by Don Wilcox
“And after I get there,” the dictator bit his words savagely, “how will I know the path leads up to the Belligian. capital and not somewhere else—my own capital, for instance?”
Marbl paced around the fable. His plan was not puncture proof to pointed suspicions like Jaazel’s. He tightened his lips and measured his words.
“I’m trusting you with my confidence,” he said, “because it’s Midland’s way out as well as yours. My twelve million, subjects never doubt my judgment. When I reveal to them that I have given you a chance at this artificial volcano for their good, they will know my action is honest, for I never deceive them.”
President Marbl put his; heart into his words. Straight shooting with his people was one of his virtues, however, that meant little to a dictator like Jaazel, whose long suit was deceit, “Well, this time he might get some of his own medicine. “Once we blast the Belligian capital to dust, the war is yours. Your share is to repay Midland for all losses in property and lives. How could you fulfill your share of the bargain if I double-crossed you? I earnestly ask your faith, for your own good—and mine.”
Sondra’s writing hand trembled as she recorded her master’s fervent speech. The brand of history was striking hot through her own fingers. And yet the momentous plea, left Jaazel icy.
“Perhaps you’ve told the dictator of Belligia the same,” he answered sarcastically. “I repeat, how am I to know the volcano leads to the Belligian capital?” The little yellow-clad figure of number 11 advanced toward his questioner with a brisk step that was almost threatening.
“If you desire’, the engineer will take you all the way up through the angling shaft. The lower end is twenty-five miles straight below us. You may chart the course for yourself on his three dimensional instruments, It’s a day’s journey in the subterranean drill.”
“Have you made that journey yourself?”
“No, but I’ve conferred with the engineers.”
“How many of them: have made it?”
“One,” said the president in tense exasperation. “The engineer who operates the drill—”
“Only one? Just one person knows the volcano’s course, and your whole scheme is based on his word?” Figuratively the ground gave way beneath Marbl’s feet, but he struggled to stay upright. “You don’t understand. The spiral course is long and tedious and riding space is crowded even for two passengers. Moreover, not everyone can endure the spinning of the subterranean drill, There’s a rotating motion that makes them sick. It’s much easier to stay here in the station and watch the three dimensional indicators that follow the drill’s movements than to ride in it.”
The angry breathing of the dictator subsided a little. “That’s the reason,” the president continued, “that most of the work and the cruising is done by one ingenious engineer. He invented the giant drilling machine originally to facilitate his geological experiments. At the time the war struck he was tracing a seam between two underground mountains, and it happened that the upper end of his path rose toward Belligia, while the lower end penetrated molten rocks and reservoirs of steam—”
Jaazel’s suspicions eased. The explanation was convincing enough even for his skepticism; still, something stuck in his throat—the realization that, even though well equipped for his incognito adventure, he was still taking a terrific chance. A descent deeper into the earth in a crowded car with an unknown engineer.
“Let me see the man that operates your boring flivver,” he snapped.
A minute later a rather tall figure stalked in. He wore an oxygen helmet and a greasy brown “cooler,” as the subterranean garments were popularly called, bearing the number 1.
He closed the door of the private room back of him, glanced from one to the other of the three helmeted, suited figures, approached the table where they sat.
“Have him remove his helmet,” Jaazel cracked in a low voice.
The president of Midland arose and introduced himself to the young engineer, who at once removed his helmet and bowed respectfully.
Sondra, gazing through her visor, suddenly slumped in her crusty “cooler,” breathless with surprise. The young man before her was Arden!
Slightly taller than when they had been in school together, white faced from months away from the sunshine, he had more of the mystic’s look than ever. That same far-away intensity burned in his eyes, gave a certain mysterious magnetism to his strong face and his whole bearing.
His encased hands went calmly to the table. He stood not quite straight. In spite of his bulky refrigeration suit, she could tell that his gaunt shoulders bent forward a trifle. Like his slightly prominent nose, solid cheek bones and set jaw, the angularity of his frame spoke of a certain urgency of purpose that he held in check.
His smooth voice carried a depth of feeling, Sondra thought; it reminded her of his father’s tragedy. She shrank closer into her shell, fearful that a look from him would crack through her protecting helmet and send it clattering to the floor, to reveal her.
Marbl asked, “You’re the operator of the subterranean drill, are you not?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“These are friends of mine,” said the President. “Could you accommodate one of them with a descent to the lava level?”
“One of them—yes,” said Arden, “though it will be quite crowded, for there is to be another passenger. You don’t mind, I trust?”
Visors and eyes turned upon number 39. Sondra and the President were sure that within his helmet the steel skepticism must have returned to his countenance. In reality, had his expression shown through the mask, they would have seen the crafty face of one who hungered for murder.
For Jaazel saw in the young engineer a similarity to someone he had once killed, and for a moment he felt a reverberation of his strongest passion, the pleasure of cruelty.
Jaazel had never given any consideration to those writers of science—psychiatrists and doctors—who had analyzed his personality, his rise to power, his thirst for war, in terms of perversions toward sadism. But Jaazel never denied to himself that the purges which he personally executed gave him a thrill that thrummed every fiber of his being. At this moment an echo of that thrill came upon him like a ravenous appetite, influenced him to throw cautions to the winds.
President Marbl misinterpreted the silence. “I doubt whether my guest would care to go under such crowded conditions.”
The dictator breathed heavily, still did not speak. “Or, on second thought,” Marbl added, “he may prefer to go in company of his own choosing.”
Arden spoke without a symptom of emotion. “I shall be glad to respect your wishes, Mr. President. If your guest does not mind waiting a few hours—” At once Sondra’s suspicions went aflame. Something told her that Arden already knew who it was hidden within the helmet and suit numbered 39, that he was playing some desperate game of his own, a game of revenge against his father’s murderer, the dictator from whom he had fled—
“I’m satisfied to go now,” said the dictator in a low voice. He added that he didn’t mind being crowded, and Sondra thought Arden gave a slight breath of relief. “I make only one simple request to insure my safety.” Jaazel’s head turned toward the girl. “One request—I wish to take the girl with me.”
The request plainly startled Arden, who had not known to this moment that number 22 was a girl. He seemed about to protest. President Marbl also groped for excuses. He had no intention of subjecting the girl to such a gruelling adventure. The passenger space could scarcely accommodate—
Sondra stopped them. “I’ll go,” she said.
President Marbl had no comeback. Further protests from him would look too suspicious. The girl must go or the whole scheme might fall through. “Very well,” he said.
Number 1, helmet in hand, led the way across the lobby into a room of colored lights that flashed.
Along one side were electrical instruments, dials, controls, three dimensional indicators, alive with the magic of subterranean po
wer. The opposite wall, a series of built-in cases, flamed with the brilliance of geological displays—rare tints and hues, scintillating sparkles captured from the natural formations deep within the earth.
Arden stalled for time. Sondra watched him. His attention continually stole toward the various persons who roamed through the room past the exhibits.
The men who wore red coolers, Sondra noticed, were operators of elevators and mining trains—Arden paid no attention to these. Apparently he was trying to spot his other passenger among the visitors.
“We’ll start in a few minutes,” said Arden, consulting the time. “Perhaps you would like to see the electric mole[2] while we wait.”
The President’s party followed Arden through airtight doors, out into cavernous passages where the lights were dimmer and the gravity-packed atmosphere more buoyant. They trailed past rumbling machine shops and power plants, came to a great pillar of crystal as large as a circular house, that rose through the floor of stone, extended through the stone ceiling.
The party crowded against a rail and peered into the ominous black pit revealed by an arched opening in the immense pillar, which was in reality a section of the borer’s tunnel as seen from the outside. In the shadows the smooth machine-laid interior of the cylinder showed dimly.
“Give us the flood lights, will you, Alec?”
Arden’s request was addressed to a husky figure who had crowded up close. His face could not be seen, for he was completely encased in a red cooler outfit. Strangely, the man did not respond, and Sondra caught a look of surprise in Arden’s face. Either Alec’s speaking equipment was out of order, or this wasn’t Alec. Another employee passing the switchboard snapped the lights on.
A mechanic who had the electric mole on an upper level for a last-minute oiling brought it down into view.
The smoothly humming bullet-shaped machine corkscrewed downward through the crystal shaft with the grace and precision of a gigantic shell spiralling, slow motion, through the rifled barrel of a gun. It was built on the proportions of an oil tank.
It came to a stop. Its curved side, ridged with bold metallic threads studded with rollers, glistened like panels of jewels filling the window of a crystal tower.
A small concealed door drew inward, the mechanic emerged. Light gleamed from within the barrel-like opening and the onlookers caught a glimpse of the inner mysteries. In the heart of the vast machinery-filled bullet was space for the operator and two occupants.
While the mechanic answered a few questions, Arden slipped out of the group long enough to exchange a word on the sly with President Marbl.
Marbl said, “I don’t know why your other passenger doesn’t come. Every arrangement was worked out to the last detail, though he was very suspicious and said he’d kill any man that might give him away. He was to arrive at my office an hour after midnight and come on down.”
“Then he should have been on the third elevator after yours, with Alec as his escort,” Arden whispered.
“And Alec hasn’t shown up?”
“No, but his uniform has.” Arden indicated the big fellow in red near the door of the mole.
“I’m afraid there’s been foul play,” said the President. “Better take a chance on him and go ahead, and don’t let him know you know he’s Brubbazein until you’re ready to defend yourself. Sorry the girl got mixed up in this, but there’s no way to shelve her now. Don’t tell her our plans either. Good luck.”
Arden slipped back into the group.
Five minutes later he and his three anonymous passengers, huddled in a compact knot of masks and coolers at the center of the powerful machine, spiralled downward.
CHAPTER III
A Floating Man
Two circling lavender beams of light cut paths into the bottomless pit that yawned beneath the descending machine, illuminated the iridescent cylindrical wall that sank into the depths of thick purple mist. The heart of the electric mole, a tub-shaped wheel within wheels containing passengers and controls, coasted into rotation slowly as the hull accelerated. The four pairs of eyes—Sondra’s were widest—peered downward through the apertures to watch the play of lavender headlights which the spinning framework blacked out intermittently like a stroboscope.
Faster. The sight became a flicker of magic color. Soon the speed of descent was so great that the stroboscopic effect was lost, the picture was again solid.
Now and then an object would come drifting up out of the mysterious depths—a plank floating in the heavy atmosphere, just as a gas filled balloon floats in the higher levels—a scrap of electric wire—a rusty spade—odds and ends that had fallen into the shaft, caught in the cushion of gravity-compressed air. A thump and a clatter as the machine ran into them, then they were gone. Again the musical hum of the mole.
Four occupants jammed together as tightly as their bulky coolers would permit.
Close together but worlds apart.
Faster. The sight became a flicker of magic color. Soon the speed of descent was so great that the stroboscopic effect was lost, the picture was again solid.
To Sondra this little group was dynamite. She knew nothing of the husky red-suited man who had joined them at the last minute without a word. But she knew that Arden and Jaazel would be deadly enemies if they discovered each other’s identities—and perhaps Arden already knew—
Her heart pounded in sympathy for Arden. How could she blame him if he sought to avenge his father’s death? Or was it his nature to seek revenge? You could never tell about these silent, mystical persons.
No, she must keep a grip on herself. She was on an errand for her country. She must see that this wiry, narrow mustached, cold-blooded creature in the cooler next to her, Midland’s savior, return safely with his purpose achieved.
And if Arden dared to make trouble . . .
Dynamite? Little did she realize—
The dictator of Terrany sat relaxed. He had forgotten his earlier misgivings. Accustomed to living in fear of assassination, he felt himself for once isolated from that danger.
He pondered Marbl’s proposition, wondered how he could twist it to his own advantage. If the volcano was indeed ready, perhaps he could turn it loose this very hour, as if by accident, before any bargain was sealed.
But was he so eager to cut the war short with a quick victory? War was his game. There was a pleasurable excitement about it . . . Again Arden’s face crossed his mind. Why did that young man’s appearance give him such a glow?
Hovering over Jaazel so closely that an arm weighed against his shoulder was the man in the red suit.
The dictator of Belligia gripped the back of-the seat against which he leaned, set his teeth tightly as he dreamed of future battles. He must think fast to have new campaigns ready as soon as he and this ingenious engineer blew up the. capital of Terrany, which he had learned only a week before sat on the top of an artificial volcano.
If inspection proved that the young engineer had a sure thing, he’d; be in line for a: military commission as a reward. Brubbazein was generous with rewards that enhanced his own grandeur.
And what a swell thing it would be for Belligian morale, Brubbazein thought, to blow up Jaazel’s capital! A volcano, be it natural or artificial, would seem very much like an act of God! God on the side of Brubbazein’s green and silver warriors!
Arden was the only one of the four occupants who spoke, and as he got no answers to his comments (which was exactly what he expected) he soon grew silent. That was well enough. It would postpone trouble until they, got, to the Lava Station. Plainly each of the dictators expected to get by incognito, and neither knew nor cared who his fellow passengers were.
Arden’s gloved hands worked at the controls feverishly. His refrigeration suit-worked overtime against his own high temperature as well as the increasing heat from the, interior of the earth.
What a situation! Hot trembles flooded through his spine. Never in modern history, he thought, had two hostile war gods been trapped together
before. How simply they had toppled. Another hour or two would tell the tale, If the televisior broadcast would only put their meeting across with the outside world—
But the girl—there was the stumbling block. If he could dispose of her he would have clear sailing, and it wouldn’t make, any difference what happened to his own life.
One trick was sure to help. He would speed up the descent so that she would become ill from dizziness. Then, as soon as they reached the final level he would drag her off into a side room of the Lava Station and let her sleep off her illness while he took care of the world’s trouble makers.
He touched up the throttle. Faster—faster!
The little, cluster of passengers spun wildly. The sensation was that of a tailspin straight down a plumb line. One by one, three of the occupants felt the blackness sweep in. They sank together in an unconscious heap.
The blood left Arden’s brain too, and for an instant he felt himself going. Then his grip on the throttle cut the acceleration—none too soon. Gray melted through his darkened vision. The machine still sped like a rocket down into the depthless purple mist.
Suddenly a white object drew up out of the deep—something that resembled a human body. Arden cut the throttle, jammed the brakes as hard as he dared, but the momentum was too great. The powerful machine could not stop in time—
It was a man, scantily dressed, floating in the air—air of his own specific gravity. A spectral sight as he appeared to rise up by magic, the whirling lavender lights playing over his white body, limp, drifting.
Like a locomotive engineer powerless to turn out of his tracks, Arden “held his breathy awaited the inevitable thump—
Another instant and it had happened. The floating body was a thing of the past. Shattered—gone!
But from the last, glimpse Arden caught, three telling details clung in his mind’s eye. Clear as daylight a bullet wound showed in the man’s temple, his face was the pain-contorted face of death, his left shoulder bore a familiar tattoo mark. Alec!