It would serve no good purpose to enter into a lengthy discussion of the methods employed to establish understandable communication between the representatives of these so alien races; the slow and tortuous stumbling before a fair degree of success was attained.*
* Any one interested may find a full and complete account of the language, customs and scientific achievements of the Prostaks in the monograph by Burns & Fries in the Interworld Geographic, Vol. 252 page. 1063.
Suffice it to say that the Earthmen discovered that the symbols employed by the Prostaks were conventionalized ideographs, having originally been exact representations of objects and actions. They never were able to find out just by what living internal mechanism these beings were able to flash their pictures, or glyphs on the sensitive screen. As for the Earthmen's communication with them, Al, who was a clever sketcher, and fortunately had a note book and pencil along with him, employed his talent with great success. That and pantomime did the trick until the men learned the Prostak language and the meaning of the symbols. Then matters progressed smoothly, for they could sketch the characters to express their thoughts.
Almost the first question they asked, when understanding was established, was an explanation of that terrible drama in the Hall of the Ruler.
The chief scientist told them the story.
*
IN the center of the universe, he said, there existed a mighty Ruler, a being who, strangely enough, resembled most closely the Earthmen.
When he had come, no one knew. But many pilasters ago (a pilaster is ten months and twenty-one days), a vast transparent sphere had floated into their space. Inside the hollow shell, bathed in blue light, was observed the queer "human" creature. A maze of strange instruments surrounded him, whose use the Prostak scientists, watching eagerly through the funnel orifices with powerful telescopes, were unable to fathom.
Even as they gazed, the strange being manipulated various levers, and great streamers of cold blue light shot out into the black void of space, until the entire universe was luminescent with the glaring blue flames.
To the amazed view of the Prostaks, there were illumined innumerable dark worlds, similar to their own. Of the existence of these, they had been apprised for ages by means of mental communication with the inhabitants, but this was the first time the orbs had become visible. In the interiors were peoples and civilizations comparable to that of the Prostaks. By a system of thought transference the races of these hollow orbs could communicate with each other.
THE HISTORY OF A RACE
BUT some few of the rolling balls in space were uninhabited. Possibly, they thought, these barren worlds were solid throughout, and therefore unable to support life.
Attempts to establish communication with the strange new creature in the hollow transparent shell were unsuccessful. At length they resigned themselves to watching for further developments. These were not long in coming. The great sphere moved methodically from one to another of the dark solid worlds. In front of each it rested motionless in space. The man creature busied himself with his instruments. Pale beams impinged steadily on the lifeless hulks, until to the watchers' vast astonishment, a deeper blue haze, strangely resembling an atmosphere, enveloped the dark spheres. Unbelievably, it seemed to cling to the surface, instead of being violently repelled into space.*
* Prostaks were not acquainted with the phenomena of attraction.—Burns & Fries.
The scientists puzzled over the meaning of these strange events without success. Soon, too soon, were they to realize the full horror of this irruption into their hitherto peaceful universe.
One day they noticed that the strange, enclosed being was exceptionally active. Instrument after instrument whirled and gyrated. Suddenly, an elongated cylinder of blue flame leaped into life, passed through the transparency as though it did not exist, darted through space straight toward a sister world. With barely perceptible pause it shot through a tunnel opening, and disappeared into the interior.
Agog with excitement, the Prostaks attuned themselves to the thought waves of the orb, to learn the meaning of this strange invasion. They were not long left in the dark.
The cylinder of blue flame was demanding that a certain number of the Arkabs (the name of that race) be placed in elongated cylinders of its Master's contriving, whom it called "The Emperor of the Stars," and ejected into the void. They were to be drawn to the new worlds so strangely made livable by the Emperor, there to live and die as slaves, working his will, tilling the barren soil to grow the curious foods necessary for the well-being of the self-constituted Emperor. As the population grew from the enslaved beings of this and other worlds, certain secret plans were to be made effective. If they refused, the direst retribution was threatened.
Scornfully, the rulers of their sister world had rejected the barbarous terms. The strange cylinder betook itself haughtily back to its Master.
What followed was dreadful. First the heavens turned an intense blue. Then luminous blue streamers shot athwart the sky. Rapidly they approached the doomed world. They touched, enveloped it. Before the fascinated watchers' eyes it seemed to crumble, to disintegrate. When the terrible blue rays withdrew, the great world was gone—whiffed clean out of existence.
Since that demonstration of power, no world dared refuse its tribute. Rapidly the desolate worlds were populated by slaves from many spheres. By some strange power they remained on the surface and did not tumble off into the void. Many pilasters passed. Wearily, hopelessly, the slaves could be seen toiling, digging, performing strange tasks, under the cruel supervision of the Emperor's minions, the cylinders of blue.
Unknown growths appeared on the ground, were harvested, and carried in long cylinders to the glassy shell of the Emperor. Strange, oblong structures reared their heads on the colonized worlds; vast new cities of new shapes and forms. More and more slaves were demanded and procured from the subject races for the Emperor had found work for them digging minerals that he needed, refining them, etc.
Heretofore, the Prostaks had been unmolested. They grew confident in their immunity. They were exempt from the killing toll. Not for them the ghastly pall that overhung the denizens of other orbs.
Then suddenly, like the crack of doom, appeared the frightful messenger of the Emperor. In the universal sign language, he had made his demand for slaves. Six Prostaks were to be supplied regularly each dinaster (corresponding roughly to nine days).
After prolonged consultation, one Prostak, greatly daring, had volunteered to speed through space, to intercede with the Emperor direct. He had departed, it was his cylinder Joe and Al had seen leaving the surface of Prostakon. Almost immediately the messenger of the Emperor had reappeared in the council chamber. Gloatingly it had told of the enslavement of the hero ambassador. Then it had repeated the inexorable demand for tribute, reminded the horror-struck Prostaks of the fate of that other world that had dared to defy the Emperor.
There was nothing to do but submit. The Earthmen had witnessed the frightful scene of their seizure, and the universal lamentation of this gentle, kindly people. What they had not seen was the thrusting of the struggling victims into a cylinder awaiting them at the exit into outer space, and their ejection. Here the narrator paused; the hieroglyphics fading to the dullest red of despondency.
In a dreshiar more (slightly less than two days), another six of the wretched inhabitants must be sent to join the tribute from other worlds to glut the greed of the dread Emperor. Already the terrified Prostaks were fleeing the City, fearful that they might be seized in the next batch to go.
No longer would there be peace and the ordered pursuit of knowledge, the scientist concluded sadly. Now and forever, the people would be under the dreadful doom, none knowing whose turn was next. There was no hope but ultimate extinction.
The Earthmen had watched the pictured story with growing horror until the last symbol had faded away. Their hearts bled at the thought of this gentle race, so advanced in culture and achievements
, fated to be the slaves to the ambitions of an alien Lord.
Simultaneously they looked at each other. Each read the resolve in the other's eyes.
Al wrote for the aged Prostak. "All may not be as hopeless as you think. Possibly we may be able to find some means to combat the fiend."
Startled, the scientist waved his antenna in a flickering hope, but then the dulled red characters appeared: "Nay, no one can hope to overcome him. He is mighty, the Emperor of the Stars. We are only finite beings. He is omnipotent—no puny weapon of ours can harm him. Alas, I am afraid our bitter destiny must be fulfilled."
"In the world from which we come, nothing is recognized as impossible," Al replied. "Though we cannot promise, we say again, hope on. Perhaps we shall be able to requite your kindness by delivering your nation from this menace."
With that, they left the unconvinced scientist.
IV. — "WE SHALL GO!"
"WHAT have you in mind?" asked Joe eagerly, as they returned to their quarters. "I'd give a great deal to release these people from their horrible fate. I've honestly come to like them quite a bit."
"You may think it's damnably rash and dangerous," Al answered slowly, "what I'm going to propose. And it is, no question about it. But I feel the same way about the Prostaks as you do, and I for one am willing to take the chance. Here it is.
"You remember what the old Prostak told us about this Emperor. How strangely he resembles us in form. That he is an alien to this universe. And more particularly that he is able to endow matter with gravitational attraction, instead of the universal repulsion it has here. It occurs to me that possibly this potent Emperor is a being from some planet in our own system, or even—it is not too fantastic—a man from our own Earth. He might have been a scientist of extraordinary attainments, who had in secret discovered and developed new natural forces as yet unknown to us.
"An overweening ambition may have led him to the idea of conquering the planets of our Solar System with the forces under his control. Accordingly he built his vast hollow shell, which from the description seems to be made of pure fused quartz.
"Launching himself secretly into space, he intended to overpower and render subject each planet in turn. Some freak of destiny, just as in our case, led him to the exact tangential point with this universe, and precipitated him through.
"Adjusting himself quickly to the new conditions, he set about enslaving these kindly peaceful peoples. Now he is creating new worlds in the image of that one with which he was familiar.
"Can you conceive the upshot? A vast horde of trained, submissive subjects with which to win back to our universe? I dare not picture the fate of poor old Earth!" Al shuddered at the vivid image he himself had conjured up.
Joe became excited. "That settles it. We must conquer this scientist Emperor, not only for the sake of the Prostaks, but for that of our own world. But how?"
"I've thought of something. Just as our weapons proved ineffective against the alien matter and reversed natural laws of this universe, so the weapons of the denizens were unavailing against this marauder from our universe. On the other hand, our weapons may prove useful against this being who was originally subject to the laws of our space. Of course," Al continued, "this is all guesswork on my part. I may be absolutely wrong. But somehow I am convinced that we shall be able to defeat the Emperor of the Stars."
"But you still haven't told me what method of attack you expect to use," objected Joe.
"All," was the prompt retort. "If I knew exactly the nature of the Emperor, I could specify. But as I don't, we'll use every available method, and trust to luck that one is the right one. We have our ray projectors, our atomic disruptors, our rocket bursts. One of these may be successful. Who knows?"
"I'm game to try it anyway," Joe declared. "The worst that can happen is that we don't come back. And I for one am not too keen about spending the rest of my days here, no matter how decent the Prostaks are. After all they're not our kind. And I also have a hunch—laugh if you will—that our only chance of ever returning is connected in some way with this Emperor of theirs."
Al nodded. "I've also had the same feeling. It's agreed then. Everything on the ship's just as we left it, I'm sure, so everything is in readiness."
*
ONCE more the two Earthmen stood in the great hall. Once more the Ruler stood sadly on the platform. Again the mocking, malevolent cylinder radiated blue emanations on the right side of the King. The fatal day had come for the second tribute. The great hall was nearly empty. Almost every one had fled. Only the officials, the scientists were present—those whose pride or abounding courage did not permit them to seek safety in flight. Even though they stood their ground, who can say they were not desperately afraid!
Once more the cylinder made its foul demand; again with bowed body, the troubled Ruler acquiesced. His trident was raised aloft in signal to the guards to perform their odious duty, the very bravest shrank away in dread anticipation,—when suddenly the evil ambassador stood erect, shot a blue ray in the direction of the Earthmen, as though in triumphant inquiry, then flashed staccato streamers toward the Prostak ruler. Al had learned to read this code also. An exclamation of horror froze on his lips.
"What is it?" Joe wanted to know.
"He is demanding that we two be a part of the tribute," Al cried.
"My God, we're cooked, done for," groaned Joe.
Just then the Ruler raised his body proudly erect, and angry, vivid red hieroglyphics chased each other rapidly across his thought screen.
Al dug his fingers deep into Joe's arm, joyfully, half unbelieving.
"My God, Joe, the old boy is a wonder. Know what he's saying to that damned cylinder? He's answering that we are his guests—the guests of the Prostaks. Never in all their history have they ever permitted harm to befall any strangers, any aliens who once had shared their hospitality. And he doesn't intend starting now. He will not deliver us to destruction, and the cylinder and his Master can be damned to it. (Al was translating rather freely in his excitement.) Rather his whole world be consumed by the tyrant than accede to this infernal demand."
A wave of soundless applause broke from the assembled Prostaks, even though the defiant speech of their King spelled certain destruction to all of them.
Joe's eyes positively blazed. "Al, it's wonderful, inconceivable, the nobility of this race. Think of our people on earth, and what they would say and do in a similar situation. Al!" he gripped his friend tightly with sudden alarm, "you're not going to let them sacrifice themselves like that to save us, are you?"
The reply was emphatic. "I should say not!"
Meanwhile the blue cylinder was sputtering an angry message. Very well then, it threatened, it would report to its Master, and retribution would be swift and terrible.
"Hold on a moment," Al cried out, darting forward, forgetting in his excitement that no one could hear him. Joe was close behind him.
Recollecting himself, Al dashed to a niche in the wall where was kept for him the thin black square and red chalk-like substance he used for conversation in public.
Quickly he dragged them out, and set to work to convey his message. Forgetful of all else in the tense drama of the moment, the Prostaks eagerly crowded about the pair.
"Noble Ruler of the Prostaks," Al sketched hastily, "we deeply appreciate your unexampled sacrifice, but we cannot permit it. This fair world of yours shall not be destroyed because of us. No, we are ready to go as tribute to this insatiable Emperor—this Monster of your universe. We visitors from another space are not afraid of him."
All over the vast hall, on one and all, danced in vivid red the single legend, iterated and reiterated. "No! no! no!"
"What a race!" murmured Joe, exultantly.
Again Al fiercely sketched. "We thank you—it is worthy of you. But our minds are made up, we shall go. Tell that damnable cylinder we shall be ready."
Sadly the Ruler bowed to their wishes. In symbols barely visibl
e, he informed the ambassador of their acquiescence.
A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE
THERE was no question of it now. The blue cylinder flared in leering triumph. Once more it sprang up through the ceiling to speed the news to its powerful Master.
Left to themselves, the Prostaks tossed their tentacles in soundless uproar. They were expostulating angrily with their visitors for this violation of their ancient hospitality. With difficulty, Al managed to concentrate their attention to his writing. This once accomplished, however, they followed him closely without interruption. He explained just what he and Joe had in mind; their plans for battle with the Dread Lord, and the possible freeing of the universe for all time from its frightful doom. They would go alone in their own space ship to meet him in his very lair, the center of his power.
When he was done, a tremendous demonstration took place. The Prostaks grabbed drowningly at the straw just offered. Who knew—perhaps these aliens from outside their space might prove the saviors of their world.
Immediately, a vast procession formed to escort the daring Earthmen to the place where their ship was moored. As they moved along, more and more of the Prostaks flocked out of their hiding places, apprised by swift broadcasting of the meaning of the march.
"They're treating us like conquering heroes already," Joe smiled wryly at Al, "but to tell you the truth I don't feel like one at all. My knees are just a bit wobbly at the thought of what's ahead of us."
"Buck up, old man," Al encouraged him, "the worst that can happen is death. We must chance it. And I feel rather confident we can turn the trick."
"I'm not backing out," Joe replied earnestly. "I'm with you to the bitter end."
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