Flash Gordon

by Arthur Byron Cover

  Despite the pleasant greenery (Zarkov grew most of his vegetables beneath the glass whose properties were enhanced by solar batteries), there was a certain sterility to the estate which was not conducive to relaxation. Zarkov never felt he was at home; he felt, instead, that he had been marooned in a temporary resting spot which had suddenly, inexplicably become permanent, like the characters in those surreal speculative fiction stories who found themselves stranded in airplanes that would never land, or in buses that would never reach their destinations. He and his assistant, Munson (an undependable sort but the best help he could get), slept on cots. For breakfast they fixed cold cuts and lettuce and tomato and mayo on white bread; and for supper they served vegetables and frozen foods in arbitrary combinations. One particularly melancholy evening, perhaps the lowest point of Zarkov’s life since the war, they ate fresh cauliflower with Kraft’s Pasteurized Cheese Spread and a special brand of frozen lasagne laced with preservatives. Munson loved it. They washed their laundry in a machine which, for all the good it did them, was little better than beating their clothing on rocks. They hung the laundry to dry on lines in a section of the greenhouse where Zarkov, with his black thumb, could never get anything to grow. Huge brown wads of dust defaced every corner and hid beneath every chair. The trash from Munson’s occasional forays to fast food restaurants overflowed from the big tan plastic container next to the washing machine. There was no space for pictures on the walls, for Zarkov’s equipment and inventions precluded any reasonable attempt at interior decorating. The ruins of a television set rusted in the backyard. (Zarkov had thrown it outside after his profile on “Sixty Minutes.”) The only entertainment was provided by the cassettes of rock-and-roll music sent by a friendly corporation executive whose firm manufactured the few inventions Zarkov had patented.

  Often Zarkov roamed the grounds near the greenhouse that was his home, listening to the strains of The Beatles or The Who through the speakers, pondering the eons of evolution which had led to his being, or merely making another of his innumerable observations on the plight of twentieth-century man. Though he had passed his forties, the spiritual barrenness of the universe made him feel as if he had been cast adrift in a teenage wasteland.

  Fortunately for Zarkov’s sanity, he managed to preoccupy himself sufficiently with scientific problems, otherwise he might have been ensnarled in the psychic spiral that frequently sends social outsiders into the bottomless depths of hopelessness. The belief that life is futile often leads to days of neutrality where nothing is gained and everything is lost. Zarkov clung to the notion that only actions and deeds provide life with meaning. And every morning as he stumbled out of his cot, divested himself of his white gown and sleeping cap, and peered into the bathroom mirror, studying those bloodshot eyes and inspecting the pillow traces above the black beard, he wondered how such a magnificent brain could be housed in such a puny skull, how such an exhausted spirit could overcome an existence that fairly radiated despair to toil without hope of reward for mankind’s ultimate salvation. For Zarkov’s common sense had convinced him time and time again that sooner or later the universe would notice mankind, and that somebody had better be prepared. Nearly every night Zarkov sensed the ineffable cosmic forces girding for a frontal assault, and so he devoted his days to measuring the might of the forces which conceivably would one day attack. In his idealistic heart he prayed to whatever benign forces there were that peaceful resistance, at most, would be called for.

  The revenues from his patents permitted him to devise mechanical concoctions that modern industrial executives would have broken many antitrust laws to secure. Zarkov invented a sine curve frequency modulator which transmitted waves to measure the expended energy of novas. From the materials of common gravel he created an alloy which did not contract when cooled. Using devices of inordinate sensitivity, augmented by a computer of almost independent intelligence (the size of a writing desk), he discovered a closed section of the galaxy where the heat would not spontaneously flow to the coldest regions; however, he was unable to extrapolate a theory to explain this, and he had no choice but to conclude that energies beyond his ken, perhaps artificial energies created by an alien intelligence, were responsible for the perplexing enigma. After months of arduous (and seemingly futile) effort, he created a vibratory force field which negated, somewhat, the effects of gravity waves. The force field, incidently, radiated four hitherto unknown primary colors; even the cynical and dense Munson was overcome by the simple beauty of this discovery. Zarkov estimated the density of the ether to a nanofraction, detected electric currents transmitted through the said ether that originated in other galaxies, discovered a star formed entirely of molten zinc, a quasar whose energy was mysteriously diminishing, a gigantic comet hurling itself between the galaxies, and innumerable indications of intelligent life—such as a planet exploding for no discernible reason. Yes, Zarkov’s astronomical instruments were of such sensitivity that he had actually pinpointed the location of over fifty planets; he possessed fragments of information about some. But not even his high idealism could convince him that mankind was emotionally and intellectually prepared for the fruits of his genius, even his relatively benign fruits. That is why he designed many weapons to protect mankind from the dangers of the unfeeling and uncaring universe, but why he never brought himself to build them. Thanks to “Sixty Minutes” and his own iconoclasm, he was left alone, but if those dodo-heads at the Pentagon ever learned of the blueprints in his safe . . .

  However, when the peculiar energies began manifesting themselves between Jupiter and Mars, Dr. Hans Zarkov wished many a time that he had confided in those same dodo-heads.

  The cinder fell in an arc above the gloomy estate; it crashed through the greenhouse glass as if that had been its intention, and it landed between the legs of the sleeping man sprawled beneath the brown blankets on the cot. A column of thick, odorous smoke arose from the blankets.

  Munson awoke. He sniffed something in the air. Smells like a decaying skunk, he thought, recalling an incident from his childhood when he had tried to bury one in the backyard. Then Munson’s short red hair stood on end; his eyes bulged until they protruded nearly as much as his fat red cheeks. Throwing the blanket from the cot, he slipped into his shoes (he was otherwise fully clothed) and stamped the cinder into harmless ashes. Only when the immediate danger was taken care of did he notice the blackness above. There was not a star in the sky, emphasizing the unholy nature of the darkness. He steadied himself by leaning against a console. “Dr. Zarkov! The sun!”

  The doctor was caught in the throes of a nightmare. He dreamed he was in the upper bedroom of the white two-story house of his childhood; he walked through the hall and down the stairs and through another hall as if he were a wraith, gliding past the antique furniture and portraits of his great-grandparents, until he reached the window through which he saw what in his childlike eyes was the great expanse of the backyard; over fifty yards away stood the stoic tall evergreens he loved so much to climb. Much nearer was the alien who had come for him. It was a gigantic orange creature with yellow spots, long skinny legs, longer skinnier arms, a single round eye in the center of its massive stomach, and a tubular sucking organ instead of a neck and head. It ran toward the child Zarkov. Relentlessly. Ruthlessly. The sucking organ broke through the glass with a numbing crash and struck! It completely covered the child Zarkov’s head, smothering him in blackness. Then . . .

  “Dr. Zarkov! It’s eight twenty-four and there’s no sun!”

  Zarkov thought, My God, I’m thrust from one nightmare directly into another. Then the guilt feelings flooded back to him, threatening to drown him in a despair much greater than that he had experienced in his dream, when the sucking organ had covered his head. He staggered at the realization that he had not adequately protected mankind. He was wide awake. Like Munson, he had collapsed fully clothed onto his cot early in the morning. So he leaped from the cot wearing a wrinkled white shirt and tan corduroys. His mouth felt as th
ough a midget with muddy feet had tramped through it, but he couldn’t worry about brushing his teeth now. He had to save the Earth! Reaching the consoles, he pushed buttons and turned knobs and flicked switches. “Check the angular vector of the moon!”

  The first thing Munson checked was his heartbeat; numbed by an adrenaline rush, he did not know what to do first. Zarkov, as usual, had given him such vague instructions that several valid courses of actions were possible, not to mention the invalid ones. Running his stubby fingers through his red hair, wondering if he would ever get the chance to shampoo it, Munson dashed to another console and pushed buttons and turned knobs and flicked switches. “I know it’s against orders,” he said, “but I’m going to intercept some television frequencies so I can find out what’s on the news.”

  Zarkov nodded. “Any source of information is acceptable under the circumstances.”

  La di da, thought Munson as he turned a knob and stared at a screen above him. First he intercepted a quiz show, then a Lucille Ball rerun, then an episode of “Tarzan” starring Ron Ely. When he intercepted a picture of Brad Cassidy, TV newsman, speaking into a microphone, Munson breathed a sigh of relief.

  “According to scientists at NASA,” said Cassidy over the airwaves, “this unpredicted solar eclipse is no cause for alarm. They have been in conference with the President, however, since seven o’clock this morning, briefing him on . . .”

  Snarling, grunting his displeasure, Zarkov killed the sound.

  “What did you do that for?” whined Munson, fiddling with the knobs to restore the sound.

  “The President is a peanut brain,” said Zarkov. “I swear, ever since Ford allowed reporters to take pictures of him buttering his breakfast muffins on the wrong side . . . Well, it’s been very bad for the country, I can tell you that.”

  Right, thought Munson. Perfectly clear as usual. His dissatisfaction with his employer was overwhelmed by his concern when a ticker tape clicked from the console next to that controlling the screen. Holding his breath, Munson gingerly tore it from the slot. He read it several times. He stuttered something incomprehensible after each reading. He swayed, stricken with an attack of gas. He felt the blood draining from his face.

  “What did you find? The moon out of orbit?”

  “You could say that,” replied Munson when he could manage it. “By more than twelve degrees! This must be a mistake! I told you we should rig new transistors and overhaul this thing.” He whacked the console briskly.

  “It’s not a mistake,” said Zarkov grimly. “It’s an attack. I’ve been right, all these years. Fire up those transducers, will you?”

  I’ll fire up those transducers, thought Munson. I’ll fire them right up your . . . However, his desire to restore the sound caused him to leave the thought incomplete. Nearly hyperventilating, he attempted to calm himself as he worked the controls on the console, hoping to override Zarkov’s override. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the familiar jowls of the President crystallize with only a slight interference. “The President’s coming on. I think he’s making a statement.”

  “What the hell do I care?” asked Zarkov. “I tried to warn him. He wouldn’t listen. A poor man’s Hindenburg, looking for his Hitler.”

  The blackness outside was briefly illuminated by red waves exposing a torrent of small meteors. The cinders crashed into trees, knocking over three and setting four afire.

  Though his body meant it as a gasp, Munson wheezed horribly, like a coronary victim suddenly stricken with asthma.

  “Merely fragments of moon rock,” said Zarkov in tones as comforting as he could make them. “Our moon is being subjected to some enormous force from outer space—a kind of energy beam.”

  Now red lightning bolts stabbed across the sky. Their jagged fingers touched points throughout the landscape. Glass, shattered noisily, pieces dropping about the harried scientists. Munson hastily covered his face with his hands, but Zarkov calmly continued his tasks at the console. The lights flickered, the screen faded; Zarkov did not notice as he read a printout. He sighed, but there was a glimmer of suppressed excitement in his voice as he said, “Time for us to go, Munson.”

  “Go where?”

  Zarkov clenched the hand holding the printout into a fist. The veins of his neck protruded and his jaw was set so tightly that Munson expected to see bits of enamel fall from his mouth. “I’ve got the coordinates now—the direction of the energy beam’s source. This is what we’ve been waiting for. We’ll go up and counterattack them!”

  Munson gulped loudly. He slowly turned to stare at the ornate golden space capsule looming above the foliage in the greenhouse behind him. “Surely you jest!”

  “No.”

  “You’re crazy! I’m not going up in that!”

  Nodding as if he had expected this reaction all along, Zarkov opened a drawer and pulled out a revolver.

  “Doctor! I thought you were a man of peace!” exclaimed Munson.

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures. I can’t handle the capsule alone. Get your toothbrush, Munson; you’re going on a trip to the stars!”

  The small plane carrying Flash Gordon and Dale Arden flew blindly in the impenetrable darkness. The pilot wondered if they had somehow flown into a spacious cave, and he unconsciously tensed for an impact into unyielding rock that would arrive without warning, at any second. The copilot, though just as nervous as his companion, wondered if they had somehow flown into a tremendous womb; if only it wasn’t so cold . . . However, they spoke to one another with professional aplomb, as if nothing unusual was happening, as if they navigated absolute darkness every day.

  “What’s the word from Boston, Bill?” asked the pilot.

  The copilot frowned and shook his head. “Zip. Zilch. Zero. All channels dead.” For the first time he permitted traces of amazement to creep into his voice. “Say, get a load of those VORs . . .”

  The needles on virtually every instrument of the controls spun crazily, registering impossible and contradictory information that altered just as crazily and just as impossibly with each passing second.

  Suddenly, the pilot exclaimed, “On the left, about nine o’clock high!”

  The darkness parted, wounded by a warm glow of red, as if some mad and powerful painter had cast his watercolors into the sky. Terrible, terrific bolts of red lightning stabbed from the warm glow, reaching toward the ground below like a murderer’s knife. The atmosphere itself seemed to react against this alien lightning with an electricity of its own, hoping to reject it or consume it like a gaseous antibody. A streak of lightning barely missed the nose of the plane; it disintegrated an instant before the nose would have struck it.

  Now the pilot permitted himself to express a hint of panic and fear. “Hold on tight, Bill, let’s put this baby down right here.”

  The moment the copilot touched the flap control, painful electricity coursed through him, and his vision was blinded by a crimson wave. The copilot was vaguely aware of the pilot grabbing his arm, of the pilot experiencing a similiar pain, but those were the last impressions of his life.

  The unconscious bodies of the pilot and copilot were sucked through the broken glass as if their seat belts were nonexistent, sucked into the cold, foreboding blackness.

  In the passenger section, Flash and Dale had spent the time sitting quietly, pondering the limbo into which they had been thrust. Frustrated that he could do nothing constructive in this predicament, Flash concentrated upon having a steadying, calming influence on Dale, who was finding the situation much more difficult to cope with. The peace Flash summoned in times of need could not relieve him of his anxieties. He had the premonition that the lessons of the past would be of no help in the coming hours, that each risky deed would be performed without full knowledge of the consequences.

  The cockpit curtains flapped. Without thinking, Flash unsnapped his seat belt and rushed toward the cockpit, only to find himself fighting a gale. His stomach tightened as if he had swallowed a concrete s
lab.

  When Flash saw that the pilots were gone, he was thankful that at the least he could spend his final moments battling the inevitable. Sliding into a seat, he grabbed the bucking wheel yoke, pulling it back with all his strength. He kicked at the rubber pedals. He could not allow himself to be distracted long enough to see Dale’s face as she entered the cockpit, undoubtedly struggling against the gale, and said, “My God! Where did the pilots go?”

  Setting his jaw, his heart fearful over Dale’s fate, Flash said between his teeth, “Hydraulic’s gone. Grab that other wheel, help me pull her up!”

  Staggering into the other seat, Dale tugged at the wheel. She was paralyzed by despair when she realized that her efforts had been in vain. Tensing every muscle, she pulled at it again, draining her mind of every irrelevant thought. When it seemed her efforts had been met with some small success, she said, “Are we coming up? I can’t see a thing!”

  “Me neither. Look for the landing lights!”

  Dale glanced about what remained of the cockpit. The controls and instrument panels were totally incomprehensible. “This isn’t my scene! Look where?”

  Though it was risky, Flash released one hand from the wheel and pointed at the controls above Dale. “Switches up there; start hitting them!”

  Dale instantly complied. She remembered a comic short she had seen as a child; the three comedians, stranded in a crashing rocket ship, did the only thing they could: they pushed buttons and hoped for the best. When the landing lights finally flooded on, Dale was relieved only because she could once again grab the wheel with both hands.

  Flash realized they could not keep the plane in the air much longer; it was foolish to try. He began scanning the ground below, searching for an adequate landing site. He glimpsed a strange tower—a greenhouse?—in the center of a gloomy estate.