by Mike Resnick
“Who’s there?” I demanded, drawing my revolver. “Friend or enemy?”
“From the tone of your voice I assume that I’m not a friend,” he answered in a calm voice. “You’ll have to accept my word that I’m not an enemy.”
I opened the door, my gun cocked, and was startled by the sight that greeted my eyes. There, not three feet away, stood a tall, handsome, clean-limbed man. His hair was black, his eyes gray, his face ruggedly handsome. He wore only a jeweled harness of unearthly design, and at his side hung a longsword, a shortsword, a dagger, and a strange-looking pistol. Immediately I holstered my revolver and, stepping forward, extended my hand.
“John Carter!” I exclaimed as he took my hand in his firm grasp. “It could be none other than you!”
“Then you know of me?” he asked pleasantly.
“Know of you? I was brought up on the Martian stories! But come inside and tell me what brings you to Earth.”
“Nothing of great importance,” he replied, following me into the living room. “I returned primarily to see my nephew. I met him in this very cabin once before, and I had hoped that he might be here again.”
“Do you mean Edgar Rice Burroughs?” I asked, and he nodded. “I’m afraid he’s been dead for a number of years.”
A look of sadness spread across his face.
“I had feared as much,” he said at last, “but this is the first chance I have had to visit my native planet since I saw him last.” He rose and walked slowly to the door. “This shall, I believe, be my last voyage across the void which separates Earth from my beloved Barsoom, for I now have no ties to return to.”
“No!” I said. “You must not deny us more tales of Mars; it would be too great a loss!”
He turned to me with a questioning expression on his face,
“Let me bring your adventures to the world!” I pleaded.
He shrugged his shoulders and sat down. “Why not?” he said with a smile. “Where shall I begin?”
“Let me see,” I said. “I never found out what happened to Tan Hadron of Hastor. Did you ever see him again?”
“That,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, “would make a most interesting and unusual story. Perhaps you would like to hear it?”
I assured him that I would, and here, in his own words, is the tale he told me that night beneath the cold light of the Arizona moon.
Rab-Zov
As you may recall, I had last seen Tan Hadron of Hastor when we were aboard the Dusar. The crew mutinied rather than return to Pankor, and since we were the only ones with sufficient knowledge and skill to operate the ship, they kept Hadron as their pilot and Fo-nar as a hostage, and set me aground, little knowing that Tan Hadron’s prowess with a longsword was among the best in all Helium.
During the ensuing war with Hin Abtol’s forces I lost all track of Tan Hadron, all my energies and attention being required for the fighting at hand. Immediately after the combined forces of Helium and Gathol had emerged victorious, I determined to discover his whereabouts, for no trace of him had been seen after he had flown that crew of Panar cutthroats away from Pankor.
Under my guidance great numbers of search parties were sent to all ends of Barsoom in quest of Tan Hadron, but these efforts ended in failure, quite probably because Tan Hadron had been wearing the harness of a padwar in Hin Abtol’s navy when last we parted, which was the equivalent of a death sentence in a majority of the nations of Barsoom.
I had conducted this search openly in the hope that, as often happens, whoever had the knowledge I desired might prefer to offer it anonymously, and sure enough, just when I was on the verge of admitting defeat, I received an unsigned note; I was told that if I desired to learn the whereabouts of my missing officer, I must be on the upper level of a certain boarding house in Zodanga, alone, at sunset two days hence.
Carthoris and Kantos Kan advised me against going there, as it seemed too suspicious a meeting place. Zodanga has long been a breeding ground of sedition and insurrection, but it was my only tangible link with Tan Hadron, and I decided to follow through on it, however dangerous the situation might seem.
I left Helium on the morning of the appointed day and set off for Zodanga, which lies about fifty-one hundred haads east of Helium and is located at Lat. 30°S., Lon. 172°E. As I was to be in the city but a brief time, I made no attempt at disguise, and, flying the colors of the Warlord of Barsoom, I soon gained the hangar on the roof of the boarding house. Having an hour or so on my hands before sunset, I took a short walk through the city.
Unlike most Martian cities, which contain numerous buildings and monuments from antiquity, Zodanga is almost entirely new, for Tars Tarkas and I had burned the city to the ground not so many years past, nor had the people of Zodanga forgotten that, as was evidenced by the hateful glares they threw at me as I progressed through the crowded streets.
I must have walked close to two miles when I looked up and saw Thuria, the nearer moon, racing across the heavens on her endless voyage. The sun was beginning to dip over the horizon, and I made my way back to the rooming house and ascended to its highest level.
The entire floor was comprised of one large sleeping chamber, and I was surprised to note that it was almost deserted. Three men were reclining upon their sleeping silks and furs, and a fourth was sitting in a chair of sorapus wood, reading a book.
The reader rose as I entered. I found his evil-looking face familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Welcome, John Carter,” he said with a smile on his thick, ugly lips.
“Have you the information I seek?” I demanded, advancing.
“Yes.”
“Good!” I said. “Let me have it.”
“Not so fast,” he replied. “Are you prepared to pay for it?”
I had suspected something of this nature and had brought along a few diamonds from the mines of Gathol, which I now withdrew from my pocket-pouch.
“I trust this will suffice,” I said.
He examined them carefully, taking his time, and finally handed them back.
“The price is not high enough,” he said at last.
“They’re a Jeddak’s ransom!” I exclaimed. “What do you want?”
“Your life, John Carter,” he said, and in that instant I recognized him.
“Rab-zov!”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “The man whom you disgraced in the presence of Hin Abtol, Jeddak of . . . Pankor.”
I was looking at him intently when his eyes left mine for just an instant and looked beyond me. Immediately I jumped aside and, drawing my sword, turned to face three armed men, the same three who had been feigning sleep when I had entered. I felt the old fighting smile of my Virginia ancestors come to my lips as I prepared to do battle.
They spread out a bit, and I backed into a corner to better defend myself, although I had no doubt as to the outcome. Regardless of their skill, I would win. I am, unquestionably, the greatest swordsman ever born; I say this not in a spirit of bravado, but as a simple fact, a fact which nobody who has ever seen me fight will deny.
My opponents were no mean antagonists themselves, but it wasn’t long before the nearest of them dropped his guard for an instant and was sent off to join his ancestors. I then employed my rushing tactics and caught the remaining pair so off guard that the duel was over in a matter of seconds.
I turned back to Rab-zov, who had stood on the other side of the room all during the fight, never attempting to come to the aid of his comrades. I had not yet sheathed my sword, and in a single bound I was beside him, my point at his throat.
“Now,” I said, “you will give me my information or your life. Which shall it be?”
“I shall tell you of Tan Hadron, although it will do you little good,” he answered. “The entire building is surrounded, and fifteen of my men are just without the chamber.”
I rushed to the window, and, sure enough, there was a group of men standing in the street, all wearing the insignia of Hin Abtol’s ar
my. So this was a plot on my life! I realized now why they had chosen Zodanga: it was sure to be friendly to any enemies of Helium.
“Was this all a ruse?” I asked, turning to Rab-zov. “Or does Tan Hadron of Hastor still live?”
“He lives.”
“I have combed Barsoom’s surface from pole to pole. Where is he hidden?”
“Tan Hadron of Hastor,” he replied, “is not upon the surface of Barsoom, but is imprisoned far beneath it.”
“You lie,” I said, “for my men have returned from the buried sea of Omean just two weeks past and reported that they could find no trace of him.”
“Omean, John Carter, is not the only submerged world of Barsoom. Just as it lies near the South Pole, so does Ayathor lie near the North Pole. It is in Ayathor that Tan Hadron is being held, although in a moment you will be unable to help him or anyone else again.”
With that he clapped his hands twice, and fifteen armed men entered the chamber and slowly began advancing. I love a good fight, but there were no pedestals or nooks in which I might take them on three or four at a time, and not even John Carter could take on fifteen swordsmen without some kind of advantage.
They had great respect for my blade, and were still moving toward me very slowly, and in that I saw my only chance for escape.
Scarcely had the plan entered my mind than I was enacting it. Rapidly I grabbed the smirking Rab-zov, and, as I had done in Pankor, I held him high above my head. Then, extending my Earthly muscles to their fullest, I hurled him into the wall of oncoming swordsmen, and in the moment of confusion that followed I made a break for the window. The success or failure of my plan depended on whether or not the new Zodanga had the same type of ornamentation on its buildings as the old city had, yet even as this doubt crossed my mind I leaped upward from the window ledge, my hands came in contact with a smooth surface and slid rapidly down until, when I had almost given myself up for lost, I came to a great carved protrusion.
With a sigh of relief I began, systematically finding handholds and toeholds, to climb toward the roof, which was about twenty feet above me. Realizing that should Rab-zov and his men gain the roof before I did I would be no better off than before, I hastened my efforts, and a few seconds later the edge of the roof was within my grasp.
Here I paused, listening for Rab-zov, but as no sound came to my ears I cautiously raised my head until I could see across to the hangar.
And then, just as I was about to pull myself up, a hand shot out of the darkness and I could see the cold light of Cluros, the farther moon, reflected off the blade of a dagger.
A Unique Discovery
As I looked up from my precarious position, I found my new antagonist to be another of Hin Abtol’s former officers. Rab-zov had evidently left him to guard the roof alone, and from my present plight it appeared that one man was quite enough.
I grabbed his wrist in an attempt to keep the dagger from reaching my breast, but that was the extent of my possibilities. I couldn’t let go of the edge of the roof with my other hand without plunging to my death; I knew it, and my opponent knew it, too, for he began pummeling my face with his free hand,
“The Warlord!” he screamed. “Come to the roof! I have the Warlord!”
As he yelled to his comrades he turned his head in the direction of the ramp upon which they must ascend, and in that instant I managed to swing my body to the roof. He immediately turned back to me, redoubling his efforts, and the ferocity of this renewed attack rolled me halfway over the side again. But now I had the use of both my hands, and, still holding his dagger arm with my left, my right grabbed for his throat. There we remained, motionless, he trying to stab me or push me off the roof and I trying to choke the life from him. It was scarce thirty seconds since I had left the sleeping chamber, but I knew Rab-zov and his men must be on their way to the roof by now and would reach it momentarily.
I closed my hand more and more securely about his throat. He was weakening, but still that blade came ever closer to my heart. Then, with a final convulsive shudder, he died. Rising, I flung his lifeless body to the street below and raced toward the hangar.
Rab-zov and his men were emerging from the ramp, but my powerful Earthly muscles carried me to the hangar in great leaps and bounds that no Martian could ever hope to match. They began firing at me with their radium pistols, but it was dark and I reached my flier unscathed.
However, once aboard it, I couldn’t make it rise, and realized that they had punctured the tanks which contained the Eighth Barsoomian Ray, the ray of repulsion. Running to another side of the roof, I saw a building some fifty feet away. Without breaking stride, I jumped the intervening space amid a barrage of fire from their pistols, and, keeping to the rooftops, I had soon covered half a mile.
Here I paused to strip all the insignia and jewels from my harness, for there were others in Zodanga besides Rab-zov who desired the demise of the Warlord. This done, I withdrew the red pigment given to me many years ago by the Ptor brothers and smeared it over every inch of my body until I appeared no different than any red man of Barsoom.
As I descended to the street, I decided to go straightaway to Ayathor. I was certain of its existence, for Rab-zov had thought I would soon be a dead man when he told me of it. There was a note of urgency attached to finding Ayathor, for if Rab-zov returned there ahead of me, I could count on a most unpleasant welcome.
Could I but gain access to a flier, I had no doubts that I could easily outdistance the Panars, for they would probably be using the slow, outmoded ships of Hin Abtol’s navy.
Then, recalling the diamonds I had in my possession, I went directly to a public hangar, where I purchased a two-man flier, for I planned on returning with Tan Hadron or not at all. The man who sold it to me examined the diamond suspiciously, but his greed was greater than his sense of duty and shortly thereafter I was skimming rapidly across the dead sea bottoms of Barsoom, bound for the frozen North.
I set the directional compass toward Pankor and settled back to relax. This compass, invented by my son, Carthoris, is a most unique mechanism, allowing the pilot to set the pointer at any location in either hemisphere, after which he is not needed at the controls until the craft reaches its destination, whereupon he will be notified by the ringing of a small alarm. There is, in addition, a device which enables the ship to avoid mountains, other ships, or any similar obstructions.
It was not without an air of sadness that I looked out over the ochre, mosslike vegetation of the dying planet. Beneath me great oceans had once brought commerce to the now-deserted cities. As I flew over one of the cities now inhabited only by the great white apes and fierce green men who roam the sea bottoms in warring tribes, I could almost visualize the sailors of those long-forgotten days returning to their women after a prosperous voyage; and hear the vendors’ calls in the crowded market places.
Traces still remain of the great coliseums where the cheering multitudes had given moral support to their favorite gladiators, and of the strongly martial architecture of the many palaces. Now the finely carved buildings are broken and crumbling, the streets are overrun with moss, and only the occasional screams of an ape permeate the cold night air.
It was a sad and lonely sight, this tribute to the youth and glory of Barsoom, but a rifle shot from the city soon awoke me from my reverie, and I quickly swerved out of range and continued on my way to Pankor. Pankor, I was sure, would be the logical place to begin my quest for the hidden city of Ayathor. Hin Abtol’s warriors came from Pankor, Tan Hadron was the prisoner of a group of Panars when last we parted, and Pankor was sufficiently close to the North Pole to afford some means of ingress to Ayathor.
I checked to make sure that the ship was going at full speed, and then, covering myself with some furs which I had found on board, I lay down to sleep, exhausted from my efforts in Zodanga.
When I awoke it was midday, and the air had become cold. Looming large in front of me were the ice caps which surround Okar and Pankor, the two count
ries within the circumference of the snow-capped polar circle.
I had no knowledge of the location of Ayathor other than what Rab-zov had told me, nor were there any books or maps to aid me. Before Thuvan Dihn, Jeddak of Ptarth, and I had overthrown the tyrannical Salensus Oll and placed Talu, the rebel prince of Marentina, upon the throne of Okar, the yellow men of the North and their cities were widely thought to be a myth, due to their inaccessibility by land, and the Guardian of the North, that great magnetic pole which drew all the outside world’s fliers to their destruction. Since that time, Pankor had been discovered, and the cities have been charted, but no maps of the surrounding territory have been compiled, as it is comprised entirely of fields of ice and snow.
Now, however, I wished that a more thorough survey had been made, for I was utterly at a loss as to my next move. It seemed likely that my red pigment would afford me safe entry into Pankor, but, once there, any inquiries I might make of Ayathor would probably show too great a lack of knowledge and could well result in the discovery of my identity. Nonetheless, there seemed naught else to do but take my chances in the plastic-domed hotbox city.
As I approached I became aware of a distracting patch of color—or rather an absence of it—in the distance off the starboard bow. As I was less than fifty haads from the city and well in advance of Rab-zov, I swung to starboard and curiously approached it. As I drew nearer I found the distraction to be a large black spot of circular proportions, which of course made it stand out like a sore thumb against the brilliant display of ice-covered mountains.
A sudden gust of wind came from the northeast, and, rather than try to fight onward in my light flier, I descended to the ground to wait until it had passed. To my surprise, as I descended the spot gradually disappeared.
Now indeed was my interest aroused, and I took the flier up again. Sure enough, when I was about two thousand feet up the spot reappeared.
