by Alex Raymond
Zarkov looked up.
But Flash was already grabbing his shoulder and raising him to his feet. “Run!” he shouted.
The two of them ran away from an enormous green-striped tank which was rambling over the rocks toward them.
An instant later, they could hear the crashing and crunching of the cabin in which they had drifted to the surface of the gypsy planet. Turning, Flash saw the tank rumble over the metallic remains and come right after them.
“This way!” he cried to Zarkov.
The two of them headed for a rock outcrop that seemed strong enough to slow down the tank.
They crouched there and saw the tank turn slightly, slow down, and then move toward them again.
Flash climbed to the top of the rock outcrop, urging Zarkov on behind him.
Planes zoomed over the battlefield; bombs erupted near them.
Flash poised with Zarkov on the point of the rock, and as the tank neared them, they both jumped on top of it. There was a hatch at the center of the dorsal vents. The tank continued to rumble over the rocks, firing spasmodically into the distance. Now Flash could see that other tanks painted orange were firing back.
Flash and Zarkov cracked the hatch and found themselves looking down into a vast and spacious control room. Flash climbed down, helping Zarkov. They secured the hatch above them.
Flash stared at the wide console of controls.
“It’s more complicated than Pandora,” he said.
Zarkov looked around. “Yeah, but who runs it?”
Flash sat down at one of the empty seats. “It’s spooky,” he said, glancing around. “The tank has nothing inside it but a big control room. The machinery is confined to the under-half. And here we are, in a beautiful military tank without anybody running it.”
The tank shook as it took a bomb from one of the planes.
Zarkov leaned over and picked up a black box from the floor of the tank. It was about eight inches by twelve inches, and six inches thick. There were wire connections extending from jacks all over it.
“It’s a robot control,” he told Flash. “Quite like an automatic pilot on an Earth plane.”
Flash nodded. “So the thing is controlled remotely.”
“Right. This black box is a transmitter and receiver, receiving messages from central control and relaying them on to the panel controls. In turn, the tank receives impulse messages and pictures from its outside probes, and relays that information back by transmitter to the main control.”
“Probably a television set-up there in the port shows where the tank is going,” Flash mused.
“The damned thing is a cybernaut in itself,” muttered Zarkov. “Fascinating! Great way to fight a war, you know.”
“But not to be in it, old buddy,” said Flash.
“That’s a problem, all right,” Zarkov admitted. He put down the black box and stood up. “It’s kind of scary—a race of men fighting a race of robots.”
Flash nodded. “Well, we’ve gotten to know the robot side. Maybe we should take a look at the human side.”
Zarkov pointed through the immense window at the front of the tank beyond the control panel. “There’s the enemy. You see? It’s orange. The orange bunker this green tank is approaching is its objective.”
Flash could see the bunker plainly now. It had been obscured from above by the brow of rocks over it. The bunker had an enormous cannon mounted on top. There were several bunkers strung together along the brow of the hill.
“Let’s take a look at the fortress,” Flash said.
They climbed up out of the tank and stood on top a moment, watching the tank approach the bunker. On the other side of the plain, they could see an orange tank charging across a piece of ground to tangle with a green tank. Shots were fired and the green one blew up, smoke pouring out of its insides.
Flash and Zarkov jumped down from the tank to the rocky ground and ran toward the bunker. At that instant, a plane strafed the green tank they had just left, and a bomb dropped on it, going down through the empty hatch that Zarkov had left open.
The tank blew up.
Flash pulled Zarkov with him onto the top of the bunker. There was a narrow entryway in the middle of its reinforced concrete top.
They climbed down a ladder and found themselves in a well-lighted control room not unlike that in the tank. It, too, was deserted, with a large console of instrumentation moving the enormous gun above.
Zarkov spotted the black box. “The robot box again!” he cried. “It’s a damned war of robot against robot! The war of the cybernauts! What kind of crazy business is that?”
Flash stared at the control panel and shook his head.
Beyond the gun console there was a glass panel revealing a small room in which a dim light glowed. There were more dials and instruments.
“There’s got to be some human brain running this operation,” Flash said.
“I agree with you. But where?”
Flash and Zarkov walked down a corridor that opened off the gun-control room. Doors opened into other bunkers. At the end of the corridor there was a square room, and along one wall of the room there were three metal doors.
“They’ve got the same metals and minerals we have on Earth, I’d guess,” said Zarkov, glancing about him at the structure of the building. “Metal in the ships. Glass on the windows. And cement floors. No wood, though. I don’t know that wood grows on this rocky planet, but maybe it does.”
“No way,” said Flash. “Artificial light? It takes a sun to grow plants. There’s probably no vegetation on this planet.”
“Not much life either,” said Zarkov with a grin.
“Well,” said Flash. “Which door do you think we open to find the human brain running this crazy operation?”
Zarkov shrugged. “I’ll try the center one.”
He tugged at it and it opened.
Two creatures, each five feet tall, stood in the darkness. Their eyes were red lights. Their heads were chain mail globes. Their bodies were metal tubes. Their arms and legs were flexible BX-type cable. Sharp electric charges zipped through them like static.
The globe of one split open in the middle, and a metallic voice issued forth:
“Kill! Kill! Kill!”
CHAPTER 7
Flash Gordon kicked the metal door shut before the words of the strange cybernauts had ceased.
“There’s got to be a human being around here somewhere,” Zarkov said. “Somebody had to build those metal monsters.”
The door trembled under heavy blows and started to bulge at the corners. One of the flexible cables armed with metal claws on the end came probing through the small crack, clacking out for Flash.
“They’re strong little things,” snapped Flash. “Come on, Doc, let’s put some distance between us.”
Zarkov glanced around hurriedly. “Where do you think it’s safest to go?”
“Who knows? Let’s try the right-hand corridor. We know there’s nobody behind us.”
They ran off down the dimly lighted passageway, passing several doors. One stood open.
“Here,” Flash directed, and they went inside. They found themselves in a spartanly furnished, windowless room. There were two chairs in the office-like cubicle. “At least we can sit down.”
Zarkov closed the door behind him and slipped the bolt in place. There was the hum of air conditioning and the faint buzz of indirect lighting in the ceiling. Flash looked around. The room was constructed of a metallic type of super-plastic. It showed no joints nor fittings.
It was very quiet.
The door began shaking. Flash moved over to it and checked the bolt. He could hear the clacking of a robot’s metallic claws outside.
“They’re out there, all right,” Flash told Zarkov. “It’s the cybernauts we saw before.”
“Scary little creatures,” muttered Zarkov. “I’m pooped, Flash. At least we can sit down and rest a bit.”
He sank into one of the chairs. Flash was about to
follow suit when suddenly the chair changed shape in front of Flash’s eyes and enveloped Zarkov. Then, amazingly enough, it began to swell up like a balloon, completely covering Zarkov’s body in a billowing plastic material.
“Flash!” yelled Zarkov. “I can’t move!”
Instantly Flash jumped away from the second chair that was waiting there so innocently for him.
“It’s a booby-trap, Doc. Can you still breathe?”
“I’m all right, but I’m completely enmeshed.” He seemed to be calling from inside a barrel.
The chair, now ballooned out into a sphere, stopped inflating and settled in the corner of the room. Zarkov was nowhere in sight.
Flash approached it warily, studying it for some sign of a control. There, at the joint of the strange metallic-plastic material, he found a button. It was labeled “RELEASE.”
“Doc, I’ve found a button here. It says RELEASE.”
“Well, punch it, man! Do you think I want to live the rest of my life in this damned bag?”
“If you’re sure it’s not some kind of back-up booby-trap.”
“Oh, push the button, will you? I can’t see a thing in here. It’s like being asleep in a cocoon! Shake it up.”
Flash glanced around. He could see the door trembling beneath the heavy blows of the two metal creatures outside. He took a deep breath and pressed the button.
Instantly the wall behind him changed shape and two large flexible steel arms shot out of it, holding a silken scarf between them. The scarf went over Flash’s eyes and pulled him backwards toward the wall.
“Doc!” yelled Flash. “It’s another trap. I can’t see. They’ve got me, now!”
Zarkov’s voice was muffled and far-off. “Aren’t you going to get me out of this thing?”
“Doc, I loused it up! They’ve got both of us!”
Zarkov’s voice was so muffled he could not hear it.
Flash tried to tear away the silken scarf—some kind of plastic imitation of Earth’s silk—but he could not drag it free. The flexible cables of the robot arms were too strong. When he tried to pry apart the metal claws holding the scarf they vibrated and made it impossible for his fingers to grip them.
He tried to kick at the wall to gain leverage, but the wall changed shape under his feet. And then he was on his back, bound to the floor by means of the scarf. Another scarf gripped his ankles and he was unable to move.
As he lay there in frustration, trying to tear the claws away from the scarves, his arms were seized by a tremendous strength, and then he was totally immobile. He could no longer hear Zarkov’s muffled voice.
“Doc!” he screamed. “Where are you?”
And he could smell a sweet smell in the air and then there was absolutely nothing.
“Gas,” he said aloud. “Some kind of gas. They pumped it into the room and . . .”
He could hear his voice, then, and he could feel the scarf loosen around his eyes. He lifted his hands—which were now miraculously free—and took the scarf off his face.
He was seated in a large cube-shaped room made of metal walls riveted at the joints of floor, ceiling, and walls. There were no windows. There was no door. But he was free.
And there was Zarkov, opposite him, free of the confining shape of the obscene chair that had swallowed him.
“Whew,” Zarkov sighed. “I’m never going to sit down again.”
Flash sighed. “And I’m never going to try to free you from a booby-trapped chair again.”
Zarkov stared around him. “What is this cell made out of?”
“It looks like metal to me,” Flash said, standing and putting his hand on the surface. “But maybe not. If this is that stuff that changes shape—”
“No,” said Zarkov. “It’s different. But there aren’t any seams in the material, except at the right-angle joints.”
“Well, then?”
Zarkov sighed. “I don’t know. It’s too technologically advanced for me. Probably steel or some carbon combination.”
“How did we get here?” Zarkov wondered. “We were in another kind of room. But this one—”
There was the sound of mild static in the air. Then a very artificial voice sounded from some hidden speaker in the wall.
“Spies!” the wall voice said. “Admit you are spies of the Greens and tell us all you know!”
Flash stared at Zarkov and Zarkov shrugged.
“We know you are there,” the wall continued. “We put you there. Now. Admit you are agents of the Greens.”
“Agents of whom?” Flash asked in exasperation. “We are earthmen. From planet Earth.”
“Doubletalk,” snapped the wall. “Admit you are working as agents of Zenohaven. Admit you blundered into our fortress to try to ferret out our secrets. Admit you are Green agents.”
“We’re not agents,” snapped Zarkov in his booming no-nonsense voice. “We’re astronauts.”
“Astronauts? This word is not in our language. You are purposely talking doubletalk to confuse us. You are agents, and you will die.”
“We don’t want to die,” growled Zarkov. “You’re being damned silly about this. Show your faces. Since we’ve landed on this planet, all we’ve seen is military aircraft, military tanks, military weapons, and military robots. Show us your faces, will you?”
There was a momentary silence.
“We’re not agents,” said Flash finally. “We know nothing of your war here. We were sent up from Earth on a space probe. Your robots attacked our craft and brought it down. We parachuted to safety, and landed right in a war.”
“Very well,” sighed the wall. “You won’t tell us the truth.”
“That’s the truth,” snapped Flash, angry now. “I’ve told the truth!”
“We show no mercy to liars and dissemblers,” said the wall. “You are agents, in the disguise of foreigners to our planet. A trick of the Greens to destroy us. Guns at the ready!”
Flash stared. Tiny ports opened in the walls and at least a dozen gun muzzles of conventional shape and size poked through the ports, aimed at the two earthmen.
“Hold it!” shouted Zarkov in his loud voice of a madman. “We can see you aren’t kidding. Give us a chance! If we could only sit down with you and talk!”
“Talk is for fools,” said the wall. “You die now, enemies of ours!”
“We’re not enemies,” cried Flash. “We came here on a friendly mission to find out how you live. You’re in our solar system and the Secretary of Space Development commissioned us to explore—”
“We do not like talk-talk. You are spies. Now. All guns. Ready, aim, fire!”
Flash and Zarkov stood firmly and philosophically in the middle of the room, waiting to die.
Instantly there was a hissing and they could feel powerful forces smashing at them. They went down on the floor, slipping and sliding in a concentration of furiously propelled water.
Flash opened his eyes as he slid into the corner of the cubed room, the force of the water pinning him there.
“It’s water, Doc!” cried Flash. “It’s like a half-dozen fire hoses turned on us.”
“Right you are, Flash,” cackled Zarkov. “I thought for a minute I was a goner. But it’s just like taking a damned tough shower.”
Suddenly the jets of water cut off, the guns disappeared into the ports in the wall, and there was silence.
“I thought we were being executed as spies,” said Flash, wiping off his head.
“Brainwash techniques,” said Zarkov seriously.
“Wash is right,” grinned Flash.
“No time for your puerile levity,” boomed Zarkov. “It’s really brain-conditioning, a technique to get our military secrets.”
“Good. We don’t have any to get.”
“When they find that out,” Zarkov said, “they’ll let us go.”
The wall resumed its dialogue. “We shall never let you go until you prove you are not agents of the Greens.”
“Haven’t we proved it?�
� asked Flash. “We have no secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets,” the wall proclaimed. “We shall find yours out and then we shall execute you.”
“You do too much talking for action,” said Zarkov. “If this is some kind of psychological test, we can take it. I’m very good at these things, you know,” Zarkov boomed optimistically. “Go ahead. Let’s have your next ploy.”
“Ploy? This word is not in our vocabulary,” said the wall. “We do not understand ploy. Is it play?”
Zarkov laughed. “Forget it.”
“You are mocking us with your laughter,” snapped the wall. “Now you shall pay for your mockery. Nobody laughs when he is being subjected to our will.”
“You can’t break us if we don’t have any secrets,” said Flash.
“We will take the secrets from your mind. We do not have to depend on you to tell us. We can enter your minds.”
“Be my guest,” said Flash. “I dare you to find any secrets.”
“Ahah! Now the challenge to the duel!” said the wall, quite excited now.
Flash laughed. “Nothing’s going to happen, Doc.”
Zarkov laughed uneasily. “Right on.”
Now part of the wall opened and a large electronic piece of equipment poked into the room. It was shaped like the nose of a metal probe, with insulators glistening on the outside and metal coils and spark jumps showing behind a nose that was covered with a plate-glass guard. Protruding from the end of the nose was a long needle-pointed antenna on which a blue spark glowed.
“Hey!” said Flash, stepping back as the electronic nose descended toward him. “Get that thing away from me!”
Zarkov backed off with his hands up.
The needlenose glowed blue and sparks could be seen leaping behind the plate-glass guard across the points of the gaps in the nose. Flash could feel the force of the emission in the air around him. His hair seemed to stand erect. He could see Zarkov’s beard bristle as if the hairs might be electrically charged.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. At each charge, Flash could fee! the electrical impulse surround him and then vanish. He could not avoid the charge, but it did not seem to hurt terribly. If anything, it simply sapped strength from him.
“Doc,” he gasped. “The charges. You think they’re X-rays? Won’t we be blinded? Burned?”
