by Earl
Ellory smiled grimly into the sky.
CHAPTER XVII
THE GLEAMING SHIP
THE Great Day dawned clear and cool, a month later. Ellory was back in the Norak capital, on the Hudson, awaiting the coming of the Antarkan slave-ship. All over America, the other Stone-Age people were waiting . . . waiting.
It was a tense, grim moment, with the fate of two civilizations, one present and one future, in the balance.
At last it appeared, at the appointed hour of noon, soaring down grandly. Ellory quailed suddenly. The gleaming ship represented a great science. A science of power. Pitted against it were the Stone-Age people, with little more than their lives and courage.
Could they hope to win this giants’ battle?
He looked at the fighting men back of him, hiding in the shadows of buildings, faces earnest, muscles tensed. As suddenly, courage oozed back into him. They must win, with a thousand years of hatred against the lordly Antarkans as their best weapon.
The thundering craft rolled to a stop in the city square. To their eyes, nothing would seem amiss. They would step out, expecting Jon Darm to yield his tribute in lives, as before. They did not know of the five thousand Norak troops concealed in every building. The Antarkans would be captured before they had a chance to think. Their ship too.
Ellory tried to picture the look of dismay that would come over the lovely-features of Ermaine, Lady of Lillamra.
“I hope she isn’t hurt,” he found himself thinking.
The ship had landed and the rocket blasts died. Ellory waited, trembling as with a fever. When would that hatch open?
But it didn’t open, even after a minute. An ominous wonder pierced Ellory’s mind.
“Jon Darm, listen to me!”
Ellory jumped. The Lady Ermaine’s voice, rolling over the square in tones amplified to stentorian volume.
“We are not stepping from our ship! Your plans are known. We know of your concealed troops, waiting to rush out to seize us. We know the plot of revolt, throughout the land!”
Ellory groaned. Beside him, Mai Radnor’s eyes were stunned, unbelieving. The fighting men in back muttered bewilderedly.
The amplified jell-voice went on, her tones reproachful as though she were speaking to children.
“We offer you pardon, Jon Darm. You will be wise to accept. Have your troops file away, in full view. Then deliver to us ten youths, at usual. Also, the man known as Humrelly! We will then pretend you never planned the revolt, and will not take steps of retribution.”
The voice hardened.
“Attack the ship, if you wish. Our weapons will teach you better. Then, later, we will raze your city! All over the land, the same will happen!”
Ellory tried to think rationally, in this awful moment. Tried to weigh possibilities, but his mind was an agonized blank. Jon Darm, in the Royal House, was waiting for Ellory’s decision—and Ellory had none.
Suddenly he realized that he had jumped up, was running and shouting. Dimly he was aware that h; had become what the twentieth-century psychologists labeled a maniac.
“Freedom from Antarka!” he was bellowing, waving his sword and lunging toward the ship.
Ellory was never to have a clear conception, afterward, of the following minutes. Flashes of scenes came to his eyes, like lightning stabs in a dark night. A scene of thousands of armed Noraks converging on the ship. Another of livid flames shooting out among them like demon’s tongues. Men dripping, screaming, skin and flesh burned black. Bodies piling like cement sacks, around the square.
Ellory lurched on drunkenly, half his clothing burned away, his skin on fire. His sword handle heated, burned his palm, but he gripped it tighter. He lurched on. . . .
He was down suddenly—his legs rubber, his lungs breathing pure fire. His senses faded, slowly, as though he were wrestling against Death itself. Dimly, his swollen eyes saw an incredible vision—an angel’s face bent over him. Two angel’s faces—Sharina and Ermaine.
Strong arms lifted him, a little later. Motion. A muffled throb under him, smooth flight . . . utter darkness, then, like a curtain.
ELLORY sat up on soft covers, groaned with pain, then leaned back on his elbow. His right leg, chest and head were bandaged. He could feel the coolness of salves under them, soothing his burns.
He looked around, his eyes clearing. He was in a small cubicle, plush-lined, lying on a bunk. One person was in the room with him—Ermaine, Lady of Lillamra.
She looked across at him coolly, from her seat, apparently having awaited his return to consciousness. Slumbrous blue eyes, spun platinum hair, snow-white skin—she was almost unreal, inhumanly perfect. A flawless gem, cold and untouchable. And yet, somehow, she was alluringly feminine.
Ellory fought off a spell of staring. “Where—” The one word was a hoarse croak.
“You’re in our ship, on the way to Antarka,” she answered him. “As a guest.” Her eyes said “prisoner”. “You’ve been unconscious for two hours. Your burns are not serious, however. A few days and the salves will heal them.”
“What happened? What happened?” Memory, more painful than the burns, came to Ellory.
“Your little revolt failed—utterly.” Her voice held no anger of reproof, little emotion of any sort. “You and your men attacked foolishly. Bravely, I suppose you’d call it. Our flame-gins must have cut down a thousand before the rest saw the better of it. You were the ringleader, Humrelly?”
Ellory declined to answer that.
“How did you find out about the revolt?” he queried, sunk in despair.
“We observed your lakeside gathering a month ago. Suspicious we caught an outlander several days later, questioned him. Under some persuasion, he told all he knew. You see the futility of it now, Humrelly?”
“I don’t!” he snapped, with returning spirit. “How do you know your other ships—”
“They were all prepared, as we were. When they report, in Antarka—”
Wild hope surged momentarily in Ellory. “They haven’t communicated with you yet, by radio? Then maybe—”
“Radio? What is that?” She was mildly curious. “We have no long-range communication means.”
Ellory stared. No radio! Their science went down a peg in his estimation. The girl stared back.
“You were the leader, Humrelly. Tell me, you’re an Ancient, aren’t you? A man from some past age. Lord from the Past, the man called you.”
Ellory hesitated, then shrugged. The secret could not be concealed further.
“If you must have me say it, I am,” he grunted briefly. “Twentieth century.”
“Old reckoning, of course. That’s—um—three thousand years ago.” She said it calmly. “I suspected it from the first moment I saw you, almost a year ago, in Norak. Your manner, your spirit, your accent. Then, down in Thakal, I was almost sure of it. I also suspected your plan, introducing metal weapons, federating the Outland people, defying us. Defying our—tyranny?”
“Is that what you call it yourself?” he snapped. “Why didn’t you investigate sooner if you suspected?”
“For the excitement of it,” she drawled, toying with the sparkling blue diamond at her throat. “Sometimes life in Antarka is dull. A breath of danger, even under our indulgence, is a slight diversion.”
ELLORY glared at her. Behind that beautiful, haughty mask reposed a mind queerly different from any he had ever known, A mind that saw the Stone-Age as a vast playground perhaps, a stage set for her enjoyment.
“I suppose my fate, as arch-conspirator, is—the ultimate?”
She shrugged. “There will be a trial. If you hadn’t attacked like a madman, you would have earned leniency. When the attack came, I told the gunners to save you.”
“For the hangman!” muttered Ellory bitterly. “What happens to the others? Jon Darm—”
“Another chance for him. But his city goes. There will be the usual hunt after a revolt—a few cities burned down, Outlanders chased to the hills, here and there. Th
e usual lesson. Down in our safe little world, we will gossip about it for a while.”
Her voice went to sheer boredom. “I wish you had made it just a little more interesting, Humrelly. I gave you the chance. I could have reported you to the Outland Council much sooner.”
Rage at her untroubled, superior tone shook him.
“Pretty high and mighty, aren’t you?” he blazed. “Well, I’m not so sure it’s over yet!” He went on recklessly. “Several hundred tribal states, and I don’t know how many millions of people, can’t be downed so easily—united! They’ve been aroused. They sing a chant of hate, a thousand years of it. I’ve told them how to down your power, even if it takes years and years. I’ve told them!”
The girl smiled.
“You told them. Yes, Humrelly. But they forget easily, like children. It is advanced reasoning, to them. Your spell held them for a while. Without your leadership, the federation will fall apart. Each noisy, self-centered little state will crawl into its own shell, to exist as it did before you came.”
Ellory bit his lip. Devilish logic, and sound. The whole success of the rebellion had depended on Ellory, on the clear cold reasoning and planning of a mind at least equal to the Antarkans. The Stone-Age people had followed Ellory as the twentieth century might have followed a demi-god from some mighty, forgotten civilization that knew all things. Left to themselves, now, the Outlanders would forget his clear-cut mission, drop back into the tribal traditions of the past thousand years.
The Outlanders! Ellory rebelled against the term, as used by the Antarkans. It meant serfdom. Privileged lords speaking contemptuously to their slaves.
“You know,” Ellory said bitingly, “you’re tyrants. Worse than any in history. You’re part of the rottenest, vilest, crudest, most vicious mishandling of the masse; known!”
He watched her, hoping to disturb her complacency in some slightest degree, as revenge for hi; own hollow failure.
“Behind your beautiful mask, you’re a depraved creature. That’s what I think of you!”
Her azure eye; were level, amused.
“You do think I’m beautiful! You said it down in Thakal. You said it with your eyes, in Norak, when you first saw me. You say it now.”
“Beautiful, ye;—but vicious!” Ellory replied.
FOR just a moment anger flicked front her eyes. But her voice remained calm, without malice. “You have a wild tongue, Humrelly.”
“In my time, we spoke our minds,” he retorted. “As we hang me for a sheep as a lamb. I’ll tell all your Lords clown there the same thing—tyranny in any language under the sun!”
She laughed.
“I’m afraid you’re an idealist, Humrelly, We’re realists. Those in power enjoy the good things of life. It is their good fortune. Why sacrifice it? It entails little real hardship for the Outlanders to supply us with servants and food. They still eat and live and love—”
“Good God, how can you be so smug about it?” exploded Ellory. He paced the narrow cabin, unmindful of his burns. “Bad as your tribute-taking is, without reciprocity, your sin of omission is still greater—not lifting one little finger to better their lives. Letting them go on in Stone-Age backwardness. The privileged have the responsibility of helping those less fortunate. It’s the first law of civilization. You could do something for them—”
“Exactly what?” The words, soft, nevertheless cut sharply.
“Give them something of your science, your knowledge, your material things—” He stopped, groping for expression.
“The material supplies of Antarka are limited, Humrelly. Barely enough for our small world. Spread among the rest, they would get useless bits of metal, coal, machine-woven cloth. This is a threadbare time Humrelly, not like your lush Twentieth century. If the fault lies anywhere, it rests upon your time and the directly following age, with your traditions. What of your great senseless wars, lavish was of nature’s bounty? We’re what we are because of that!”
Ellory avoided her eyes.
“All right,” he said more quietly. “But you still can’t whitewash your social tyranny over the world. Secondly, have you ever tried to break the deadlock? The ocean is full of metals, crammed with them. Radioactivity, atomic power are possible sources of new power. Have you looked ahead? Have you cried anything?”
He faced her lidded eyes. A faint unfathomable smile rested in her lips.
“You’re a dreamer, Humrelly, aren’t you?”
“Dreams are the stepping stones of progress,” he said tritely.
She was still watching him.
“I like you for it, Humrelly!” she declared candidly. “There hasn’t been such a one as you for a long time. You say disturbing things. You are impractical, emotional, foolishly optimistic. Yet you aren’t a fool.”
“Thanks!” he grunted dryly. “Now that I’ve been psycho-analyzed, would you mind getting out? I’m tired.” His nerves were jangling.
“I disturb you, Humrelly?” she queried, with a meaning he ignored.
“When do we arrive at Antarka?”
She glanced at a crystalline time-piece on her wrist.
“Three hours since we left Norak. We’ll be there in seven more.”
“A thousand miles an hour?” he gasped. “In the stratosphere.”
SHE opened a door to the rear, glanced in. Turning, she said, “There’s a visitor here I think you’d like to see. She’s over her hysterics now.”
She beckoned to someone beyond the doorway.
Sharina entered, her face tear-stained. With a little cry, she darted to Ellory’s arms, choking back sobs.
“Sharina!” Ellory looked at her in amazement. “How—”
“When you had fallen and the firing stopped in the square,” explained Ermaine carelessly, “she ran to you. When we took you in the ship, she struggled so violently to get in that I permitted it.”
She looked at them, arms about one another. Expressionlessly, she left.
“Sharina, you shouldn’t have come,” Ellory murmured, patting her shoulder. “Don’t you realize that I’m—”
“Mai Radnor,” she whispered. “He’s dead! I saw him die, burning—”
“Alai Radnor—good God!” Now Ellory remembered seeing him crumple at his side during that mad attack.
The young chieftan’s sturdy face rose in his mind, his constant companion for long months. Strong bonds of friendship and mutual respect had grown between them. Ellory looked at the girl. Even she hadn’t been a separating force.
“Lie was a martyr, Sharina,” Ellory said huskily.
She moved out of his arms. “I came along, Humrelly, to be with you to the last.”
“To the last! You know then?” he asked gently.
She nodded. She was staring at him, waiting for him to go on, it seemed. Ellory found himself comparing her with Ermaine. Sharina, sweet, simple, lovely as a flower. Ermaine, alluring, exotic, exquisitely fragile as rare porcelain. But beneath that cold beauty was what? Was there any feeling there?
In a sudden tide of feeling against the arrogant girl of Antarka, Ellory tried to shake off the confusion in his mind. He took a step toward Sharina. Nov.’, with Mai Radnor gone, he could declare himself.
“Angel, I—”
And then, abruptly, he stopped. Confusion again, with the patrician features of Ermaine dancing before his eyes. The past events overwhelmed him. Weakness from his throbbing burns stole into his body.
“It’s all such a mess, Sharina!” he moaned, sinking to his couch. “I’ve failed so miserably—”
He was only aware that her soft hand stroked his forehead tenderly. Then he passed into troubled sleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
LAND OF ANTARKA
SIX hours later, again awake, Ellory accepted Ermaine’s invitation to look about the ship. She gave him a cape-like silken garment to throw over his shoulders. His burns had quieted. His mind was dulled, somewhat, to the recent horror of the massacre. He refused food, however. Food could not fi
ll the emptiness he felt within him.
Sharina accompanied them. She clutched his hand half fearfully as Ermaine led them before a crystalline port. Sheer nothingness lay below, till the eyes met the atmospheric haze, and blankets of clouds over Earth.
“Fifteen miles up,” said the Lady Ermaine casually.
The ship’s ovoid cabin, supported by its wide triangular wings, was a sealed, warmed pocket within its metal shell, divided into a dozen small rooms. Fore and aft were larger spaces, control room and storage hold. The latter Ellory viewed stonily—it had carried thousands of youths to Antarka—but the control room held his interest.
A half dozen silken-clad men sat before a wide panel of dials, gauges and levers. It was faintly reminiscent of the giant experimental trans-oceanic planes of 1940. But this represented their full development, with stratosphere range and rocket motivation. This Ellory had so eagerly looked forward to, when he had crawled out of the crypt.
Ermaine was at his side.
“What fuel do you use?” queried Ellory, watching tire rhythmic spurting of flame from the wings’ hind edges, propelling them forward smoothly.
“Gasoline and liquid air,” Ermaine informed him. “More energy per weight than any other chemical combination.”
Ellory was just a little startled, and disappointed. He had expected it would be some astounding new fuel. In 1940, gasoline-liquid-air rocket propulsion had been in the near future. Again, curiously, the science of Antarka fell in his estimation.
“Your weapon:” Ellory indicated one of the numerous tubular devices clamped to swivels that could swing them out through open portholes.
“Yes. Little metal pellets of highly-volatile gasoline are shot out by a spring mechanism. Heat of air-friction causes the liquid to expand, bursting the shell. The vapors instantly ignite, in the air, forming a ball of fire.”
Quite horrible and effective, as Ellory had seen.
“It has a short range?” he guessed.
Ermaine nodded.
“A hundred yards. But it is all the weapon we have—or need. We do not need the monstrous guns and bombs of your time. We do not have wars in Antarka.” She smiled at him.