The Collected Stories

by Earl

  “Yes,” Tyson said, surprised. “I put them away carefully when I came to Shorraine. Sentimental, I guess. Why?”

  “YOU’RE going to wear them,” stated Carver, eyes narrowed. “And I am going to wear mine. Tonight a ship is going to secretly land us outside Phoryx’s gates. Tomorrow morning, we’ll enter Phoryx—as wanderers from Earth!”

  “I see!” gasped Tyson, at the daring plan. “But what can we do—”

  “What any other spy or sabotage agent does in the enemy’s camp,” said Carver grimly. “Work for their downfall.” He whirled on Val Marmax. “That apparatus with the speaking tubes, that we saw—do you think it might control all the enslaved Earth-people in Phoryx?”

  “It likely does!” cried the scientist, a flash of understanding in his eyes. “It would correspond to a telepathic central switchboard. There are about 20,000 human souls in Phoryx, under that domination. If they were freed—”

  “Barry!” Helene threw her arms around Carver’s neck. “You can’t go back there. I can’t let you. I can’t!” She clung to him tightly.

  Carver spoke gently. “This may hurt, dear, but suppose your father were one of them. He was lost in the desert, too. I have a chance to free these people and help Shorraine at the same time, don’t you see?”

  The girl fell back, her face wild.

  Then she gripped herself and nodded. “Go, Barry!” she breathed.

  Shivering in the cold night breeze, Carver and Tyson watched as a crimson dawn splashed over the wild terrain of Shorr. They crouched beneath Phoryx’s great gates, where they had been landed fin hour previously by a silent, dark ship. In their Earthly uniforms of airmen, they looked the part of men who had just wandered into the Spot from the Sahara Desert. Their faces had been disguised, by skilled touches of cosmetics.

  “We’ll have to wait at least two hours,” whispered Carver. “We’re supposed to have seen Phoryx as a mirage, and mirages don’t appear too early in the morning.”

  Tyson nodded, his teeth chattering, though not from fright. Both of them were calm. It was a desperate game they were playing, but it offered one chance of bursting the prison bars of doom around themselves and all Shorraine.

  They heard the busy hum of the city, this evil, powerful city which would soon be master of two worlds if fate so willed. Along the curve of the wall, they could see pacing sentries, black satyrs whose hooves clattered loudly on stone. At times they saw scurrying human figures, carrying burdens, doing the bidding of their cruel masters. Carver dug his nails into his own palm. Such would be the lot of all humans if the demon-people won.

  High overhead a black ship circled, watching for attack from Shorraine. It would come soon. Carver had arranged for the attack at about that time. The subsequent excitement in Phoryx would increase the two men’s chances of accomplishing something without being too closely watched.

  But before Shorraine’s forces arrived, the huge gates suddenly swung wide.

  Carver could peer in at an angle. A line of ships darted from the large building which was Sha-tahn’s central headquarters. Carver gasped. Standing stiffly at the deck of the first ship was that familiar figure, with the lick of black hair over his forehead, and the small mustache. Beside him stood the short, squat yellow man, cheek scarred, lips cruel. Hitler and Genghis Kahn, two of history’s most ruthless conquerers, and under the domination of a yet more evil nature—Sha-tahn!

  THE ship winked out before their eyes, as it entered the area of the Spot. It continued as a ghostly shadow, on into the Earth dimension. One by one, the others followed.

  “Another hundred!” hissed Tyson. “And evidently these are being sent out into the world already. Sha-tahn is confident of victory here in Shorr!”

  “Let’s go!” said Carver.

  They straightened up, hugged the wall till they came to the Spot area, and then boldly walked through it, into Phoryx. They simulated attitudes of astonishment and fearful wonder, twisting their heads around.

  A satyr came running up. “You are from the Sahara Desert?” he asked in perfect English.

  Carver and Tyson nodded wordlessly, as though too astounded to speak. They tried to show as much of stark fear as they could, putting themselves in the place of men who saw all this for the first time.

  “You are in Phoryx, city of Shorr, which is another world,” explained the satyr briefly. “You cannot escape. You will not be harmed if you do as we say: Come with me!”

  The two Earthmen stepped forward, as though too mentally numbed to remonstrate. The satyr walked at their side, watchfully, with a hand on the butt of his gun. It was evidently the usual method of introducing newcomers to Phoryx, terse and abrupt, without giving them time to think or object. Carver was grimly satisfied to note that they were heading for the great, towered building just opposite the gate, which he knew from the last time to be Sha-tahn’s headquarters.

  The satyr motioned toward a door and herded them down the dim-lit corridors. What were they being led to? Carver tried to orient himself in the building. Vaguely, he knew that the telepathy-control room was off the ground level and toward the rear. Somehow or other they must get there.

  Finally they were taken into a large room. Against one wall stood a large apparatus of indefinable purpose. Two other satyrs looked up, spoke a few words with their captor, and then turned to the machine. Moving levers brought it to humming life. The first satyr motioned to a fiat wide bench that lay under a frosty globe.

  “One of you will lie down there,” he commanded.

  “What do you mean to do?” asked Carver, in false terror, playing his part. At the same time he did want to know what the machine was for. “What is this all about? What—” He stopped, swallowing.

  The satyr leered evilly, obviously taking their bewildered discomfiture as real, and enjoying it.

  “You will be in Phoryx a long time,” he promised, licking his lips as though he relished telling this. “But as slaves! You cannot escape it. Be warned that this gun I have”—he drew it—“can blast you to instant death, if you resist. Under the machine, an astral-force will penetrate your brain and lodge in the cortex, center of will, suppressing it. After that you will obey all commands, by word or telepathy, without the slightest power to resist. Now you, the big one, get on that bench. Or if you choose to die, attack me. We are not so much in need of slaves anymore, as soon we will have all Earth to pick from. Well?”

  Carver glanced at Tyson. Once under the apparatus, they were lost. They would be mindless, bereft of will, flesh and blood robots. But on the other hand, they were menaced by a gun whose telekinetic forces they knew only too well as a blasting death.

  Carver tensed. It was do or die. The satyr brought up his gun sharply.

  SUDDENLY a loud bell clanged in the corridor, and echoed from several other directions. Carver knew it must be the general alarm, that Shorraine’s forces were attacking. At the sound of the bell, the satyrs had involuntarily looked around. And at that moment, the two Earthmen leaped.

  Carver caught the satyr with the gun in a flying tackle that knocked him off his feet and sent his weapon clattering against the wall. The Satyr struggled wildly, kicking with his hard hooves and curling his prehensile tail around Carver’s waist. Carver wasted as little time as possible. He grasped the creature’s neck and banged his head against the floor with all the force of his earthly muscles. The satyr went limp, his skull crushed.

  Carver sprang up, whirling. Tyson, cursing, was battering away with his fists at one satyr. The other was leaping for the door. Carver grabbed up the weapon in the corner and stabbed at the side button. The gun gave a little kick. The satyr, with a choked scream, went down. The telekinetic charge had torn his throat out. Tyson knocked his adversary with a final uppercut.

  Carver stepped to the door and looked cautiously down the hall. Although several satyrs passed in various cross passages, none seemed to notice what had occurred in the room.

  “The attack came just in time, for us,” panted
Tyson.

  “Now’s our chance, in all this hubbub,” said Carver rapidly. “If we can find that telepathy room. Let’s go. We can walk along the halls as though we were human slaves of theirs, on some errand.” He stuck the gun in his belt.

  It seemed hours that they wandered through the huge building, though they knew it was only minutes. Minutes that were tense, nerve-wracking. At any moment they might be challenged, apprehended. But luckily because of the bustle of the attack, the satyrs who passed barely glanced at them. The two Earthmen shuffled along with heads half bowed, like the mind-slaves of Phoryx.

  They ascended steps and worked their way upward. Somewhere up here must be their destination. Tyson grunted suddenly. “This looks familiar. Yes, this is the hall leading to Sha-tahn’s chamber! The next cross corridor must lead to where we were trapped last time—”

  “You’re right!” Carver headed down the hall, knowing the way now.

  Soon they came within sight of the central room with its many branching corridors. From here, evidently, groups of human slaves were assigned to various duties, guided by telepathic commands. Standing against the wall, Carver could see five satyrs in the room, giving their commands into the row of horns.

  “Five—and all armed!” said Carver grimly, moving forward with his gun in hand.

  “Wait!” hissed Tyson. “Satyr coming down the hall.”

  He hurried up, glancing at them, but without suspicion. As he went by, Carver deliberately aimed his weapon. The humming charge cracked the side of his head open. Almost before the body had fallen, Carver jerked his gun from its holster and handed it to Tyson.

  Then, tight-lipped, they crept to the central room.

  One of the satyrs, turning, looked them full in the face as they reached the doorway. He shouted hoarsely, pulling out his gun. He fell, his chest torn, as Carver’s gun spat viciously. The other four whirled, jerking at their weapons. Two more went down, as the Earthmen fired together. Carver ducked, as a gun swung at him, but felt his left arm go limp as the charge ripped into his shoulder. His return shot was more accurate, and the one remaining satyr died with a strangled gasp as Tyson fired.

  THEY had done it! Carver told himself that with a surge of triumph. Now if only the rest would work out as he hoped, and wanted. His lips twisted with the pain of his shattered shoulder, but that could wait.

  “Quick!” he barked to Tyson. “Close the doors. Lock them if you can. Then keep watch. Keep them out for the next five minutes, come heaven or hell, while I—”

  He stepped before the wall apparatus, looking it over with keen, searching eyes. Under each horn was a series of studs, some pressed down. That must be the “on” position. Rapidly he went down the row, shoving all the studs down. A deep, rising hum came from behind the panel. Telepathic forces of some sort, broadcast through all the city! Attuned in some intricate way to the will-less minds of Phoryx’s human slaves! Wild conjecture? No, he must be right—he must!

  Carver stepped back, drawing a breath. Then he yelled out:

  “Slaves, attention! You are free. Arise against your hated masters. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, arise—and kill your masters!”

  Carver stopped. “Tom,” he said fervently, in lower tones, “if you ever prayed before, pray now, that this works!”

  Carver repeated the message. Was his voice, translated to telepathic impulses by the machine, impinging in every human slave-brain in Phoryx? Were they straightened up, released from a previous command—free and seething with vengeance? Some of the people must have been here thousands of years. How strong must be their hatred against the satyrs!

  Carver forced himself to think more rationally. How much could they do before the satyrs finally destroyed them all? If just enough pandemonium and chaos could be created to let the attacking forces of Shorraine get a foothold, a vantage—

  Carver barked out again, stentorianly:

  “Slaves of Phoryx! Arise and kill your masters. Take all weapons you can. Those of you near anti-aircraft guns, take them over. Do not shoot the ships of Shorraine. Blast those of Phorox. Those of you near the Spot area converge on the defenses at that point. Take over all guns and positions you can. Shoot down the ships of Phorox. Fight, slaves, fight—for freedom. And for Earth!”

  “Here they come!” cried Tyson. The doors which he had closed and locked by a bolt mechanism rang with repeated blows. Blasts of telekinetic force ripped out gaping holes.

  Carver aimed his gun at the telepathy-machine’s panel and swept its charge down the line, blasting out the studs one by one. His last command to the mind-slaves would be the last they would hear for a time to come. Back of the panel, the throbbing ceased as connections broke.

  Then Carver turned, waiting calmly for the demon-people to blast their way in. There was no chance of escape this time. He only wished he could know, before he went, whether success had rewarded his efforts.

  Suddenly a wall screen spangled into a television view. Sha-tahn’s dark, evil face peered out at the two besieged Earthmen. He leered satanically, as Earth mythology represented his astral alter ego.

  “As I thought,” he spoke, peering sharply. “Barry Carver, despite the disguise. You will die for what you have done—horribly. Not by gun, no.” He gave a command at the side, then turned back. “No. You shall suffer slowly, for weeks, perhaps months. A little astral being will perch in your brain and keep screaming, screaming, till you go mad. But then it will keep on!”

  THE noises outside the door ceased. And down from the ceiling darted a black shadow. Carver knew there was no use running. The shadow enveloped his head, probed with its psychic forces, and a faint scream sounded within Carver’s brain. It kept on steadily. Carver knew it would drive him mad, but before them he would—

  He gasped. He tried to raise his gun to his own temple, but some force prevented him. He could not will his own death!

  “You see?” snarled Sha-tahn. “You will suffer, and—”

  At that moment, shouts sounded. Strange wild shouts that seemed to come from all directions. Human shouts I Sha-tahn’s face vanished from the screen, with a startled look upon it. At the same time, the astral tormenter over Carver’s head disappeared.

  Tyson had sprung to the door, looking out of a gaping rent.

  “The slaves!” he shouted, joyfully. “They’re out in the hall, fighting the satyrs. Barry, it worked—”

  Carver leaped for the door, opened it. The satyrs were backed against the wall, shooting it out with a party of men swarming down the corridor. It was over in a moment and with bloodcurdling screams of triumph the Earth-people surged toward Sha-tahn’s room.

  “Let’s get in on that!” cried Carver. He was only partially aware of the blood dripping down his sleeve, from his torn shoulder. He and Tyson were with the party when it swarmed into Sha-tahn’s presence. A withering barrage of gun-fire met them. But the rest crowded forward eagerly, madly, screaming revenge. Carver realized that very few of them were sane. He had loosed a pack of demented monsters among the demon-people, who had made them so. Somehow, it was divine justice.

  Sha-tahn’s party retreated. Then piercing cries from the back of them and they were trapped between two fires. In desperation, they made a break for it, past Carver’s party. Somehow, Sha-tahn was there across sights. He pressed, and watched the ruler of Phoryx fall, a corpse.

  Carver was in a daze. His shoulder pained agonizingly. Was it possible that he had just killed the monster who for thousands of years had worked his way into Earth history as—Satan? Was this all a mad dream? He was so confused, and so weak. It couldn’t be true. It was all a terrible, impossible dream. And then a tidal wave of darkness swept him off his feet . . .

  BARRY CARVER stood at the prow of the sleek ship as it rose gracefully over Shorraine. He had one arm around Plelene. The other was in a sling. His shoulder wound had nearly healed.

  They had told him later of the full destruction of Phoryx, after his delirium and fever were gone. How the
uprising Earth slaves, obeying his telepathic commands to the letter, had demoralized Phoryx’s fighting forces. They had stormed every position, wrested away guns, shot down the demon-people’s ships. Shorraine’s aerial forces had been able to land within the city and take over more guns. Before the end of that day, the enemy was isolated in various sections, besieged. Most of their great fleet was destroyed.

  In three more days, the city had been practically leveled. Those of the satyrs still alive had raced to the dark lands. Their power was broken.

  CARVER’S ship, piloted by Tom Tyson, maneuvered into the Spot. At its nose, a magnetic machine thrummed powerfully. They felt a slight wrench, no more. The bluish light around them gradually faded into a soft yellow glare. It brightened to tropical harshness as the sands of the Sahara spread to all directions.

  Earth! Carver took a deep, satisfied breath.

  Pie looked back. One after one, ships followed. The line began to stretch out like a string of beads, over the hot desert. Five thousands ships were his to command. Armed ships, superior to any fighting force of Earth. Carver thought of the Jap army and gripped slowly, in anticipation.

  He looked further back, at the dancing, shimmering image of a ghostly city suspended over the rolling sands. Shorraine—City of the Mirage! It had been the scene of incredible adventure, fantastic from start to finish. He would never forget a minute of it. Nor would time mist his memory of the enigmatic, lovely creature who, unwittingly, had assured the destruction of Phoryx.

  The ship sailed on, into the wide skies of Earth. On its prow was the legend: “Elsha—Queen of Mu.”

  ROPE TRICK

  A GOOD ROPE ARTIST CAN ALWAYS MAKE A FAIR LIVING-EVEN A CENTURY HENCE!

  YOU people of 2039 has axed me to write down my way of looking at this whole thing. Seems to me Doc Meade has writ it up to the gills and anything I say will sound plumb silly. But you has axed for it, which is a expression of my time that meant you will suffer for it. So don’t blame me.