The Space Opera Megapack

by John W. Campbell

  Tarrano snapped off his ray. “Quite safe, Lady Elza. Do not be alarmed. I doubt if they will locate us again. They should be very busy now in the Great City. I’m surprised they could even think to notify this Station we have just passed.”

  We were indeed very busy in the Great City during those hours, as you shall presently hear.

  Tarrano and Elza were not again disturbed. How far they went in the boat she does not know, but at last they landed in a sheltered cove. An air vehicle was there. Tarrano transferred Elza to it, and in a moment more they were aloft.

  The vehicle was little more than an oblong platform, with a low railing. A platform of a substance resembling glascite-transparent; and with a glascite shield V-shaped in front to break the rush of wind and yet give vision. A mechanism, not of radio-power, but of gravity like the space-flyers. Such platforms had been, but were no longer in use on Earth. Elza had never seen one. It was a new experience for her, this flying with nothing above one, nothing to the side, or underneath save that transparent substance. To her it was like floating, and at times falling headlong through the air.

  They rose no more than a thousand feet at first, and then swept parallel with the ground. At a tremendous speed; even at this height the forests seemed moving backward as the ground moves beneath a surface vehicle.

  Dark, somber forests of luxuriant tropical vegetation. It was now nearing dawn; the auroral lights were dropping low in the sky; the great Venus Cross of Dawn was rising, its first two stars already above the line of hills to one side.

  Then the sky out there flushed red; a limb of the glorious Sun of Venus came up. A new day. And even though the air was warm, within Elza was ashiver.

  “It is very wonderful to me, my Elza, this being alone with you.”

  He sat beside her, gazing at her with his calm, impenetrable eyes. It was near noon of that day following their escape from the Water Festival. They had flown possibly two thousand miles. The Sun had risen, but after a time—since their enormous speed and change of latitude had affected the angle at which they viewed it—the Sun now was hanging almost level, not far above the horizon.

  Beneath the platform—a mile below now—lay a tumbled waste of naked crags. The borders of the Cold Country! Tarrano’s stronghold! The birthplace of his dreams of universal conquest.

  Elza was staring downward. A barren waste. Rocks bare of verdure. Grey, with red ore staining them. A desolation of empty rock, with grey flat shadows. And far ahead, the broken, serrated ranks of mountains with rocky peaks, white-hooded with the snow upon their summits. The Cold Country. Bleak; forbidding.

  This brittle air was cold; yet Elza and Tarrano were warm. Before the platform, a ray darted—a low-powered ray of a type that was to be so great a factor in the warfare into which we were all so soon to be plunged. It heated the air, so that the platform rushed always through a wind that was balmy.

  “What did you say?” Elza looked up to meet Tarrano’s steady gaze.

  “I said it is wonderful to be thus alone with you, my Elza.”

  “Oh.” She looked away.

  He persisted; but his voice was gentle and earnest. “Soon we will be at my home, Lady Elza. And now—there are some things I would like to say while I have the opportunity.… You will listen?”

  “Yes,” she said; and tried to keep from him the trembling within her. “I’ll listen, of course.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.… My Elza, you have heard me talk of conquering the world. My dream—my destiny. It will come to pass, of course. Yet—” A smile pulled at his lips. “Do you know, my Elza, what you and I are doing now?”

  She stared, and he did not wait for her to answer.

  “We’re making my first retreat. I wonder if you can realize how I feel, having to admit that? Tarrano in retreat!… Our escape from Venia? Pouf! That was a jest. I was there on Earth merely to get you, and the Brende model. I had no thought of conquering the Earth just then. I accomplished my two purposes—and left.… It was not a retreat, merely a planned departure.

  “But this, my Elza, is very different. I did not wish to do what I am doing now. I had planned—I had thought, had actually hoped, that I might maintain myself in the Great City. You see, I tell you this, little girl, because—well I am a lonely man. I walk alone—and because I am human—it does me good to have someone to talk to. I had hoped I might maintain myself in the Great City. Last night—at the start of the Water Festival—I began to realize it was impossible. I should have enlisted the Rhaals—the men of science, Elza. But I had no time, and they are very aloof. I could have won them to me had I tried.” He shrugged. “I must confess I was over-confident of my strength—the strength of my position. The Rhaals stayed out of the affair—stayed in their own city, which has always been their policy. That was what I expected, but now I see I should have had their aid. I did—well what I did to guard against the unhappy outcome you witnessed—what I did was wrongly planned. You see, I take all the blame. I alone am responsible for my destiny. There are some who in defeat cry bitterly, ‘Luck! That cursed luck was against me!’ Not so! Leadership is not a matter of luck. Destiny is what you make it. You see?

  “And so now I am making my first retreat. A set-back, nothing more. I shall launch my forces from the City of Ice, instead of marshalling them from the Central State as I had planned. And Mars is still mine. I still control Mars, little Elza.… A set-back just now—and it bothers me. It hurts my pride—and as you know, my Elza, Tarrano is very proud.”

  She had been listening to him, her fingers plucking idly at her robe. He bent closer to her; his voice turned tender. “I was thinking that perhaps—just perhaps you would scorn Tarrano in his triumphs, you might feel differently toward him now—in his first retreat. Do you?”

  She forced her eyes up to his again. “I’m—sorry—from your viewpoint, I mean—that things are going wrong.”

  He smiled gently. “You are very conservative, Lady Elza. You want very much to avoid hypocrisy, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said frankly. “You could hardly expect me to be sorry at your defeat.”

  “Defeat?” He rasped out the word, and his laugh was harsh. “You are too optimistic. Defeat? Things going wrong? That is not so. A slight set-back. A strategic retreat—and in a week I will have regained more than I have lost.… Oh, Lady Elza! I who would now—and always—be so gentle with you—why we are almost quarreling! That is not right. For the lives of a thousand of my servants, I would not have used that tone to you just now. Forgive me.…

  “I was saying, my Elza—could not you feel more kindly to me now. A little hope from those gentle eyes of yours—a little word from those red lips—a word of hope for what some day might be for us—you and me—”

  She dared to try and turn the subject. “You mentioned the Brende model—where is it? Have you it in the Cold Country?”

  He frowned. “Yes. And I will use it—for you and me alone. You’ve always known that, haven’t you? Just for you and me, my Elza.” He took her hand. “Won’t you try and love me—just a trifle?”

  She did not move. “I—don’t know.” Then she faced him squarely. “I do not love you, Tarrano.” Something in his eyes—a quality of pleading; a wistful smile upon his lips—suddenly struck her as pathetic. Strange and queerly pathetic that such a man as he should be reduced to wistfulness. Emotion swept her. Not love. A feeling of sympathy; a womanly desire to lighten his sorrow; to sympathize and yet to withhold from him the happiness he sought.

  “I do not love you, Tarrano. But I do respect you. And I am sorry—”

  “Respect! I have told you I can command that from everyone. But love—your love—”

  “I would give it if I could, Tarrano.”

  “You mean—you’re trying to love me—and cannot?”

  “I mean—Oh, I don’t know what I mean, save that I do not love you yet.”

  He smiled. “I think you speak the truth when you say you do not know what you mean. Your love! If I ha
d it, I should know that I would have it always. But—having it not—” He was very sincere, but his smile broadened. “Having it not, my Elza, there is no power in all the heavens that can tell me how to get it. It may be born in a moment from now—or never. Who can tell?”

  She was silent; and after a moment, he added: “Enough of this. I would ask you just one thing. You are not afraid of me, are you?”

  “No,” she said; and at that moment she meant it.

  “I would not have you ever be afraid, Lady Elza. Love is not conceived by fear. And you must know I could never force my love upon you. For if I did—I should withhold forever the birth of this love of yours which is all I seek—this love I am trying to breathe into life.… Enough!”

  He did not mention the subject again. For hours—eating what meager stock of tabloid food with which their vehicle was provisioned—they flew onward. Rising now to top the line of jagged mountains. Over them the platform swept. In the crisp air the snow down there gleamed blue-white; the ice with an age-old look filled the valleys between the peaks.

  The arctic! It was nothing like the Polar regions of Earth. Stark desolation. A naked land seemingly upheaved by some gigantic cataclysm of nature, lying tumbled and broken where it had fallen in convulsive agony; and then congealed forever in a grip of ice.

  The Sun hung level as the vehicle advanced. In these latitudes it would swing side-wise in a slow, low arc, to dip again below the horizon and vanish. Here in the Cold Country it was morning of the Long Day. Summer!

  On over the crags and glaciers Tarrano guided their frail flying platform. Houses occasionally showed now—huts of ice, congealed dwellings, blue-white in the flat sunlight.

  And then at last, over the horizon came the ramparts of a city. The City of Ice! The size of it—the evidences of civilization here in this brittle land of deadly cold—made Elza gasp with wonderment.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Attack on the Palace

  I must take you back now to the Water Festival and the events in the Great City which followed it. Slaans in murderous frenzy were plunging through the throng of erstwhile revelers. Maida could not quell them. The revolt which she had started against Tarrano seemed now a self-created monster to destroy us all.

  But there were Earth men among us. A hundred of them, no more. They had come from Washington that same day; had landed, I learned later, secretly near the Great City, sent with our Earth Council’s plans to communicate with Maida. Beneath the water, coming individually, they had entered the festival; and helping Maida’s girls (the diving girls whom I had encountered) they had made away with most of Tarrano’s guards.

  In those first moments of frenzy, I got to the balcony—joined Maida and Georg. Elza was gone! My heart went cold, but in those hurried, frantic moments, grave disaster as it was, I did not dwell upon it.

  “We must get away—back to the palace!” Georg exclaimed as I joined them.

  The Earth men on the main floor were holding the slaans partially in check. Bodies were lying in a welter—I shall not describe it. Then abruptly, upon a table a huge slaan leaped—his garments blood-stained from his victims, a blade of dripping steel in his hands. He shouted above the tumult—words not in the universal language, but in the dialect of the slaans. His command carried throughout the building. Other slaans took it up; we could hear it echoed outside as others shouted it over the waters.

  The bloodshed abruptly ceased. The slaans leaped away from the Earth men, who were glad enough to let them go—rushed for the archways of the pavilion. Outside, we could hear the water splashing. Swimmers—and boats scurrying off. Then comparative silence. The scream of a slaan woman in the grove nearby, still desiring vengeance; the groans of the dying at our feet; the hiss and splutter of weapons discarded, with circuits still connected. And over it all, the great whine of a danger whistle, which some distant official had plugged.… A lull. And around us lay strewn stark tragedy where a few moments before had been festive merry-making. A crimson scene, with the body of the Red Woman lying like a symbol in its midst.…

  Within an hour we were back at the palace. The whole city was seething. Boats and lights were everywhere. Control of everything seemed lost. Warning signals shrilled in crazy fashion. Public mirrors were dark, or turned to places and time wholly irrelevant.

  In the palace itself we soon secured a semblance of order. Maida’s girls were here, with wet veils and long dank tresses clinging to their sleek bodies. Lips painted alluring red. But eyes which now were solemn and grim. Their demeanor alert and business-like. Unconscious of themselves they moved about the palace, executing Maida’s orders.

  A dozen or so of Maida’s personal retainers were here—and most of the Earth men. Keen-eyed young men of the Washington Headquarters Staff. One of them—Tomm Aften by name, a ruddy, blue-eyed fellow—was in command. He stayed close by Georg and me.

  The city was seething. But out of the chaos was coming a comparatively orderly menace. We could sense it at first; and then in a few brief minutes so swift that we had no time to prepare—the menace became obvious and was at hand.

  The slaans had withdrawn from the festival for a greater, more organized effort. Their revolt against Tarrano in which Maida had joined, was bigger, more deep-rooted than a mere revolt. It was against Maida herself. Trickery of the downtrodden slaans against the ruling class. Against the old order of government. Even against the Rhaals, who in their distant city were all-powerful, but who obeyed the laws and took no part in anything.

  Revolution! From down the waterways of streets which converged into the broad lagoon before the palace, boats began arriving. Boats crowded with slaans. Disheveled, unkempt men and women with primitive weapons of steel and wire brandished aloft. They surged into the lagoon. A murderous, frenzied mob—thoughtless of itself, suicidal to attack us, yet daring everything in its frenzy.

  Soon the lagoon was crowded—a chaos of pushing, shoving boats. Then the boats began landing, disgorging their occupants, wild-eyed slaans each a potential murderer. The gardens of the palace were presently jammed with them. They did not at first come within our threshholds; they stood milling about under the palms, trampling the tropic flowers, screaming threats and epithets at us. But waiting—as a mob always does—for some leader to advance, that they might follow him upon us.

  We stood on the palace roof-top. I must confess that we were in a flurry for the moment. There were undoubtedly weapons at hand, but I at least did not have them, nor did I know where they were. Excusable flurry possibly for the thing had come so quickly, and most of us were strangers here of but a few hours.

  The roof had a low railing waist-high, but broad. We stood clustered behind it. In the garden beneath, the mob was shouting up at us. And, before I could stop her, Maida had leaped to the top of the rail. Georg and I clutched at her, then steadied her.

  “Slaans—”

  But they would not hear her. Shouts went up; a roar of threats. The press of additions to the mob landing from other boats, forced the front ranks forward. They were now on the palace steps, jammed there waving their weapons yet still hesitating to advance.

  “Slaans—my people—”

  Maida’s frail voice was lost in the uproar. Then a missle was thrown upward—a portion of a broken generator—a heavy chunk of metal. It barely missed Maida, and fell with a thump to the roof behind us. Then came others—a rain of them about us. I tried to pull Maida back, but she fought me, her voice still calling out its appeal.

  With a bound, Georg was up on the rail beside her. Aften—the young Earth man—had quietly handed him a cylinder. Georg waved it at the mob.

  “Slaans—” His stronger voice caught their attention. A sudden hush fell.

  “Slaans—it is I, Georg Brende. Your Princess Maida rules you now only under me. A new ruler, slaans—the man of Earth—Georg Brende who must be obeyed—Georg Brende, soon to be husband of your Princess—”

  But they would not hear him out. The din from them submerged hi
s voice. His lips snapped tight as abruptly he ceased talking; his brows lowered grimly and I saw his finger press upon the cylinder.

  Maida’s voice screamed: “Georg! Have mercy! Do not kill them!”

  She spoke barely in time. His cylinder swept upward. The rays from it caught only the upper portions of the palms and the tree tops. The foliage withered, shriveled before that soundless, invisible blast.

  Not a blast of heat. The mob, surprised, then frightened, stared upward. The soft tropical foliage in a great wide swath was dead, with naked sticks of limbs. Black, then turning white. Not with heat—but cold. Ice was forming from the moisture in the humid air. And then the sudden condensation brought snow—a thick white fall of it sifting down into the palm-laden garden; falling gently, then swirling in a sudden wind which had begun.

  As though itself stiffened by the cold just overhead, the mob stood transfixed. Then a murmur of horror came. And I saw through the veil of whirling snow, that into some of the trees slaans had climbed. Their bodies, frozen now, slid and fell—black plummets hurtling downward through the swirling snow-flakes.

  CHAPTER XXV

  Immortal Terror

  To Elza, approaching with Tarrano on the tiny flying platform the City of Ice, the place seemed truly like a child’s dream of Fairyland. The rude snow huts of the Arctic of our Earth were all that she had ever conceived could be built of frozen water. Here, in the outskirts of the city, she saw indeed, quite similar huts. But further in—ornate buildings several stories high. She caught a vague glimpse of them only, as the platform flew above them and descended in the center of the city.

  They had passed over great outer encircling ramparts—a huge wall many helans long—built entirely of ice blocks—fortifications like that fabled wall which in the dim history of our Earth had once encircled a portion of the domain of the Yellow Race.

  The platform came down before a central building—the Palace of Ice. Even in this dim daylight of the Cold Country summer, the great building gleamed and glittered resplendent. A building of many levels, storied and winged, with spider bridges and aerial arcades connecting the wings. Frescoed everywhere! ornate with carved design chipped in ice blocks hard as marble. Rolling terraces of snow and ice surrounded it—lawns of smooth white, with winding paths of ice. A many balconied building; towers, spires and minarets crowning it. All blue-white. Glittering. Seemingly fragile; from a distance, a toy—a sample of the ultra-skill of some master confectioner, as though the whole thing were a toy of sugar for children to admire. But at close range—solid; in the cold of this terrible region, as solid as though constructed of blocks of stone.