Earthmen. They resembled the old Martians, before the invulnerable cold-blooded bodies had been created. There were differences, of course, but the newcomers showed the traits of humanity—of civilized culture, not the ruthless deadliness of Krana.
Across the gulf of space and time Tharg’s soul strained forward toward the—the other humans. But the abyss of five thousand years lay between. It would not be an easy task he had set for himself—no.
The terrible jaws gaped. How could he make the Earthmen realize Krana’s true nature? He was handicapped by his android body. He could not write. He could not speak a tongue they would understand. Yet there might be a way.
“Help me, gods of my people,” Tharg prayed silently. “Give me guidance. You watched our race rise, long and long ago. A new race has been born on our sister world. Help me save them. Help me! For if the Earthmen take Krana back to Earth with them, their civilization is doomed. The Rigellian is subtle and strong. He will pretend to be friendly, and gradually build defenses against all their weapons. Then he will strike. He will drink the blood of Earth, as he has sucked Mars dry. Even now he ravens with hunger and thirst. Not for a hundred years has he had the drink he loves so well. . . . Gods of Mars, give me wisdom.”
But no answer came from the star-shot purple sky.
A half mile further on, metal gates swung open silently as the Earthmen tugged at the handles. The group entered the black cube, their eyes slowly accustoming themselves to the gloom. Sunlight slanted in through the portal, outlining the being that was Krana the Rigellian.
He was a brain.
He rested under a crystal hemisphere, and all around him were the mechanisms that were Krana’s tools and senses and body. There were eye-cells set in sockets at the ends of elastic tubes. There were handling-tentacles, coiled now and quiescent. There were other mechanisms whose functions the Earthmen did not know.
A voice-diaphragm fluttered beneath the half-globe, and the brain pulsed a little, as though stirring to life. Through the great room the cold, emotionless tones rang sharply.
“I give you greetings. May I serve you in any way?”
Fascinated, Captain Easter stared at the thing. He found his tongue after a hesitant pause.
“By answering a few questions,” the Earthman said. “We’re preparing the cabin in which you’re to be placed. The technicians have run into a few snags. What air pressure do you need? That’s one thing. The others—”
He went on quickly, listing the points. One by one Krana answered them, with unhurried efficiency. Easter’s yeoman made notes on a stylo-pad.
“Guess that’s all,” Easter said at last. “The ship will be prepared tomorrow, ready to go.”
“Pre-pared?” repeated Krana. “Oh. I see. I am still not entirely familiar with your language. Though we have spoken by radio now for more than a—a year. It was a long time to wait.”
“It took that long to build the ship,”
Easter explained. “Even after we’d learned to talk the same language, and with all the detailed instructions you gave us.”
“I am anxious to leave this dying world. Anxious to reach Earth. There is much knowledge I can give your scientists.”
“In about a week,” Easter said. “After all, we haven’t had a chance to look around. The geologist’s yelling for samples. Our botanist is trying to argue me into letting him leave the valley—”
THE glass-cased creature interrupted him.
“It would not be wise. There are dangerous beasts on Mars,” the toneless voice said. “The sooner I leave, the better I shall be pleased.”
“I don’t blame you. Living here alone for centuries? The last of your race, too. It’s tragic.”
“I was afraid I would die here,” the Rigellian said. “But you have given me new hope. On Earth I can live once more.”
“Right,” Easter nodded. “We must get back to the ship now, but we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Beware of the plated beasts with six legs. I have warned you before about them.”
“We’ll kill any we see,” Dale broke in. “On sight!”
Easter motioned toward the door. The Earthmen went out. For a moment Dale lingered, and abruptly the tentacles at the base of the brain stirred and slithered toward him, as though moved by an avid, terrible hunger they could not resist. They froze then, shivering with the intensity of the Rigellian’s iron restraint. Dale went out, unconscious that death had almost touched him.
Night had come. Two moons hung like pale lanterns over the Cursed Valley, veiled with the eternal redness of the dust. Fenton Dale, ray-gun in his hand, stood in the shadow of the ship, peering away into the gloom. Something had moved. Every night he paced restlessly back and forth within the limits Easter had set, but never before had he seen this.
What was it?
He hesitated, glancing back at the men about the fire. Then he took another step, and another. What could it be?
One of the six-legged beasts. He must have wounded it earlier that afternoon, for the creature was scarcely able to stand, its last p
air of legs useless as it dragged itself away, throwing furtive glances over its scaled shoulder. It slipped into the shadow of a rock.
Dale’s lips set. He had never left a wounded animal to die. And he did want that enormous, ferocious head to hang over his fireplace back in New York. The animal couldn’t go much farther. It seemed ready to collapse now. Surely a few steps deeper into the gloom would do no harm.
But it was more than a few steps. The beast was tougher than Dale had thought. It stayed just out of range, leading him up the slope away from the ship. He had gone nearly a mile before he realized it.
He halted. Eroded boulders towered around him. He had lost sight of the creature. Carefully Dale peered around, his gun leveled.
There it was—dead, apparently! Lying on its side, tongue lolling, eyes closed.
Dale moved slowly, warily, toward the beast. And a silent, terrible shadow launched itself from the boulder above and behind him. There was no warning as Zarran sprang down, her powerful muscles hurling her on the man’s back with the impact of a thunderbolt. Simultaneously Tharg leaped into action. His teeth closed on the ray-gun, wresting it from Dale’s hand.
But the Earthman was unconscious. Tharg pushed Zarran away and rolled the man over on his back, investigating carefully.
“Pray that he is not dead, Zarran,” he muttered. “If we struck too hard, we have failed.”
“He breathes,” Zarran said. “He is unconscious, that is all.”
“Good—good! And we have done this quietly. Now help me, for we have a long journey before us.”
“You face death,” Zarran said somberly, but she aided Tharg in lifting the man and hoisting him on the Martian’s back. Together the two moved up the slope, their jaws keeping Dale in place. It was awkward, but not impossible. They were inhumanly strong.
ONWARD they ran tirelessly for many miles. . . .
Both of them knew the way. The tunnel-mouth opened in the face of a cliff that still bore carvings in the Martian tongue, though the masons were long since red dust blowing on the winds. Down the sloping passage they went. Furtive animal-feet pattered away. All other creatures on Mars feared the strong beast-bodies of the Martians. . . .
A half mile underground lay Rohanel, one of the many dead cities that were hidden beneath the planet’s crust. The dim radium-lights still lit the cavern, though many had died and all were fading. No eroding winds could touch Rohanel, and the city lay as it had been five thousand years ago, when Martians became beasts.
“This way,” Tharg said. “The medical science centres. There is still power; at least in some of the machines.”
They came to a building taller than the others, mounted on a ramp, and entered. There was little dust here. Complicated machinery lay where it had been left, unrusted, for there was no water-vapor in the air to corrode metals. On the walls were three-dimensional pictures taken from the history of Mars. Zarran’s eyes were wistful as she looked at the god-like figures of antiquity, striding over the world they ruled.
But Tharg was more interested in the machines. He let Dale slide to the floor, and with a muttered, “Watch him,” loped off, searching for what he needed. There was less power than he had hoped. But one machine still worked, and, with a little gasp of relief, Tharg returned to his mate.
“Come. Help me,” he said.
Silently Zarran obeyed. Awkwardly they dragged the Earthman through the rooms and managed to hoist him to a metal slab. Tharg paused, studying a switchboard in one corner.
“The old Martians made it easy for us,” he said. “There are buttons to be pushed, and those are clearly labeled. But we must be sure.”
He searched for the televisor-recorder, found it, and with difficulty manipulated the levers. Presently the details of the operation were flashing on the screen before the two.
“You understand?”
Zarran nodded. “But it is horrible.”
“No,” Tharg said, “it is not that. These machines were made five thousand years ago to transfer the brains of Martians into such bodies as we wear now. They are almost robots. A few buttons must be pressed, but the delicate adjustments are made automatically. It was necessary for such machines as these to be built, for beast-bodies could not do brain-surgery, of course. Now we simply reverse the procedure. My brain will go into the Earthman’s skull, and his into mine.”
“A great risk, Tharg.”
“Not much of one, Zarran. In this body I cannot help the Earthmen or destroy Krana. There is only one way left. Krana will not harm me, at least not much. Then, when all is ended, you can bring me back here and use the surgery-machine again. The Earthman’s brain will be returned to his own body, and my brain to the body I wear now.”
“Tharg—”
The Martian beast hunched a shoulder impatiently. “The Earthman must be kept under a soporific, of course, or his mind might be harmed by finding itself in a beast body. Later he will awake remembering nothing. It is lucky that this machine, at least, still works.” Zarran was at a window. Tharg joined her.
TOGETHER they looked out silently over dead Rohanel, where Martians had once ruled as gods.
“Those days are past,” Tharg said harshly. “New civilizations arise. What is dead cannot live again.”
“We owe nothing to Earth,” protested Zarran.
“There are lovers on Earth too, Zarran. Shall we who know what unhappiness is let the Rigellian bring his blight to our sister world? Look! On Earth there are cities like Rohanel. As Rohanel was ages ago. With laughter and joy and happiness and—well, all the things that we two have never known. Zarran, I wish I could have given you the past, the old, glorious past of Mars.”
“You are right, Tharg,” she said. Slow tears stole from the three eyes, down the bestial muzzle. “We must not let Krana destroy Earth. Yet I am afraid. I love you, Tharg, and it would be lonely without you. But I would rather have you die first than let you face that terrible loneliness.”
They stood close for a brief moment, two monstrous figures whose shape hinted at nothing but bestial ferocity. Then, with a little gasp, Zarran moved to the switchboard.
“I am ready, Tharg,” said Zarran.
He took his place on a metal slab beside the Earthman. Zarran pressed a button. There was a low, rising drone. X-ray lights flashed out invisibly, the preliminary investigation of the surgery-machine.
Sleep-vibration, focused down to a tight beam, brought unconsciousness to Earthman and Martian alike. Side by side they lay, as delicate precision apparatus swung into motion for the trepanning operation—a man and a beast.
And, at the controls, Zarran worked, trying with careful movements to overcome the handicap of her awkward paws. The science of the old Martians was still powerful. They had built better than they knew. . . .
Hours went by.
It was past dawn when Zarran and Tharg returned to the Cursed Valley. Red dust blew like a shroud through the ochre cup at their feet. The black cube that housed Krana crouched with an odd air of menace far down, and there were Earthmen about the spaceship, moving here and there with an appearance of haste.
“They have missed their companion,” Zarran said, looking at her companion. She caught her breath, still unused to the transformation.
Squatting beside her was no Martian, but the body of Fenton Dale, dusty and disheveled, his garments torn, but the ray-gun still in its holster. The operation had been successful, except for one thing.
The Earthman had died.
Tharg’s human throat awkwardly formed unaccustomed sounds. It was difficult to bring out the harsh gutturals of the Martian tongue.
“We could not help it, Zarran. But we were not to blame. There was too great a difference between Martian and Earth bodies.”
“I was sorry he died.”
“So was I. But there was no other way. Had he known what we know, I think he would not have minded dying. Also, he passed in his unconsciousness, so there was no pain.”
“But your own body, Tharg
? Are you certain the machine can reverse the operation?”
“Yes. The beast body is being kept alive till my return. Now you know what we must do. I must enter the Rigellian’s lair alone and unseen, so he will do what he will do. You must give him time enough for that. Then you must lead the humans into Krana’s stronghold. I had hoped I might be able to use Earth weapons, but—this is not my body. I cannot use it well.”
“I can scarcely understand you,” Zarran acknowledged.
AWKWARDLY Tharg took out the gun, fumbled, and dropped it. Stooping to recover it, he fell heavily. After a moment he scrambled up, thrusting the heat-gun back in its holster.
“I am used to running on six legs, not on two. It is like moving under water. I must be. careful that the Earthmen do not see me before I reach Krana. Now I must go.”
Like a puppet figure he knelt. His groping arms found Zarran’s terrible head and hugged it roughly to his breast. Then he was up and stumbling away without a glance behind.
Pain . . . and pain! This new body—he had not told Zarran that it was almost impossible to control it, that agony shot through him at every step, that his brain was shaking with nausea and red fire. After brain transplantation the patient required a month of complete rest and immobilization. Tharg had begun the journey back to the Cursed Valley immediately on his awakening.
He did not look back. He lurched on, keeping low, taking a roundabout route. The Earthmen must not see him yet. Not till he had entered the Rigellian’s house. After that, there would be time enough.
He knew the way. But, with his pain-racked body, it took longer than he had thought. The sun blazed down through the thin air. The red dust choked him. He was nearly blind, unaccustomed to the optical muscles of his new body. And dual vision was strange to him as well.
But Tharg went on, circling, till he reached the black cube. He risked a swift glance toward the spaceship. The Earthmen were not coming. Good.
With difficulty he pried open one of the metal doors, leaving it slightly ajar so that Zarran could enter later. He slipped through the gap into gloom. A violent shudder went through him.
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