by Jerry
“Yes, we have to assume that if June and Bobby were drawn into the cavity, they were wanted—alive. Something protected them. The same something would protect me—but would probably destroy you.
“Jim—it’s up to you and I. I’ll take the chance. You must equip yourself with an asbestos suit, try to follow me, and take your chances. Are you game?” Winter stared at her. There was agony in his expression. He knew why Florence Briggs wanted to help. Knew that it had nothing to do with interest in June. Florence loved him and was trying to help him.
“I have to do something,” he admitted. “It doesn’t look as though I have much chance to pull the trick alone. On the other hand, your reasoning seems sound enough. I suppose if you really want . . .”
She was at his side, hand on his arm, staring up at him earnestly.
“We’ll go tonight,” she said. “Jim—somehow I feel that it is you who is taking the risk and not I. They’ll want me as they did Bobby and June. You’ll have to take the chance of being killed at once. Please protect yourself and try to be cautious.”
“I will,” he said.
He was thinking of the roaring flame that shot out at Frank Briggs, sucking life from his body.
“MY ONLY chance,” Jim said, “is to follow you into the pit without being seen. They must be able to see what goes on above the rock. I’ll try to follow you down and keep out of sight. When and if the rock opens, I’ll get under it somehow when they come after you.”
Florence was standing before him on the rim of the pit. The moon shone down on the blackened hole, making the ebony stone at the bottom of the crater glow in the pale light. The prairie was deserted and lonely. It was close to midnight, and Florence Briggs drew the woolen jacket closer about her neck. She wore whipcord riding breeches and riding boots. Her face was pale and eager in the moonlight.
“We’d better go down now,” she said. “Here’s to us—may we come out of this on our feet.”
Winter helped her into the rope sling and lowered her down the edge of the crater. He saw the spurt of dust rise as she hit the slope below, and prepared to go down himself.
This afternoon he had borrowed an asbestos fire-fighting suit from the oil well supply company at Cody. It was a cumbersome, heavy outfit with a helmet fitted with an eye-piece.
He followed Florence down the rope, then as she waited for him, donned the suit and pulled the mask over his face. Inside the suit the heat was stifling. He motioned her down the trail. He had placed a belt around his waist. In it was his revolver, old-fashioned, heavy, that he had handled since he was a boy. He fingered it lovingly, hoping it would get him through.
By this time, Florence had reached the flat area at the bottom of the crater. He stopped about ten feet from the stone, after crawling toward it slowly, keeping in the protection of the rocks.
He wiped the dust from the eyepiece and watched the girl. She went around the stone twice, pushing at it with her hands, acting curious, as though it had drawn her here alone. The act was good. She hadn’t looked at him since she left the rim. She made no move to betray his presence.
Five minutes went by. Florence had sat down near the boulder, staring up at it. She looked very small and helpless, and for a moment, pride surged within Winter. Then he remembered June. Somewhere below the rock, hidden in God knew what kind of a trap, June and Bobby were waiting for him—waiting to escape the hell into which they had been drawn.
What was that?
The moonlight shimmered on the rock, as though it had moved a fraction of an inch. He stiffened, crouching forward on his hands and knees, ready to spring to his feet.
The stone moved three or four inches. The girl didn’t move—didn’t seem to notice.
Then he saw it—the thin, flickering tongue of flame that shot up and spread out on the ground. A huge cloud of black smoke surged from under the rock, billowed out and covered Florence Briggs. He heard her scream as he sprang to his feet and plunged into the center of the cloud. He couldn’t see. He ran straight forward across the smoke covered ground, and hit something yielding, like a soft, dark blanket. It gave under his weight, then enveloped him completely, choking him, dragging him toward the rock.
He thought he heard Florence scream again, but in the crackling flames, he couldn’t be sure.
Then he stumbled and fell over something. He was falling.
He hurtled over and over, down and down. His body landed in a smothering, yielding mass and he felt all air cut off from his face. He fought to get the helmet away from his head, but it was useless. Then he fell forward into a smothering pit and lost consciousness.
JIM WINTER awakened with a terrific, searing heat beating into his skull. He groaned and turned over slowly. His arm hit something hard and it reminded him that his entire body, still encased in the heavy suit, was throbbing with pain. His helmet had loosened and perspiration bathed his face.
He thought he was somewhere below the rock. Around him in the darkness he could see shadowy rocks.
He lay still for several minutes, waiting for his breathing to become regular again. He removed the helmet to find that although the heat must be at least 110 degrees, he could breathe with some comfort. The cave was dark, save for the reflection of rising flame in a distance. He stood up, grasped a rock near him and held on. When he was strong enough, he left the natural hiding place and started to search around the cavern.
It was small, hardly fifteen feet across. On the far side flames shot up from a round pit, lighting the place. The heat came from this pit. There was oxygen. He could breathe.
He explored the walls carefully, but could find no way out.
Yet, he reasoned, Florence and her captors had come this way. June and Bobby had been carried down through this chamber into some other place below.
He had to find his way out. Had to follow them.
He knelt on the edge of the pit of flames. He noticed that although fire shot up every few minutes, that there were short intervals when the flame disappeared from sight. Also, the bottomless pit was the only opening left in the cavern.
It was a wild suicidal idea, but he had to take a chance. He had to follow his friends through that single entrance to the underworld.
The more he thought of it, the more sure he was that the fire pit was his only way out. He started to time the seconds between flames. Ten—fifteen—sixteen. For seventeen seconds the flame died and the hole was black and seemingly bottomless. He slipped the helmet over his head and waited. The flame climbed upward, making crazy designs across the roof. Then it was gone. He took a deep breath, slipped his legs over the edge of the hole and said:
“Here goes nothing.”
He dropped.
THE Temple of Flame was ready.
Another queen would be added to Boona’s collection. Boona, King of the Fire People, sat on his throne in the sacred circle of fire. The Temple of Flame was huge. Its columns held the roof of the cavern, and through the crevices in the floor, fire shot up and roared in triumph to the people of Boona’s realm.
The guards came from the entrance, tall, flame-colored men with their spears that shot fire. They came in close formation and in the midst was the Queen who had been captured above. The Queen sat on a feathered throne, carried by ten Flame Guards. She sat at ease, her head tipped back, her slim lithe body clad only in the fire-robe that left little to the imagination, and set the heart of Boona aflame with admiration.
At the foot of the forty thrones, the Fire Guards halted and the carriers came on, up the ten ebony steps to the throne circle.
The Queen was lifted gently from her moving throne and carried to the one closest Boona. The King allowed his eyes to follow her as she was placed beside him. Then, smiling quietly, he compared her with the thirty-eight who graced the throne circle. Each of them was perfect. Round, deep-eyed and slim, chosen from perfect stock. Each, Boona thought with a smile, very quiet and dignified.
And the new Queen was silent with the others. On earth, her nam
e had been June Freemont. One would not recognize her now, for she had changed. The new Queen had, as had the others, been placed in the Fire Pool. She was dead and would never speak again. She would not trouble the ears of King Boona, for his wives must respect him and never speak in his presence. They were for his eyes only, and he would never have to await their presence.
Thirty-nine of the Forty Queens of Boona had been embalmed in the Fire Pool. Their bodies would remain perfect forever. Their mouths silent.
FLORENCE BRIGGS held her breath as the choking fire seemed to envelop her body. Then she saw that within the flame, men walked. Tall, normal men who wore red robes of an odd material, and carried a huge black net which they threw over her head. Oddly, underneath the black net, she felt none of the fire that at first had threatened to burn her. It was cool and protecting. Through her mind surged thoughts of Jim. Could he follow her?
She felt herself snatched up in strong arms. They were carrying her down, swiftly, surely. Down where? Under the rock of course, but where? She couldn’t be sure.
She didn’t struggle. Fear welled up within her, choking off any other emotions she might have experienced. She was rigid in their arms. Then they placed her on her feet. She struggled with the net, for she couldn’t see through it. She was able to breathe, but the thought of not knowing what would happen next—not being able to see her captors, frightened her.
The net fell away from her.
She stood in a small circle of men. Their bodies were slim and well-molded. They seemed normal, but for the bright red suits that fitted them snugly from head to foot.
Or were they suits?
The light was dim, but suddenly she knew that the men themselves were red. Their skin was bright crimson.
One came close to her and tipped up her chin with his fingers. His face, brilliant red, was covered with perspiration. His smile was devilish.
“The King will see this one,” he said with enthusiasm. “She is of good quality.”
A chuckle went around the group. Another voice said:
“Don’t go too close, Wanno, or the King may preserve you also for his collection.”
Wanno, the one who had touched Florence, whirled around. His anger was obvious.
“The King chose Wanno as your leader,” he said, “because he knows Wanno has good taste. Another remark like that and you will face the Fire Pool.”
They shrank away from him, for he was evidently a person of power. He picked up Florence easily in his arms.
“Lead the way to the Temple,” he snapped.
In his arms, the girl had time to see the way they were going. The cave was narrow and the walls were covered with flickering lights. It was like a strange trail into Dante’s inferno. Crevices in the floor sent up steam and occasionally shot up tongues of flame.
FOR a long time they walked in silence. Wanno’s arms were tightly about her and she tried to ignore the interest in his eyes. She recognized a possible friend and a terrible enemy in the slim, well-built youth of the fire world into which she had been thrust.
The trail widened and they came out into a new world—a world under the vast dome of the cavern.
It was dark here, but these strange men went ahead swiftly. She guessed that they could see their way, for they never stumbled. Occasionally one of them called back to Wanno, asking him if his burden was light and perhaps pleasant. Wanno’s arms only went more tightly about her and he disdained giving them a reply.
They reached a wall, and it was drawn open by some unseen force. Florence found herself staring into the magnificent fire hall of the Temple of Flame.
The Temple was deserted, save for a huge stone diaz some distance from her. On the diaz she could see many thrones, and seated on them, the figures of lovely girls.
As they went closer, Wanno let her stand and walk alone. He stayed close to her, his hand on her arm. The grip was gentle and firm.
To her right and left, the floor was split by crevices, and from them fire roared upward, sending flames to the roof. The place was very hot.
King Boona saw them come. He rose slowly, a thin, bony figure of a man, his skin red, his robe hanging limply around his body. Boona’s eyes were black and deep-set. His tongue came out to lick thin, bloodless lips.
She walked very slowly, her eyes on him. Somehow he seemed to draw her ahead and she knew that Wanno had stopped and was no longer at her side.
“Welcome, new Queen.”
She heard his words but their meaning did not sink into her brain. She moved onward, automatically, up the ten steps to face him. He met her, one red, bony hand thrust from under the robe. His voice was loud, carrying to Wanno and those who waited at the lower step.
“You have done well, Wanno. This one will complete the collection. Take her at once for preparation. The Fire Pool will be active in a short time.”
As though in a dream, she heard Wanno.
“You are sure, mighty King, that you wish this one? That she will pass the test of beauty?”
There was something warning in the voice. She watched the King, waiting for him to answer Wanno. The King’s lips formed slowly into a sneer. His eyes were half closed.
“Does Wanno wish to judge the beauty of the King’s property? Does Wanno think he is a better judge for the forty thrones?”
Silence—deathlike and puzzling. Then Wanno’s reply came, low and respectful.
“Wanno is sorry. He had not meant to . . .”
The King’s arm was upraised.
“Then take her to the mistress of the Fire Pool—at once.”
She knew that the motion of his arm was meant to dismiss her. She started to turn and her eyes stopped on the girl nearest him. There were many of them, all lovely, yet until now the King’s eyes had held her, forbade her to look at anything but him.
She stared at the silent, motionless women. Then her eyes stopped on June Freemont.
“June,” her cry was forced, hoarse with fear.
Before they could stop her, she had crossed the short distance to June Freemont’s side and her hand was on the girl’s arm.
She stood there for a full minute, never moving, hardly daring to breathe. The men behind her made no move to take her away.
She studied the wide, unblinking eyes, the perfection of the girl before her. The flesh under her touch was cold and lifeless. Her eyes left the figure before her and went slowly around the wide circle, stopping momentarily to search for some sign of warmth in the others.
Thirty-nine dead women. The dead court of King Boona.
She was to be the fortieth dead queen.
A scream welled from her lips, but she did not realize what she did. The Temple of Flame vanished as inky blackness dosed about her.
It was Wanno, the Flame Guard, who gathered her limp body from the stone floor and carried her away—to the Mistress of the Flame Pool.
WHEN Jim Winter plunged feet first into the hole in the cavern floor, he half expected to land in some boiling cauldron. This was the entrance to the world of the fire people.
He landed, after an eight foot drop, on a hard stone floor. Painfully he got to his feet and stared about. Above him, fire was already spouting from the walls, shooting upward to the spot he had just left. Over his head, the roof was low. In a distance the cave widened. He went forward discarding the asbestos suit. It was safe enough here, though the cavern was uncomfortably warm.
He came out into a huge, high-roofed cave and saw the Temple of Flame in a distance. Its columns reared upward to the roof of this strange world. Even at a distance, it was evident that the Temple was some huge, very beautiful place of worship. He went toward it, wondering at the barren cave, and the complete lack of life within it.
Close to the Temple of Flame, he stopped short, then sought the shelter of a rock outgrowth. One of the doors had been flung open and men were filing out. Beyond them, he saw the flames that lighted the temple and caught a glimpse of rare, colorful pillars that held up the dome.
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nbsp; His attention focused on the small band of men who were leaving the place. Among them was a tall youth, and in his arms, Winter recognized Florence.
The small procession of men moved away from him, away from the temple, down to the lower levels of the cavern.
He started after them, careful to stay out of sight as much as possible.
They marched for some time, and Winter kept his distance. Then the cavern narrowed into a winding tunnel and it became very dark. After them, around turn after turn, always downward, always to where the heat was more intense.
Then Jim realized why the cave had been so deserted.
The party came out into a lower cavern, and here for as far as he could see, were a series of steaming pools, flanked by low steps and filled with red bathers. He couldn’t enter this lower cave, for there was no place to hide. He stayed close to the wall in the tunnel, staring out at the pools. The cavern was at least half a mile long and within it, dozens of separate pools sent steam into the hazy air. Around the pools, men and women lounged, to stare with interest as Wanno carried the earth girl among them.
The people arose slowly, following, clustering around the largest pool. Here no one had bathed. Here the water was boiling, and flames burst upward occasionally, shooting from the surface of the water.
On the edge of this pool, the procession halted. Wanno placed Florence on her feet. The girl staggered and fell against him and he held her up.
Winter watched, not daring to go to her rescue, wondering what would happen next.
“To the Fire Pool,” Wanno said in a clear, loud voice, “goes the fortieth queen of Boona. May she always be as lovely.”
Winter could hear the words clearly, for the people were silent and the cave carried sound well.
He heard Florence cry out as women came forward and disrobed her. Winter knew that he must act soon.