The Best of Argosy #7 - Minions of Mercury

by William Grey Beyer

  This time the doors were all open, and his descent was utterly without sound.

  As a testimonial to his memory, the stone door at the bottom of the last flight was shut. As before, a thin crack of light lined its lower edge. Mark paused, trying to visualize the corridor behind that door. As he did so, he heard a voice. “Raise you two,” it said.

  “Check,” said another.

  “I’ll see ’em,” said still another. “Damn this hat!”

  “My pot,” claimed the first voice. “Say. Do you really think Vargo ordered these helmets?”

  “That’s what the captain said,” was the answer.

  “Yeah. But he’d rather lie than tell the truth. Remember the time he said it was Vargo’s orders for us to take a bath once a day?”

  “Do I remember? Say, I took seven baths before I found out it was just his idea of a joke. It’s a good thing I found out when I did. That perfumed soap he issued was getting me in a lot of fights.”

  THERE was silence for a space, except for the slapping of cards being dealt. Mark felt a swift elation as the import of the men’s words struck home.

  His theory was confirmed. Vargo’s hypnotic control of his subjects was powerful, so powerful that his words received obedience even when relayed through a second person. These men were wearing their helmets because their captain had said that Vargo had commanded it. Their minds were so conditioned that any order coming from him would be obeyed, as long as it was relayed by someone in authority.

  The trouble here seemed to be that the captain was given to practical joking, and his word was therefore doubted. But they wouldn’t hesitate an instant if Vargo’s voice had issued the order. That was the important thing. Vargo, speaking over a radio, would be instantly and unquestionably obeyed. His voice alone would sway the thoughts, even the emotions of his people.

  Mark stayed behind the door, hoping that the subject of the helmets would be reopened. It was.

  “Suppose,” postulated the first man, “that the captain is pulling another one of his jokes? There don’t seem to be any good reason for wearing these things. I’d rather have my old one. This thing wouldn’t stop a sword, let alone a bullet.”

  Another short silence. Then: “I’d hate to do anything against Vargo’s orders. Maybe he has some reason for wanting us to wear them. I’ve noticed ’em on several of the nobles.”

  “Sure,” said the first man. “Everybody in the palace has them. But I figure that’s only to identify those who belong in the palace. Makes it easy to spot an outsider. And I figure that the order to keep them on at all times is one of the captain’s inventions. They’re terrible hot in this weather, and he gets a kick out of seeing us suffer. Gimme two cards.”

  “Make mine three,” said the other man. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’ll take the thing off — that is, if you guys will. Nobody’ll see us in here.”

  Mark held his breath — which he didn’t need anyway — during the tense silence which followed. If the man’s suggestion was taken up, his immediate problem would be solved. If it wasn’t, he’d never be able to free the members of the fraternity who were imprisoned within.

  The guards were at the far end of the corridor, too far away to risk rushing them. He’d collect too many slugs in the attempt.

  “Suppose —”

  “Rats with supposing! I’m taking mine off! If the captain hears about it, I’ll know who told.”

  Mark heard the plunk of the helmet striking the floor. A second later it was followed by two more.

  “Aaah. That’s better.”

  Mark pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor. “Much better,” he agreed, freezing the surprised three in their seats. “Go on with your game, boys. Don’t think of anything else, least of all your prisoners.”

  Obediently, the three guards lost themselves in the game of cards, paying not the slightest attention when he removed the ring of keys from the wall. Nor did they turn their heads when he opened cell after cell, calling softly to the sleeping prisoners to get out and report back to Ira.

  THE thieves came out of their cells, one by one, looked wonderingly at the guards, and quietly filed out the front door. Mark released the last one and shut the door after him.

  Noticing that the card game seemed about to come to an abrupt end because one of the guards had garnered almost all of the visible cash, he reached over and redistributed it. Then he went on exploring.

  Ira had said that a passage existed between this place and the palace. The appearance of Dene Baron, the last time he was here, indicated the same thing. He certainly hadn’t come in the door, for Mark had heard him come, even though he was barely conscious and trying to regain his senses at the time.

  A few minute’s search showed him the entrance to the tunnel. It was at the other end of the corridor, and protected by a locked door of thick iron bars. One of the keys on the ring opened it.

  Once more resorting to his gift of levitation, Mark floated along the tunnel. It was dark and he proceeded slowly. Even so, he failed to stop himself when it abruptly branched off to the right. He fetched up with a thud against the wall.

  The new course became lighter, the further he progressed. Dimly he could see another turn, around which there was a light burning. Its rays were reflected from the wall and gave him light enough to prevent another bump.

  The tunnel ended in a flight of stairs. Silently Mark floated up. There was a door at the top — an ordinary door, not a barred, iron one. Carefully he opened it, and found, surprisingly, an elevator shaft.

  There wasn’t any car, and the shaft was so dark that he couldn’t see where it might be. One thing was certain: the car was at an upper floor. It couldn’t be lower, for the bottom of the shaft was at the stair landing.

  But how far up, he could only guess. There was nothing to do but go up and find out. Slowly, hoping that nobody would decide to come down, he ascended the shaft.

  GRUDGINGLY he gave Vargo credit for the forethought which had planned this avenue from the palace to the prison. Except when the cage was at the bottom of the shaft, there was no possibility that anyone would use it as a means of escaping from the prison itself.

  Nor did it provide a means of ingress into the palace for any body of invaders who might be able to capture the prison. The height he traveled before his outstretched hands came in contact with the bottom of the car would have made it impossible for an ordinary man to climb. The cables were thick with grease and wouldn’t provide a hand-hold.

  Nor was there an opening at any of the lower floors. Mark estimated that the car was resting at the very top floor of the palace.

  Gropingly he explored the bottom of the car. There was no opening in it, nor were there any cracks which might indicate the presence of a trapdoor. Similarly, there was nothing but smooth concrete on all sides of the shaft. How was he to get out?

  There was a door, he knew, at the level of the car; though he couldn’t guess which side of the shaft it was on. He’d turned around so many times that his sense of direction was all out of gear. But knowing wouldn’t have helped any, for he couldn’t reach it.

  Several minutes passed while he thought the problem out. Then he placed a hand on the side of the shaft, to make certain that he held himself in one position, and brought all the power of his mind into the effort of moving the elevator cage.

  Telekinesis would solve the problem, if big control proved itself versatile enough for the job. There would almost certainly be a space in the shaft above the car. He must manipulate the energy waves which surged about him, and make them do two things at the same time.

  One of these things they were already doing: the task of holding him without other support at a spot over a hundred feet above the bottom of the shaft. But the second manipulation was of proportions far greater than anything he had tried up to the present.

  The car was heavy, and a terrific concentration of the waves would be required to lift it. Yet the energy wa
ves were abundant, and it shouldn’t be any harder to make them perform this task than it was to make them carry a quantity of air with him when he flew. The mental gymnastic involved differed only in degree.

  Mark applied himself with confidence. The feel of the flowing but resistless waves of energy became intense, almost tangible.

  The tips of the fingers of his left hand rested against the bottom of the cage. As he increased the pressure of the waves, he felt it move, slowly and ponderously, upward. He moved his right hand to a higher position on the wall, and let his body follow upward.

  In the total darkness there was no other way of gauging his progress. He avoided exerting too much pressure on the moving car, for fear the energy at his command might slam it through the roof of the palace. He was juggling with cosmic forces, and must treat them with respect.

  With light, the task would have been easier, but as it was he must check himself with the sense of touch.

  But even that little maneuver of hitching himself upward required a delicate balance of the waves. Entirely by mental control he held the car motionless, bunching the energy against it while he advanced his body to a new position.

  The energy which held the car mustn’t be confused with that which lifted his body, either. If that should happen, even for the slightest instant, he would be dashed to a smear against its bottom. The two flows of energy must be carefully kept separate, each doing its appointed task.

  Slowly the car moved upward. Then he stopped it and took another hitch. But this time, as he delicately fed more power to the waves of energy pressing against the car, it remained at rest. Carefully he increased the pressure. The car still didn’t move!

  Puzzled for an instant, he held the power as it was. Then he decided that his perception of the energy waves was slightly imperfect, and that he really wasn’t exerting as much as he thought. Accordingly he exerted still more.

  Abruptly there was a rending, tearing roar of twisted girders and shattered masonry. The car had pushed itself through the top of the shaft!

  INSTANTLY realizing what had happened, Mark relaxed the pressure, holding the car stationary. A moment of panic now would be fatal. If he forgot for a second the mass of weight which hovered over his head, it would fall and crush him.

  But his control was perfect; not even a scrap of the shattered concrete fell into the shaft.

  He was no longer in darkness now. A thin crack of light outlined a door on the other side of the shaft, opposite to and slightly higher than his present position. Cautiously he moved toward it, keeping one half of his mind on the energy which supported the elevator cage.

  Fumblingly, fearful of losing his control, he groped for the door’s fastenings.

  There was no room in his mind for the possible commotion which the sound of the crash might be causing in the palace beyond that door. He didn’t think of the inmates who might be searching for the source of the sound; of the armed guards which would be swarming the corridors of the palace. His mind was completely occupied with the task at hand.

  If there had been the slightest amount of reasoning power left for him to command he would have retreated, leaving the elevator cage to dangle at the end of its cables.

  But there wasn’t. He was irrevocably committed to a course of action; the course he had planned before his mind had become too occupied with the manipulation of cosmic energies to leave room for other things. That plan of action had included the opening of the door as soon as he raised the car enough to permit it. And open the door he did.

  The inner latch operated by a lever, and his groping hand discovered it. The door slid back. People were moving along the corridor — soldiers, nobles, and palace menials. All wore the helmets which protected them from hypnotism.

  But Mark saw none of them. They passed before his eyes as fleeting shadows, not even impressing the brain behind those eyes. That brain was filled with the necessity of moving himself through the doorway and at the same time keeping the elevator cage from dashing down upon his unprotected skull.

  The instant his feet came to rest upon the corridor floor, he released the pressure which was supporting the car. It fell, pausing only slightly when the cables stretched and parted; then crashed with a deafening din at the bottom of the shaft.

  As if the sound released his mind from the fetters which had held it, he became aware of the scene before him. A dozen pop-eyed soldiers had him covered with pistols. They were infinitely more astounded than he, for as soon as he saw them he realized that the sound of the car going through the roof must have awakened everybody in the palace.

  But that fact didn’t help him in the least. Their guns were centered on his body and there were too many to ignore.

  A noble appeared on the scene and took charge. He was as mystified as any of the soldiers concerning the real nature of the things which had happened; but he had a better grip on his nerves. He ordered them to conduct Mark down the corridor.

  The party stopped before a massive oaken door. The noble rapped on it with his knuckles. A tiny slit opened at a level with his head, and a pair of suspicious eyes looked out.

  “What do you want?” came the muffled growl.

  “Tell Vargo we’ve captured a prisoner at the top of the elevator shaft,” said the noble. “The noise was apparently caused when the cage crashed at the bottom of the shaft. If there were any others, they went down with it. We caught only one.”

  “Let me see him,” said the guard.

  The noble stepped back. The eyes roved over Mark and then suddenly disappeared from the slit. In a minute the massive door swung wide.

  “Just him,” said the guard, training his pistol on Mark’s stomach. “The rest of you stay out.”

  Chapter 22: Meet Mr. Mouse

  VARGO, in silk nightclothes, sat on a heavily upholstered chair beside an ornate bed. The covers on the bed were rumpled as if he had recently jumped out of it.

  A dozen other chairs were in the room; hard ones and not designed for comfort. Mark supposed that these were for the twelve brawny guards who were watching him alertly. Vargo probably slept with them in the room.

  Vargo regarded him through slitted eyes. His face, evilly repulsive, was wrinkled and parchment-dry. The gayly colored silk failed to conceal the scrawny body of the aged ruler. Mark received an impression of the man which amplified the one he got on the occasion of their last meeting. An old man, incredibly evil and self-centered.

  Then abruptly Vargo smiled. His face took on a benevolence which Mark would have said was impossible only a moment before. It was clothed with an expression of friendly welcome, both cordial and reassuring — to anybody who hadn’t seen the other expression.

  “I’m certainly glad to see you,” he said, his cracked voice filled with relief. “It’s a pleasure, a rare pleasure.”

  “Nice of you to say so,” Mark replied. “I’d figured this meeting out a little differently.”

  Vargo beamed. “With my hat off, eh? Sorry I can’t oblige. But I’ve cultivated an affection for this hat. I’ll keep it on.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Mark confessed. “Well, what’s next on the program? You ordered me shot, once before.”

  Vargo nodded amiably. “Silly, wasn’t it?” he said. “But I countermanded that order. I knew you’d come here sooner or later, since you said you wanted my form of government changed. So I put my Ancestors to work devising this helmet. Everybody in the palace must wear one. Ingenious things, aren’t they?”

  “Why did you change the orders?” Mark asked, though he could already guess the answer.

  Vargo shook a finger chidingly. “Don’t be coy,” he said. “You’ve got something I don’t have. You can teach me. I’d like to fly like you do.”

  Mark grinned sardonically. “After which, of course, you’ll set me free.”

  Vargo’s expression remained affable. “No,” he drawled. “But there are several ways of dying. Your reward for proper cooperation will be a quick one. Need I elaborate?”r />
  “No,” Mark said. “Your droolings aren’t very entertaining. And it will be impossible to teach you to fly, so you might as well think up an appropriate way to kill me.”

  Vargo’s face clouded. “Impossible? How?”

  “There is only one way you could be made to sense the waves of energy which make flying possible. That way is to submit to my hypnosis. And of course you’re afraid to do that.”

  VARGO bit his lips nervously. He looked aimlessly about the room, his eyes resting momentarily on each of the guards, as if he half expected some comment from them. Then his eyes returned suddenly to Mark.

  Instantly Mark felt the impact of Vargo’s hypnosis wave. For a second it beat back his will, and waves of blackness hammered at his brain. Then his own powers rescued him, and the waves receded.

  “You didn’t suspect this was a one-way affair, this helmet,” Vargo said, wearily. “An electrical unit in the collar provides the field which shields my brain; but my own wave cuts it off allowing me to hypnotize at will. It turns itself on automatically as soon as my wave ceases.”

  “It didn’t do you much good, did it?”

  “Harrumph!” said Vargo. “Of course it did, young man. You went down — well, a little anyhow. And I learned that you were bluffing. You can teach me your ability without hypnotism.”

  For a second Mark believed him. The waves of blackness had engulfed him for a brief instant.

  But then the inconsistency of Vargo’s statement struck him. True, he couldn’t give Vargo the power of telekinesis by hypnotism. But neither could he give it to him any other way. Omega had operated on that part of his brain which controlled the faculty before he had been able to use it.

  And he hadn’t the slightest notion how to duplicate the operation.

  Mark smiled indulgently. “You flatter yourself,” he told Vargo. “You aren’t strong enough to put me down.”