His eyes, like those of a trapped animal, roved from side to side. He crouched, his body tense—to escape if an opening came; to fight as a last resort.
Then with sudden surprise he realized that the throng had stopped, that their faces were mantled with wonder. Then he knew why, for to him had come the thought of the Brain.
Let be! I shall attend to Kos!”
Then to Kos alone came the thought, “Look behind you, at the globe!”
He whirled—and fell back in stark amazement. For there in the globe was the Brain, floating in its green liquid! And the spikes were gone from the thing—it was the crystal sphere of the domed chamber, the crystal sphere unaccountably grown larger! . . . But—but this could not be; it was a trick of the imagination; it must be that!
“Imagination? Is this also imagination?” With the thought from the Brain, the sphere arose into midair and hovered above Koz’s head. Then slowly, slowly, the Brain began to expand, began to increase in size like a huge bubble; yet it had not the tenuousness of a bubble.
Wide-eyed, Koz watched its leisurely growth—and dully he became aware of a sense of impending horror, yet a horror that possessed no concrete form.
Larger, steadily larger, the Brain grew; and it began to send thoughts into the mind of Koz.
“You remember nothing of the past that I said you should try to recall . . . Perhaps I can refresh your memory. Look!”
And suddenly before his staring eyes there opened what seemed to be a vast tunnel of teeming life, wherein flowed the endless, unbounded stream of past events! For a fleeting instant he peered through the tunnel into the past; then his eyes saw only the Brain—but there remained to him the memory of men whose faces and bodies looked very like his own—and who had died horribly.
“They died, Koz, because the Brain is just!” Icily, like a death-knell the thought came to him—and that horror that had been formless began resolving itself into something definite, something concrete.
With a deep, shuddering fascination he stared at the steadily expanding mass of grey matter—stared and stared until it had become a colossal thing, until it was all of three hundred feet in diameter, reaching far beyond him on every side.
Illusion—it must be illusion! But, no; the people of the Clan were seeing it to, for they had turned with one accord and were speeding away from him, striving to get beyond the edge of the gigantic sphere and the dreadful Brain. No illusion—ghastly fact!
A sudden panic seized Koz. He—he too would run! What! He could no longer control his limbs—could not move them! He shrieked a curse; and his staring eyes distended with fear.
LARGER, larger . . . Would the accursed thing never stop growing! Even now it was as large as—as the vision of the Brain that he had seen on the previous night!
And as though that thought had been a signal, there echoed through the mind of Koz a faint whisper of mad laughter; and he heard as from a great distance; “Crazy, crazy Kos!” And with the echoes there came a momentary flood of the previous night’s insanity; and Kos threw back his head to return the laughter—but he uttered no sound.
For the Brain—the colossal mass of living nerve cells—was descending upon him, sinking slowly, inexorably toward the Earth! And he was beneath it, in its path! A terrified scream burst from his lips.” With upthrust hands he strove to ward off its approach, to keep it from him; but it continued its implacable descent.
“Justice, Koz, justice!” Almost unnoticed, the thought of the Brain reached him.
Moaning, shrieking and cursing, Koz shrank back, cringed; and his lips twitched in madness. He had seen the death of those others like him—and now his end was drawing near! Even now, the Titanic Brain was almost upon him; soon would be crushing out his life! In sudden weakness his limbs gave way, and he sank to the Earth. Ineffectually his fingers clawed the dust.
Suddenly he felt a crushing pressure upon his back. It seemed to be forcing him into the ground. He twisted and writhed in agony; a jumbled stream of words, utterly meaningless, utterly spontaneous, sprang from the fire in his mind.
In a moment the pain became insupportable; a shrill shriek of unutterable agony was wrung from his tight-clamped mouth—something seemed to burst—and he was within the Brain!
Within the Brain! Enfolded, completely covered by the slimy, viscous substance of the ghastly thing—it filled his eyes and nostrils—it clung to every inch of his naked body like a blanket of leeches.
Then through the mind of Koz, through his entire being, surged the tide of the Brain’s thoughts:
“First Koszarek, then Clavering, then Vastine, and now Koz—dying every one! Dying horribly, in fear—as John Ovington died—and in payment for the injustice done to John Ovington. Only justice, Koz, the justice of the Brain!” And the dying body of Koz swayed to the waves of mighty laughter that followed.
Koz was dying—dimly he sensed it. The fires of his life were waning. He could not breathe; the substance of the Brain seemed to be contracting, crushing him into himself.
His arms waved jerkily—his body twisted and writhed—his lips parted and he strove to scream—but he could utter no sound. Suddenly his body sagged—his mind was crushed—and his spirit, his life, was forced downward, downward into the black pits of oblivion. The icy hand of death fell upon him—death by the suggestion of the Brain!
And the throngs that had watched the writhing and twisting and struggling of Koz the Demented in the empty space beside the strange, spiked sphere, who had heard him scream, who had seen him die—with one thought they turned and fled in a panic of nameless fear.
And the body of Koz, an unsightly thing of open wounds, with contorted limbs, his face a rigid mask of unearthly horror, lay in a slowly growing pool of blood under the rays of a torrid sun—alone.
* * * *
Across the centuries of time in the laboratory of Dr. Leo Koszarek lay another body—a body contorted as was that of Koz—a body that in the throes of its mental torture had slid from its chair, had writhed and twisted and struggled on the floor as Koz had writhed and twisted and struggled; had screamed as Koz had screamed—had died as Koz had died! The body of Leo Koszarek, killed by suggestion of the Brain!
There was silence in the big laboratory, utter silence—silence unbroken save for the faint, insistent, steady throb, throb, throb of the apparatus beneath the brain of Dr. Ovington, the entity that was to live on and on through countless centuries—the Brain that had conquered time.
1934
COSMOS
Chapter 15–The Horde of Elo Hava
Motionless, Fo-Peta floated above the screenophotoscope, his middle feeler fixed tensely on its blank white surface. His single eye stared unwinkingly and the jell of the Etranian revolutionist was black with gloom.
“By Elo Hava,” he muttered, “I like this not at all.”
Curiously Kama-Loo looked up from the controls of the space ship. “What is troubling you, Fo-Peta? We are on our way to the battle front, following the course outlined by Dos-Tev—and thus far I have seen nothing alarming.”
Fo-Peta’s feelers twitched impatiently. “True. But something is amiss on Narlone—must be! Zeera has been communicating with me at a certain time every day since we left. An hour ago was the set time—yet I heard no word—and I know nothing save violent interference could prevent her calling me.” His jell showed the red of anguish. “Why didn’t I bring her with me!”
“Your fears are baseless, I feel sure,” said Kama-Loo reassuringly. “What could have happened? With the weapons you found in the Hadean dimensional car, and those you learned about from Mea-Quin, you wrested the satellites of Ern from the Tyrants of Hade; you exiled the Pross Lords to the Ethor regions; you place the toilers in control of every city, even on Ern itself. Peace had come to our worlds, and I know of nothing that could disturb that peace.”
“Yet something is wrong,” Fo-Peta insisted stubbornly, “or Zeera would have called.”
With a vicious motion of his teeba, t
he Efranian propelled himself thru the metallic vapors of the control room to the magna slate whose dull surface could reproduce photographic pictures of objects in nearby space. Carefully adjusting the lenses, Fo-Peta caught the image of Ern, a tiny sphere of light encircled by what appeared to be a flattened teeba band of polished lirium. Ern, and Narlone—and Zeera—lay far behind them; and a great distance ahead in the blackness of space was the gathering place of the war fleets of the System.
Turning the lenses fretfully, he picked up the wedge of his five sister ships trailing his own vessel, the Zeera. Spheres, they were, each bearing a skilled crew from one of the satellites, virs chosen for their intelligence, dependability, and bravery.
Idly Fo-Peta thought of the other races of the System, those queer forms of life he had seen in the crater on Awn. How were they faring? The grotesque monstrosities from Darth—had they succeeded in subjugating their intelligent machines? Had they—
“Fo-Peta! Oh—Fo-Peta!” Zeera’s voice!
The Efranian spun toward the screenophotoscope with a convulsive twist of his teeba—and suddenly blue fire of dread flared in his jell. His beloved Zeera was framed in the reflector, her feelers quivering with excitement, and her jell tinged the hue of fear.
“Fo-Peta, the Pross Lords—they have rebelled, and are sweeping every thing before them. Pross Mere-Mer is their leader. He escaped—” Her words died in a gasp; and Fo-Peta saw the bulky form of Pross Mere-Mer himself flashing toward her, into the focus of the screen. A glimpse of the Pross Lord’s pulsing feelers greedily encircling Zeera—and the image vanished. Something had broken contact.
Madly Fo-Peta flung himself upon the communicator controls, wildly spun them from cycle to cycle. His jell changed color constantly as frantic emotions swayed him. He—he must know what was happening to Zeera! But the white rectangle remained an unresponsive blank.
Furiously he whirled on Kama-Loo. “Back—back to Narlone! The Pross Lords think to strike while I am away—but they’ll find this fleet and its weapons ample protection for the workers! And Zeera—” The words choked in his speaking vent.
Kama-Loo’s jell colored affirmatively, and he turned toward the ship’s controls. “I’ll tell the other pilots.” Tho at one time Kama-Loo had been Pross Mere-Mer’s chief technical advisor, his interests were now entirely with Fo-Peta. Deftly his feelers made the necessary connections; and with a few hasty words he told what they had seen, what the virgo had said.
Rapidly then the Narlonian scientist computed the course back to Ern and her satellites, and flashed it thru the ether to the other ships. At a signal from Kama-Loo every craft would cut power—check—turn—and roar back over the way they had come.
Impatiently Fo-Peta watched the scientist, his jell tinted with savage helplessness. His middle feeler twisted and squirmed aimlessly, and his teeba sent him here and there with nervous little motions. Abruptly, while Kama-Loo awaited word of readiness from the other pilots, he flung himself to the screenophotoscope again and spun the communicator controls.
Blank whiteness answered him—and then something nebulous appeared—and he fell back, spouting through his gills with amazement.
A point of insupportable brilliance blazed in the heart of the screen—slowly it grew like a devouring flame, till the rectangle pulsed with blinding light. A momentary pause, and in the midst of the radiant square flashed a being stranger far than any the Efranian had ever seen on the satellites of Ern.
An enormous central jell of arrogant green, radiating wisdom and the consciousness of wisdom, power and the consciousness of power in an awesome degree. Out from that jell projected literally thousands of slender tendrils, somewhat resembling the feelers of a Narlonian, but far less bulky and thrice as long. Many of the tendrils bore eyes in their tips; others, organs of hearing; still others, sense organs whose use could be guessed. But strangest of all was the absence of a teeba. The creature was suspended in the midst of the metallic vapours, yet without apparent means of support.
Now a speaking vent opened and the monstrosity spoke—a voice filled with haughty disdain.
“Turn back, Efranian! It is not my will that the satellites of Ern send a fleet to this insane flight in space. Let the other worlds do what they will—you return! Elo Hava has spoken!”
Slowly the image faded, the unnatural brilliance of the screen lingering a moment—then it was gone.
Dazedly the Efranian stared at Kama-Loo. The scientist’s eye was fixed in wonder on his leader, his jell hueing mute incredulity.
“Elo Hava!” the Efranian gasped finally. “Can it be?” Vague memories of early religious teachings were struggling thru barriers of skepticism. Elo Hava! Could it be the god?
Kama-Loo answered slowly. “Legend tells us that Elo Hava is a being strangely formed, of marvelous wisdom and power—and—without a teeba!” His feelers gestured uncertainly. “Who knows—perhaps it is the god. We had better return.”
“Return?” The Etranian’s jell tinted with sudden rebellion. “Why should we obey the commands of this creature, even tho he be—” He stopped short. Sight of the strange being had driven thought of Zeera from his mind. He must go back to free her from the clutches of Pross Mere-Mer—yet he knew instinctively that he should not obey the commands of this self-styled Elo Hava. He hesitated in indecision.
The astronomer’s feelers gestured sympathetically, the uncertainty vanishing from his manner. He too knew somehow the stranger’s command should not be obeyed. “The other crafts are awaiting our signal. And we have just received a command. You must decide which to assist—Zeera and the workers of the satellites, or the countless myriads of the System. I would not try to influence your decision—but a true Narlonian considers the interests of the largest number.”
Fo-Peta masked his jell with a wall of gray, striving vainly to conceal the agony the decision cost him. “I am an Efranian—but I do not need the precepts of Narlone to guide me. We go on!”
Kama-Loo’s feelers colored with solemn approval as he floated to the controls. Long before, he had received word from the other pilots. They were ready. Quickly the scientist issued new orders—orders that were obeyed without question—full speed ahead! Deftly he set his own controls, and waited.
And nothing happened!
Incredulously Kama-Loo checked over his instruments. They were in perfect order; the Zeera should be speeding on thru space at full acceleration. But instead, they were traveling only at the rate of their momentum. Interference of Elo Hava!
Then abruptly, as tho a giant tentacle had leaped out of space to wrap itself about the craft, the space ship stopped short. With vicious, stunning force the two were flung thru the metallic vapors to crash against the metal wall of the control room. Down they slumped, their feelers limp, and their jells shrouded with the dull brown of unconsciousness.
Reason returned slowly to the Efranian. His feelers began to stir feebly, and he spouted gaspingly through the gills. Far distant, in the dim vistas of imagination he seemed to hear a voice. Zeera’s voice, calling him. Weakly his middle feeler circled about, his eye searching for the voice’s source. Now he heard it again—and he knew it was no chimera. Zeera!
With spasmodic impulses of his teeba he floated erect, his gaze turning mechanically toward the screenophotoscope. There she was, her jell colored with apprehension and uncertainty, her speaking vent quivering, and her words coming in a strained rush.
“Fo-Peta! At last you are awake! Quick—give me your position in space. I—I must have it—or—or—” She left the sentence unfinished. “Never mind; just give me your position. I’ll explain later.”
Their position in space—he couldn’t give it accurately—not without considerable time to check his figures. Frantically he gazed at Kama-Loo. The astronomer could have the information in a moment. . . And he was coming to his senses even now!
In a flash Fo-Peta hovered above him, shaking him roughly with the tentacle projecting from his middle jell. Groggily Kama-Loo thru
st himself erect, staring in wonder at the Efranian.
“Quick, Kama-Loo—Zeera wants our position in space! She’s free—and must have it at once.”
Uncertainly, the astronomer floated toward the space charts. “Our position in space,” he muttered. “Our position in space.” Then as the full import of Fo-Peta’s words dissipated the lingering fog-wisps of unconsciousness, he sprang into quick motion. A glance at the charts—hurried calculations—and instant to check them—and he darted to the transmitter. Crisply he gave the necessary figures, Zeera repeating them—then the screenophotoscope blanked.
Impatiently the two waited, conjecturing wildly about what would happen. The Efranian’s mind was awhirl with wonder. Zeera, a captive of Pross Mere-Mer—now free—and requiring their position in space! Could she somehow have gained possession of a dimensional car? Or was there some connection between her freedom and the strange being who called himself Elo Hava? Perhaps he’s know soon—he hoped so.
Now calls were coming from the virs in the lower quarters of the craft. Just recovering consciousness, they looked to their leaders for an explanation of the jarring halt in midspace. At a gesture from Fo-Peta, Kama-Loo told briefly what he knew, commanding them to remain at their posts and await orders for speedy action should an emergency arise.
Slow, monotonous minutes of waiting followed—steadily the tension increased, till the very metallic vapors within the Zeera seemed to be alive with nervous energy.
Then suddenly came another sound from the screenophotoscope. With middle feeler extended rigidly, Fo-Peta watched and listened. A repetition of the sound, vague, meaningless—then it crystallized into orderly speech; and simultaneously there appeared the image of a strange creature with a thick middle body and four awkward jointed appendages—a native of Darth! Hoarse, guttural words issued from his speaking vent. To Fo-Peta they were meaningless, but Kama-Loo, who had studied the language of every race he had met on Awn, understood readily. Rapidly he translated.
Forgotten Fiction Page 31
