Space Lawyers: A Collaborative Collection

by Nat Schachner; Arthur Leo Zagat

  Finely carved tables were scattered around, bearing heaped fruits—dishes of luscious dates, ripe red pomegranates, golden oranges, and bursting tender figs, flanked by crystal goblets filled with amber liquor. Long low divans were near each table, gorgeously damasked, and strewn with silken scarves and cushions.

  On the divans lolled a multitude of men, clad in immaculate white robes. Dunton walked down a flower lined path toward the reclining figures, closely followed by the maroon guards. As he approached the banqueters, they turned lusterless, disinterested eyes on him; then returned lazily to their feasting.

  The first glimpse, however, was sufficient to bring Dunton up short with an exclamation of amazement. Of all the surprising sights he had witnessed in this crowded day and night, this was the strangest. These men were not Tibetans, they were not Orientals—they were Caucasians! Here reposed a tall, ruddy faced Englishman; next him sat a bearded Frenchman; on the other side sprawled an olive skinned Italian. All about was a polyglot assemblage—all the races of the earth were represented in this Tibetan garden—Russians, Germans, big boned Swedes, slant-eyed Chinamen, grave Arabs, swarthy Malays, giant Nubians, and even—several unmistakable Americans!

  What lent an air of utter unreality to the scene, was the dullness of their eyes, the pallor of their faces, the set looks of automatons. Though they were feasting, there was no sound of revelry or merriment; they ate in silence with stiff mechanical movements; no one spoke to his neighbor, or seemed aware of his presence. There was something sinister about these men. Dunton shivered as though a cold blast had struck his heart. A pall of evil—some mighty enchantment—seemed laid on this company, and for a moment the adventurer was afraid—horribly afraid!

  He had no time to investigate further. His warders prodded him, motioning for him to proceed. Down scented paths they moved. A figure darted across an intersecting path. His heart gave a quick leap as he recognized the girl of his dreams. She favored him with a side glance that thrilled him and then disappeared down a shaded lane.

  Dunton found himself now on a level grassy area, about a hundred yards across. On one side squatted a row of red-clad lamas, on the other an orange hued row, and facing him from the farther end was stiffly drawn up a platoon of maroon guards, scimitars flashing in their hands. From behind Dunton, came slowly, desultorily, the band of banqueters, who ranged themselves irregularly to complete the fourth side of the open square. Dunton was pushed into a front row, where he was compelled to seat himself, guarded as before.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE DANCE OF EVIL

  For a while there was silence—even the strains of distant music ceased. A hush of anticipation settled on the assembled throng—even the ranks of the polyglots rustled with faintly aroused interest.

  The thick silence was shattered by an ear-splitting blast, then a wailing rushing sound of strange tonalities, unlike anything Dunton had ever heard before. Then through an opening in the farther end of the square, marched slowly and solemnly a weird procession. Ten demons garbed in short blood-red gowns, distorted masks covering their faces, representing monkeys, jackals, vultures and pigs; wooden helmets surmounted by red flags on their heads; wristlets, anklets and necklaces of tiny human bones. In one hand each carried a trumpet made of a hollow human thigh bone, on which they blew concerted blasts. In the other, each brandished the purbu, a dagger-like weapon. From each girdle hung an apron of tanned human skin.

  Dunton’s flesh prickled with horror, but he could not remove his eyes from the diabolic scene. He watched with a sickening fascination.

  The demons marched into the center of the square, where they halted in line, blowing a final blast on their frightful trumpets.

  There followed them a group of graveyard ghouls, dressed as skeletons; eight monkey masks, clad in red and armed with bows, accompanied by eight devil’s wives. They carried tiny drums, made of human skulls, over which were spread human skins. The drum sticks were small snakes, immobile when used to strike the drums, at other times they arched and wriggled rhythmically in the air.

  The groups ranged themselves in serried rows on the fields, and commenced a high-pitched blood-curdling chant to the accompaniment of the trumpets and drums.

  The chant rose to a wail as six masked demons stepped slowly into the field bearing on their shoulders a silken shield. Seated cross-legged thereon was the figure of a girl, robed in purest white, hands outstretched, head thrown back.

  Dunton jumped to his feet in incredulous horror. The girl again! Here among these fiends! With a shout he sprang forward. Flaming anger blurred his vision. He had only one idea—to scatter those loathsome demons and rescue her. After that, he neither knew nor cared what would happen.

  But the burly guards threw themselves upon him, and bore him to the ground. He struggled in their iron grips, until finally the point of a scimitar prodded into his side brought him to his senses. It was the veriest madness, he realized. He must wait until a more favorable occasion arose. Quietly he sat between his scowling captors, arms pinioned, inwardly raging.

  The girl-goddess was seemingly unaware of the commotion she had aroused. As she was borne around the grassy plain her face was set and rigid, her eyes gazed straight ahead with a fixed hypnotic stare.

  The chant increased in volume. Eight bird-masked demons bore aloft a low throne of gold, on which was seated the High Priest of Shaitan. He was clad in a richly embroidered robe, inset with precious stones. In one hand he carried a trident, on the prongs of which were impaled three human heads, and in the other a purbu, ruby encrusted.

  The chant ceased. A pause. Then the very heavens were split with a hideous clamor. In came ten devils, horned, hoofed, tailed, and ringleted with human bones, bearing aloft a high throne, dazzling with the sparkle of innumerable gems. Seated thereon was a huge figure—Shaitan himself—the incarnation of pure Evil. A necklace dangled to its breast—of freshly torn, bleeding human hearts! A huge cobra writhed and twisted in its clammy grip. Against his better judgment, against his very reason, Dunton knew the malign thing to be alive.

  Shaitan was placed in the center of the field. On the right hand his High Priest was set at a respectful distance; on his left the girl-goddess.

  Dunton clenched his hands until the finger nails pierced his palms, but made no outward sign. God in heaven! What could he do? He coldly determined, that at the first sign of any harm to the girl, he would seize a scimitar from an unsuspecting guard, and fling himself upon those devils, slaying until the end. He had no illusions about that end, but strangely, he felt no qualms; a fierce elation buoyed him. The lust of battle sang in his veins.

  A red lama arose, and encircled the figure of Shaitan, strewing a powder on the ground as he did so. Immediately a ring of flame sprang up. Then he walked in a great circle enclosing all three, strewing powder and muttering an unintelligible incantation. Another flaming circle, concentric with the lesser one, leapt into being. “This is a scene out of Hell,” thought Dunton.

  Then commenced a slow rolling of the drums. The animal masks came forward, threw themselves upon the ground groveling before the Satanic image, and then arose. They commenced a slow weaving dance, in which group by group, the whole host of demons joined, until they completely surrounded the fiery circle. A weird unearthly chant rose and fell; the trumpets sounded. Slowly at first, then faster and faster danced the demonic crew. Louder and louder shrieked the trumpets, more and more rapidly beat the drums, higher and higher rose the chant, until finally, the circle of dancers ran and spun and whirled with inconceivable rapidity, and the frightful noise reached an unbearable pitch. The sweetish odor of hashish impregnated the air. Dunton felt his senses swooning—the leaping figures blurred before him.

  He shook his head to clear his brain, and looked again. What was this? The circling demons were rising from the ground, spinning and weaving. Higher and higher into the air they rose—robes, masks, ornaments in one vast whirlpool of spinning color. From the whirling mass dropped
the graveyard ghouls, trailing spectral light. As they touched the earth, the ground yawned, and they sank out of sight. A moment later, they popped up into the air to join the spinning crew. With lightning rapidity they rose and fell, rose and fell, so that the air was full of shooting figures, and the airy crew whirled and spun, dancing on nothing. Dunton felt his mind giving way—the whole phantasmagoria became a huge kaleidoscope of demoniac figures and dazzling colors. Huger and huger it grew—until it exploded in a shower of sparks like a great Roman candle!

  CHAPTER V

  THE GREAT THREAT!

  When Dunton came to, a deathly quiet prevailed. The masked demons were gone, vanished without a trace; only the flaming rings and the three throned figures they enclosed reminded the explorer that the whole had not been a nightmare.

  The High Priest was speaking. Slowly he salaamed to the bestial figure of Shaitan, then straightened.

  “Hashishin, initiates, brethren of our holy faith! All is in readiness. Tomorrow, as the sun gilds the top of yonder mountain, the earth and its inhabitants shall bow in worship of Most High Shaitan, Lord of the Nether Lands, and of all that creep, or swim, or fly. Once more shall his ancient majesty be renewed, and that God who wrested dominion from him, shall retreat in terror to the outer bounds of space! For fifty years I toiled in secret, and now, through the grace of Shaitan, the means have been perfected. See our great Tower,”—and he pointed.

  Dunton turned around, and saw, a half mile to the rear, the huge alabaster Tower rearing its white height above the fragrant gardens. It swam in the golden glow, surmounted by the huge metallic ball. Innumerable little flashes of white light played over its surface.

  “From yonder Tower,” the Priest of Evil exulted, “And from its brother Towers, at dawn shall flash the emanations that shall bend the proud and stiff necked people to our will—slaves to do our bidding and the bidding of our Lord!”

  Was it a fantasy, or did the American actually see the gleam of satisfaction in Shaitan’s terrible eyes, and the slight nodding of the head?

  “And I—” here the old man cast a haughty glance at the assemblage, “And I shall be the Vicar of our Lord on earth, not to be disobeyed on penalty of immediate extinction.”

  “And you—my brethren,” he turned to the red lamas, “Shall once more resume the Ministry of Evil, and tend the altars and the sacrificial offerings. The burnt flesh shall be as incense to your senses.”

  “Ho! slaves!” he shouted in a terrible voice, and shook his trident.

  The alien company surrounding Dunton stirred and rose. With the drugged movements of somnambulists they moved forward, eyes fixed and staring.

  “Heavens, how uncanny they are!” thought the explorer, with mingled feelings of pity and repulsion, “They look as though their souls have been removed, and only the tenantless bodies remained.”

  The old man gazed on them with hideous glee.

  “These wretched things were brought here from the four corners of the globe to do our will. Already have they been subjected to the secret emanations. Tonight they shall be transported back to their native lands, and tomorrow when our spells are cast like nets over the earth, they shall raise their voices like roaring bulls, and lead the stricken hordes to the altars of Shaitan, now set up in secret places. When their task is done, they shall furnish the first bloody sacrifice to appease the nostrils of our Lord.”

  Again it seemed to Dunton’s fascinated vision that the idol leered at him. His brain reeled with the horror of it all, but he was worse than helpless. “God,” he prayed inwardly, “Grant me the means to rid the earth of this nightmare crew.”

  The Priest rose from his throne, and pointed the trident at the glowing ball atop the Tower. Throwing back his head, he intoned an incantation. The flickering lights grew in intensity. Then the ball began to rotate, throwing out innumerable streamers of light. Like huge searchlights they swept the heavens. Suddenly they swooped down to earth, and to Dunton’s amazement, each ray fastened on one of the slaves, and slid up into space again, with the man dangling at its tip. The rays whirled to the four points of the compass; the unfortunate men were shot along the beams in all directions. Faster—faster they moved; huge birds that grew ever smaller with the speed of their flight. Then they passed over the surrounding mountain walls, and vanished.

  For the first time in his life, the brave adventurer felt blind panic sweep through him. With a mighty effort, he crushed down the hysteria within him, and turned to the three figures.

  Even as he turned, he caught a glimpse of the girl he loved fading out into thin mist, leaving a blank shield to his startled view. An exclamation rose to his lips, and he started to his feet. But the vigilant guards pinioned him before the movement was completed.

  A ray of light darted down to the throne of the High Priest. The ancient one seated himself on the broad beam, and promptly floated up the shining path, up to the Tower dome, that opened to receive its Master.

  The throne of Shaitan rose slowly and perpendicularly into the air. A green radiance enveloped the ghastly figure. Upward it flew, until it seemed a tiny ball of green fire, and then it mingled indistinguishably with the stars.

  The red lamas arose, and vanished into the maze of paths. Dunton was alone with his escort. For a moment, the wild hope of a sudden dash for liberty rose in his bosom, but the point of a scimitar pricking his side convinced him the time was not yet.

  “What do you want now?” he spoke angrily.

  The impassive Oriental gestured for him to move ahead, significantly twirling his weapon. Back to the Tower they went. The smooth white wall opened at their approach, and they stepped into what seemed the bottom of a deep well. From the orifice, high overhead, came a faint gleam. Even as they strode to the center, they were lifted straight up. Up they floated, and out of the opening into a small room. Through a door, the Mongols pushed the American, and once more he found himself in the interior of the dome.

  There sat Sheik-al-Jabal, attired in the yellow lama’s robe in which Dunton had first encountered him—as though the whole devil’s scene in the garden had been a dream. This time the lama was alone!

  Again Dunton looked about the vast hall, lighted now with a green glow that lent to all its apparatus a spectral appearance. The buzz of activity was absent, only the lama was there in the wide circle of this domed chamber. The old Assassin was seated directly before the white screen on an ebony throne, over whose surface writhed all the evil forms he had but now beheld.

  The American made a quick movement forward as if to attack the wizened Disciple of Evil. But the lama raised his hand. “Stop! You should know my power by now. Stand there, before me on that platform.”

  Dunton reluctantly obeyed. As he stepped on the platform its swaying ceased, but he could feel beneath his feet a steady vibration as of some powerful electric force barely held in check.

  “Hearken!” Satan’s High Priest began, “And ponder carefully. You have seen our holy ritual. You have witnessed the mystic wonders at my command. You have beheld the coming of our Lord Shaitan. You know now how I, his humble servant, can summon and command men of every race and clime. This mighty power is yours to take and wield, if you but say the word. Say but that you are convinced, bow down in subjection to our Lord Shaitan, and while I live you shall be my sword and my hand. Join our mighty sect and when Shaitan at last deems me worthy of rest, you shall follow me as his vicar on earth. You shall be the Sheik-al-Jabal of a world remade for Evil. With but a single word you can take for your own the earth and the fullness thereof. Deny Shaitan now, and you shall die the Death of a Thousand Needles; the death so horrible that even Shaitan himself shudders at the very thought.”

  The American drew himself up proudly. “Old man,” he said, “What superstitious Mongol do you think you have here, that you would have me believe these mummeries to be occult power? You have great power but the wonders you have shown me come not from any supernatural cause, but from a mastery o
f natural forces. If you would have me cast my lot with you, cast aside this puppet play of devil worship in which neither I nor you believe. Show me the inner workings of these marvels, and then, perhaps, I shall accede to your demand.”

  Again an involuntary gleam of admiration flitted across the seamed and evil visage.

  “So be it. I see it is useless to pretend any further with you. I believe no more in Shaitan than in any other God. But the fiction had its uses.” He arose and descended from the ebony throne. “Come with me behind the screen and you shall see the source of my power; the great machine with which I shall sway the minds of all men to my will.”

  He led the way through the door in the lacquered screen, and Dunton followed.

  At the threshold the explorer halted in amazement. The entire space, almost half the vast circle of the hemisphere, was filled with a maze of glittering apparatus on a giant scale. Vast coils of gleaming copper to which ran cables thicker than a man’s arm. Tubes ten feet high, with elements like steel bridge-structures. Circular rheostats like the twenty-foot constrictors of the Amazonian wilds. Variable condensers with Brobdingnagian plates. It was as though two natives of Gulliver’s Lilliput had wandered into the interior of a complex modern radio set.

  Gradually, the chaotic mass of apparatus took on some order to Dunton’s bewildered gaze. There appeared to be two distinct groups; to each of which ran huge conductors from a gigantic distributor board at one end of the space, on which the gleaming bus-bars bulked like copper girders. Each apparatus was fitted with a motor to actuate its members. In the opposite end of the space a motor-generator transformer hummed.