by Earl
Apparently the head Mogu did, for he dropped his spear and also inclined his head. Then he straightened up and seemed to question Grayson’s presence. The other Mogu stood silent and motionless, watching the tableau with unblinking eyes.
The adventurer thought rapidly. He must somehow get in contact with these people and find out where the Mogu Idol temple was. That was his sole and solitary purpose on Mars. He was no scientist. Let others catalogue data on Martian life.
He thought of trying some sort of sign language, but realized how hard it would be. It was one thing to use sign language with unlettered natives of Earth who at least knew what a white man was, and quite another to attempt to converse with creatures that knew nothing even of the sun. In other words, there was no common basis of comparison.
But this much Grayson could do: Get these Mogu to lead him to their headquarters where perhaps their leader or headman would be intelligent enough to grasp something of his meaning. The Earthman pointed in the direction the hunters had been going, then pointed to himself and moved his legs as though walking. Then he pointed to the nearby group of Mogu and swept an arm to show they should go on.
For a long moment the Martian remained standing without apparent recognition of the pantomime but finally he broke his trance, muttered a few rapid syllables to his men, and marched forward. Greer, greatly relieved, fell in step beside him.
In back the other Mogu began to murmur and converse, and the Earthman wondered, sometimes fearfully, if they were talking over plans to stick a spear in his back. After a time the leader branched away from the river and marched into a dark corridor at right angles to it. At Grayson’s touch on his arm, he winced and flung up his spear. Behind the other Mogu also stopped on guard. But the Earthman calmly took out his radum bottle and smeared his flaming cross.
Then they went on, although Grayson noticed the head Martian craning his neck backward till the bend in the passageway hid the glowing cross. As they passed beyond the light cast by the luminous river, Grayson found himself in total darkness. Without thinking, he threw on the light beams. A howl arose that turned his heart cold and next moment he was alone, with the incredibly fleet Mogu vanishing in back of him.
Cursing the luck, Greer dashed down the passageway after several of the Martians. He glimpsed them at times ahead and once a spear landed at his feet. After many minutes of such running while he had all he could do to keep them in sight, clumsily packed up as he was, they disappeared from view entirely.
Exhausted, Grayson stopped, wondering how he could ever contact such easily-frightened people. He’d have to locate one of their cities, or living centers. But right now, he found himself hungry and tired. On the bank of the river, he extracted from his pack several articles of food, including sausage and biscuit, and washed down the welcome nourishment with the sour waters of the stream. Finding a little alcove to his liking, he reposed himself in sleep.
He jumped to wakefulness, jerking out his pistols, as his slumber was rudely disturbed by the throbbing bedlam of drumming walls, tingling the very marrow of his bones. Again he found no sign of attacking creatures and concluded that the noise had nothing to do with him at all.
Looking at his wrist watch, he saw that he had slept ten hours. That was enough for him, and he left his temporary bedroom, thoughts filled with curiousity about the strange drumming that he had heard twice already. Then another thought struck him.
He pulled a small compass from his belt-pouch and took note of the direction the needle pointed. The previous expedition had determined that Mars had magnetic poles very nearly coinciding with the axial poles. With this aid, Grayson could at least follow a more or less straight course to eliminate the wastefulness of a possible circular trek.
“Small help,” muttered the adventurer. “I know where north is but I don’t know in which direction the Mogu Temple of the Idol is!”
But he stolidly plodded onward, confident that sooner or later he would fall upon some clue that would lead him to the coveted diamond idol that had figured in many of his waking thoughts and dreams.
He made a practice of tramping some twenty hours, then sleeping eight or ten. For three sleeping periods he went on and on, cutting north-east, for he figured that having landed rather near the south pole and in the late morning, it would be most logical to find the Mogu Temple to the north-east. Back on Earth, Grayson had been greatly dissatisfied with those indefinite items of latitude and longitude given him by the previous explorers, but could do nothing about it, for they had been absolutely unable (as he had been forced to admit was natural) to measure by the sun, as it was invisible through the red dust that covered the windy planet like an impenetrable blanket.
Greer Grayson made a strange discovery during those days he steadily pushed his way north-east. The drumming noise occurred exactly every 24 hours and 37 minutes and lasted each time exactly 23 seconds. He immediately recognized in this the period of rotation of the planet on its axis. His suspicions that they were man-made notes, or rather Martian-made, were confirmed. He noticed too that each time he heard the ungodly racket, it seemed a bit louder and more aggravating, but he attributed this to his imagination and cumulative exasperation.
In this long stretch of travel, he came upon no signs of the Mogu except a few long-dead ash heaps. He began to surmise that the Martians were not a numerous race and that only by coincidence had he struck that first hunting party when he had hardly gone a few dozen miles.
CHAPTER III
KOLOKO
IT WAS after the fourth sleeping period that Grayson came upon more of the Mogu—three hunters with their shoulders loaded. He followed them, silently and with his lights out, as they traversed one bank of the river. Grayson wondered what he would do if they branched away into the dark passageways, but fortunately the river led directly to their “City,” eliminating that detail.
From the top of a roughened slope, Grayson’s eyes wandered to take in the lay of the “city.” He blinked as he made out by close observation that their little huts, woven from vines, apparently, hung off the rock floor at about the height of a Mogu, five feet, being attached to the high cavern ceiling by thick strands of some tough plant. Scattered around on the floor space were heaps of things the Earthman could not define, and also a dozen dull-flamed fires. By the looks of the place, they were approximately at the Australian Bushman level of advancement.
After a long scrutiny of the sunken chamber taken up by the hanging huts, Grayson clambered down the uneven slope.
It did not take long for a horde of the Mogu to spy him and fearfully huddle in a group as he warily approached. Spears threatened him, but none was thrown as the stranger came so quietly and peaceably with arms upraised. The head man soon appeared, clothed more elaborately than any of the others, and faced him.
Grayson was pleased to notice that these Mogu, in comparison to the hunters he had first seen, were considerably more refined looking. Possibly he could find out about the idol from them. At least, it was worth a try.
But Grayson had no more than started slowly gesturing when the booming of the drums burst through the cavern. At the first throb, the Martians, to the man, plopped to the ground on their stomachs and remained in that abject attitude with heads in the dirt for the full period of the drumming.
Grayson noticed one thing, even in his astonishment—that all the Mogu had thrown themselves down with their bodies pointing in one certain direction! As the drums went on, beat by beat, the Mogu lay as dead, only their twitching tentacles betokening life.
The Earthman ran through a series of speculations cut short by what next transpired. As the last throb echoed to diminuendo, the Martians struggled to their feet. The head man suddenly fastened his eyes on Grayson; then quite as suddenly barked a few terse words.
Grayson saw a hundred spears flash upward, saw a hundred arms draw back for the toss, heard a hundred throats hurl a threat of death. But when the spears shot toward him, he was not there.
He
had not been an adventurer most of his life without becoming an epitome of quick-thinking and rapidity of action. A turbulent life had trained his brain and body to hair-trigger emergency. In the short time that the head man Pad barked the order and the spears had been drawn back, his nimble mind worked to save his life which was forfeit to judge by the fierce looks of the Mogu as they prepared to toss their weapons.
None of the spears had touched him for the reason that he had leaped sideward where none of the Martians were stationed. His quick eyes saw his salvation in a trice. There a few feet away hung one of the thatched huts. He dashed behind it, jumped up and clung to the vines that made up its wall. He heard the thud of spears on the other side as the Mogu threw a fraction of a second too late.
His next lightning move took the Martians by complete surprise. He dropped his feet to the ground, still clinging to the vines, took a run and again huddled behind its walls. Like a huge pendulum, the hut swung in a big arc, bearing the Earthman as a bob. Spear after spear flashed to him, but the spearsmen seemed to be unnerved by the moving target.
What Grayson did next would probably go down in the folk-lore of what tribe of Mogu for centuries to come. Like an arboreal creature of the squirrel or monkey variety, the Earthman leaped from his swinging perch to another hut and from thence to another and another, completely bewildering the slow-witted Mogu.
Grayson chuckled aloud as the crisis was over and jumped from the last hut to the ground and thence up the slope to the safety of the upper reaches. As the Mogu dashed after him, he fell into a small rage.
“Why you blasted hell-hounds!” he bellowed. “Tried to kill me and still not satisfied! Take this and this and this . . .”
SUITING the action to the word, he sent bullet after bullet downward. But he did not aim at the men. He aimed for the rocks nearby and as a hail of chips flew from the impacts, raining upon the Martians, and as the thunderous noise of the explosive reverberated through the cavern, the Mogu lost their zest and spirit and ran howling back to their huts.
Grayson looked at the “city” as he stuck his pistol back into its holster and laughed long and loudly. Not a soul was in sight.
“They’re in their huts, shivering in mortal fear!” he hazarded as he took the first corridor away from the spot.
But now he felt an immense burden lifted from his mind. He now saw the important significance of the drums. They were nothing more than a call to worship. It was Mohammedism of a sort with Mecca, prostrate worship, and all, only still more systematized. The Earthman was reasonably sure that the direction in which their bodies pointed would run in a line with the diamond idol which they worshipped. His quick eyes had determined that direction before he left the community. Being parallel with the river, it was therefore almost due north.
Any doubts he had as to this supposition were utterly scattered; the drumming increased in intensity each time he heard it after that as he ran a course to the north. Three more sleeping periods and the noise evolved into a terrific thunder that caused him to stop his ears with his hands to keep out some of the volume. But it vibrated into his bones from the rock floor and it was all he could do to keep from screaming in agony during those long seconds that it pounded out its rythmic stroke. He wondered how the Martians ever stood it, every day of their lives.
“Oh, well,” he philosophized aloud. “I suppose it’s a matter of custom and habit. On Earth if you live near a steel center you’re worse off than these Mogul”
The population seemed to center around that spot he was directing his footsteps toward, for he came upon several tribes of the Mogu. These he avoided by using flanking channels around them as he had no more reason to have anything to do with them. Some few of the Mogu that he met in the corridors he scared away with his powerful searchlights, sending the beams into their eyes. A people that can see in the dark as it seemed to Grayson that they could, would naturally be totally blinded by bright lights. Later, more methodical explorers were to explain that “seeing in the dark” as the extreme sensitiveness of the Mogu eye so that it was able to utilize the faint glow of the radioactive walls which were universal on Mars; a glow that to Earthly eyes was absolute Stygian darkness.
Finally, one day, as he crouched behind a rock in shadow, a party of a score of Mogu sauntered by, three of which were clothed in a manner that elevated them to rank of nobility, priesthood, or some analogous caste. They flaunted gaudy robes of silken sheen, patchworked with bright colors of every hue. Their long tentacles bore little wristbands of shining metal for their full length so that they hung limp with the weight. On their heads they wore caps of long thin spikes of some woody composition, a popular adornment for those in authority, decided Grayson as he had noticed it many times before worn by chiefs of tribes. All the other Mogu were scantily clad and carried spears, being an obvious guard.
On the spur of the moment, Grayson decided to follow the party although its course deviated from the route he had been traversing. He was glad he did sometime later as they disappeared from view, descending to a lower level. He stepped up to the rock rim and looked down into the chamber.
It was truly a cyclopean cavern, larger than any he had seen before. He saw the usual hanging thatched huts, noticed that two rivers intersected exactly in the middle of the floor, and made out the vague forms of a great number of Mogu. Then he caught his breath and grunted in satisfaction.
On a tall, pyramided structure whose details were obscured in the dimness, reposed something that gleamed like a fiery jewel, reflecting the luminosity of the rivers with manifold intensity.
“The Mogu God!” whispered Grayson in awe. “The Mogu God . . .”
Beyond a doubt it was that. Evidence was not lacking that this was the center of civilization, such as it was, of Mars. He saw the different details that had been described by the previous expedition: the shapes of monuments, boats and rafts on the rivers (the first marine devices he had seen on Mars), and the stone mansion at the intersection, the “palace” of the “king.”
This then was the Temple of the Mogu God, the Mecca of Mars, the center of intelligent life much as Rome had been in ancient times, or as Alexandria had been before that. Grayson drank in the view eagerly, but his darting eyes seemed drawn by some magnetic force to the pinnacle of the pyramid, to its blazing apex.
There it was before his eyes, the object that had been the cause of a large expenditure of money, or a trying trip through space, of a fierce resolve to unwind the labyrinths and extract the priceless core. His for the taking! But was it? There down below was a legion of half-savage Mogu, probably willing to lay down their lives in the cause of their God, for Grayson knew of the religious tenacity of the aboriginal mind. For a non-believer to so much as touch the object, thus defiling it in their fanatical eyes, would probably demand swift death.
But he was not the man to make elaborate plans before knowing something definite on which to base them. His temperament called for directness and simplicity. However, he decided to enter the community later. First he would sleep and eat. He soon found a small grotto a mile or so away and closed his eyes after lunching on his usual fare.
When he awoke, his hand darted to his belt and flashed up with a pistol, for a group of Mogu stood quite near, eyeing him and conversing excitedly. They noticed his quick draw and backed away, those carrying spears balancing them between tentacle and hand in throwing position. But as the Earthman remained on guard in this way for a moment, hardly knowing what to do under the crucial circumstances, one of the Martians, adorned with furs and spikes, advanced with both hands outspread in peaceful attitude.
Grayson pocketed his pistol and arose to his feet, also spreading his empty hands. The spears dropped.
The Martian, displaying a degree of initiative that Grayson could hardly credit, signified with gestures that he should accompany them. Wondering whether they considered him prisoner or guest, the adventurer nodded his head and fell in step with them as they moved along the river bank.
/> Just before they came to the cavern city, another party approached. A youthful Martian broke ahead, clothed in gaudy material but bearing no head dress, and stopped before him.
“You Eart’man? Come from bik whorrld . . . outside?” he said in broken English, much to the momentary astonishment of the adventurer.
CHAPTER IV
THE IDOL’S ALTAR!
THEN in a flash Grayson knew who he was. The members of the expedition of two years before, had confided that they had taught a smattering of English to a Mogu youth who had proved exceptionally intelligent—a throwback to the ancient days when Mars had been a flourishing world and the people had been highly intellectual. This youth now stood before him and had apparently not forgotten what he had learned.
“Yes,” answered Grayson eagerly. “You are the one those Earthmen taught our language a long time ago?”
The Mogu lad, Koloko by name, nodded violently so that Grayson feared his swan-like neck would snap short.
“But you no same . . . you ot’er Eart’man . . .”
“Yes, I’m a different one,” agreed the adventurer. “But you can tell your people I come in peace just like they did.”
He felt just the slightest twinge of his adaptable conscience. On the face of it, he had come in peace, but his ulterior motive was not exactly virtuous. But the twinge was only momentary. One could not always be a model of righteousness, no more among savages than among highly civilized peoples.
Koloko spoke rapidly to the other Mogu and then stepped to Grayson’s side.
“Come, we go to Palome Morkol . . . he want see you.”
He remembered the name from hearing it on Earth. Palome (pronounced Pay-lo-mee) meant “chief,” and Morkol was the name of the Martian who virtually ruled the planet, although his actual authority did not extend beyond his one community. Other communities had other chiefs, called Palom (Pay-lome) out of deference to the great Palome. The dropping of the “ee” sound at the end of the title was a shade of a drop in caste.