The yacht passed the orbit of Earth, refueled at an obscure space station, and sped on. Hyrst continued to stall Bellaver, ordering a change of course from time to time to keep him happy. At intervals he let his mind rove through those dark spaces they were leaving farther behind with every passing second. Each time it was a greater effort, but still there was no sign of the starship or its base, and so he knew that the labor still went on.
By the time the yacht reached the orbit of Venus a fan-shaped cordon of other ships had collected around and behind her drawn by the word that Bellaver was on his way to find the starship. Government patrols were in constant touch.
“They can’t interfere,” said Bellaver. “I’ve got a lien on that ship, a formal claim.”
“Sure,” said Hyrst. “But you’d better be the first to find it. Possession, you know. Bear off a bit. Mislead them. They’re sure now they know where you’re going.”
“Don’t they?” said Bellaver, looking ahead at the glittering spark that was Mercury. “There isn’t anyplace else to go.”
“Isn’t there?”
Bellaver stared at him, narrow-eyed. “The legend of the Vulcan was exploded by the first explorers. There is no intra-Mercurial world.”
Hyrst shot a swift stabbing mental glance toward Pluto. Still nothing. He sighed and said easily,
“There wasn’t then. There is now.”
He brazened out the look of incredulity on Bellaver’s face.
“These are Lazarites, remember, not men. They built a place for themselves where nobody would ever think to look. Not a planet, of course, just a floating workshop. A satellite. And now you know. So you can let them beat you to Mercury.”
“All right,” said Bellaver softly. “All right.”
They passed Mercury, lost in the blaze of the Sun, and only a few ships followed them, far behind. The rest stopped to search the craggy valleys of the Twilight Belt, and the bleak icefields of the Dark Side.
And now Hyrst had run his string out, and he knew it. When no intra-Mercurial satellite showed up, physically or on detector-screens, there was no further lie to tell. He drove his mind out and away, to the cold planets wheeling on the fringes of Sol’s light, and he sweated, and prayed, and hoped that nothing had gone wrong. And suddenly the cloak was dropped, and he saw a lonesome chip of rock beyond Pluto, all hollowed out for shops and living quarters, and the great ship standing in the mile-long plain, with the stars all drifted overhead. And the ship lifted from the plain, circled upward, and suddenly was not.
Hyrst was bitterly sorry that he was not aboard. But he told Bellaver, “You can stop looking now. They’ve got away.”
He watched Bellaver die, standing erect on his feet, still breathing, but dying inside with the last outgoing of hope.
“I thought you were lying,” he said, “but it was the only chance I had.” He nodded, looking toward the shuttered port with the insufferable blaze outside. He said, in a flat, dead voice, “If you were put out here, bound, in a lifeboat, headed toward the Sun—Yes. I could make up a story to fit that.”
In the same toneless voice, he called his men. And suddenly the yacht lurched over shuddering in the backwash of some tremendous energy. Hyrst and the others were flung scattering against the bulkheads, and the lights went out, and the instruments went dead.
Beyond the port, on the unshuttered side away from the Sun, a vast dark shape had materialized out of nothing, to hang close in space beside the yacht.
Hyrst heard in his mind, strong and clear, the voice of Shearing saying, “Didn’t I tell you the brotherhood stands by its own? Besides, we couldn’t make a liar out of you, now could we?”
Hyrst began to laugh, just a little bit hysterically. He told Bellaver, “There’s your starship. And Shearing says if I’m not alive when he comes aboard to get me, that they won’t be as careful about warping space when they go away as they were when they came.”
Bellaver did not say anything. He sat on the deck where the shock had thrown him, not speaking. He was still sitting there when Hyrst passed through the airlock into the starship’s boat, and he did not move even when the great ship vanished silently into whatever mysterious ultra-space the minds of the Lazarites had unlocked, outbound for the limitless freedom of the universe, where the wheeling galaxies thunder on forever across infinity and the stars burn bright, and there is nothing to stop the march of the Legion of Lazarus. And who knew, who could tell, where that march would end?
Aboard the starship, already a million miles away, Hyrst said to Christina. “When they brought me back from beyond the door, that was re-awakening. But this—this is being born again.”
She did not answer that. But she took his hand and smiled.
DREAMER’S WORLDS
Reining in his pony on the ridge, Khal Kan pointed down across the other sands of the drylands that stretched in the glare of the crimson, sinking sun.
“There we are, my lads!” he announced heartily. “See yonder black blobs on the desert? They’re the tents of the drylanders.”
His tall young figure was straining in the saddle, and there was a keen anticipation on his hard, merry young face.
But Brusul, the squat warrior in blue leather beside him, and little Zoor, the wizened third member of the trio, looked uneasily.
“We’ve no business meddling with the drylanders!” accused brawny Brusul loudly. “Your father the king said we were to scout only as far west as the Dragal Mountains. We’ve done that f and haven’t found any sign of the cursed Bunts in them. Our business is to ride back to Jotan now and report.”
“Why, what are you afraid of?” demanded Khal Kan scoffingly. “We’re wearing nondescript leather and weapons—we can pass ourselves off to the drylanders as mercenaries from Kaubos.”
“Why should we go bothering the damned desert-folk at all?” Brusul demanded violently. “They’ve got nothing we want.”
Little Zoor broke into sniggering laughter. His wizened, frog-like face was creased by wrinkles of mirth.
“Our prince has heard of that dryland princess—old Bladomir’s daughter that they call Golden Wings,” he chuckled.
“I’ll be damned!” exploded Brusul. “I might have known it was a woman! Well, if you think I’m going to let you endanger our lives and the success of our reconnaissance for a look at some desert wench, you—”
“My sentiments exactly, Brusul!” cried Khal Kan merrily, and spurred forward. His pony galloped crazily down the crimson ridge, and his voice came back to them singing.
“The Bunts came up to Jotan,
Long ago!
The Bunts fled back on the homeward track
When blood did flow!”
“Oh, damn all wenches, here’s an end of us because of your fool’s madness,” groaned Brusul as he caught up. “If those drylanders find us out, we’ll make fine sport for them.”
Khal Kan grinned at the brawny warrior and the wizened little spy. “We’ll not stay long. Just long enough to see what she looks like—this Golden Wings the desert tribes all rave about.”
They rode forward over the ocher desert. The huge red orb of the sun was full in their faces as it sank toward the west. Already, the two moons Qui and Quilus were rising like dull pink shields in the east.
Shadows lengthened colossal across the yellow sands. The wind was keen, blowing from the far polar lands of this world of Thar. Behind them rose the vast, dull red shoulders of the Dragal Mountains, that separated the drylands from their own coastal country of Jotanland.
A nomad town rose ahead, scores of flat-topped pavilions of woven black hyrk-hair. Great herds of horses of the black desert strain were under the care of whooping herdsboys. Smoke of fires rose along the streets.
Fierce, swarthy drylanders whose skins were darker than the bronze faces of Khal Kan and his companions, looked at the trio with narrowed eyes as they rode in. Dryland warriors fell in behind them, riding casually after them toward die big pavilion at the camp’s center.
Khal Kan laughed. “A good sword can take a man where wit will stumble. Remember, now, we’re from Kaubos.”
They dismounted outside the great pavilion and walked into it past cat-eyed dryland sentries.
Torches spilled a red flare over the interior of the big tent. Here along rows, on their mats, sat the chiefs of the desert folk, feasting, drinking and quarreling.
Upon a low dais sat old Bladomir, their highest chief. The old desert ruler was a bearded, steel-eyed warrior of sixty whose yellow skin was grizzled by sandstorm and sun. His curved sword leaned against his knee, and he was drinking from a flagon of purple Lurian wine.
Khal Kan’s eyes flew to the girl sitting beside the chief. He felt disappointment. Was this the famous Golden Wings, this small, slight, slender dark-haired girl in black leather? Why, she was nothing much—mildly attractive with her smooth black hair and fine, golden-skinned features—but not as pretty by half as many a wench he knew.
The girl looked up. Her eyes met Khal Kan’s. The stab of those midnight-black eyes was like the impact of sword-shock. For a moment, the Jotan prince glimpsed? a spirit thrilling as a lightning-flash.
“Why, I see now why they rave about her!” he thought delightedly. “She’s a tiger-cat, dangerous as hell and twice as beautiful!”
Golden Wings’ black brows drew together angrily at the open, insolent admiration on the face of Khal Kan. She spoke to her father.
Bladomir looked down frowningly at the tall, grinning young warrior and his two companions.
“Watermen!” grunted the dryland chief contemptuously, using the desert-folk’s name for the coast peoples. “What do you want here?”
“We’re from Kaubos,” Brusul answered quickly. “We had to leave there when the Bunts took our city last year. Being men without a country now, we thought we’d offer our swords to you.”
Bladomir spat. “We of the desert don’t need to hire swords. You can have tent-hospitality tonight. Tomorrow, be gone.”
It was what Khal Kan had expected. He was hardly listening. His eyes, insolent in admiration, had never left the girl Golden Wings.
A shrill voice yelled from the drylanders feasting in the big torchlit tent. A thin, squint-eyed desert warrior had jumped to his feet and was pointing at Khal Kan.
“That’s no Kaubian!” he cried. “It’s the prince of Jotan! I saw him with the king his father, two years ago in Jotan city!”
Khal Kan’s sword sang out of its sheath with blurring speed—but too late. Drylanders had leaped on the three instantly, pinioning their arms. Old Bladomir arose, his hawk-eyes narrowing ominously.
“So you’re that hell’s brand, young Khal Kan of Jotan?” he snarled. “Spying on us, are you?”
Khal Kan answered coolly. “We’re not spying on you. My father sent us into the Dragals to see if the Bunts were in the mountains. He feared that traitor Egir might lead the green men north that way.”
“Then what are you doing here in our camp?” Bladomir demanded.
Khal Kan looked calmly at the girl. “I’d heard of your daughter and wanted to look at her, to see if she was all they say.”
Golden Wing’s black eyes flared, but her voice was silky. “And now that you have looked, Jotanian, do you approve?”
Khal Kan laughed. “Yes, I do. I think you’re a tiger-cat as would make me a fit mate. I shall do you the honor of making you princess of Jotan.”
Swords of a score of dryland warriors flashed toward the three captives, as the desert warriors leaped to avenge the insult.
“Wait!” called Golden Wings’ dear voice. There was a glint of mocking humor in her black eyes as she looked down at Khal Kan. “No swords for this princeling—the whip’s more suited to him. Tie him up.”
A roar of applause went up from the drylanders. In a moment, Khal Kan had been strung up to a tent-pole, his hands dragged up above his head. His leather jacket was ripped off and his yellow shirt torn away.
Brusul, bound and helpless, was roaring like a trapped lion as he saw what was coming. A tall drylander with a lash had come.
Swish—crack! Roar of howling laughter crashed on the echo, as Khal Kan felt the leather bite into his flesh. He winced inwardly from the pain, but kept his insolent smile unchanged.
Again the lash cracked. And on its echo came the voice of Golden Wings, silvery and taunting.
“Do you still want me for a mate, princeling?”
“More than ever,” laughed Khan Kan. “I wouldn’t have a wench without spirit.”
“More!” flashed Golden Wings’ furious voice to the flogger.
The lash hissed and exploded in red pain along Khal Kan’s back. Still he would not flinch or wince. His mind was doggedly set.
Through crimson pain-mists came the girl’s voice again. “You have thought better of your desire now, Jotanian?”
Khal Kan heard his own laughter as a harsh, remote sound. “Not in the least, darling. For every lash-stroke you order now, you’ll seek later to win my forgiveness with a hundred kisses.”
“Twenty more strokes!” flared the girl’s hot voice.
The whole world seemed pure pain to Khal Kan, and his back was a numbed torment, but he kept his face immobile. He was aware that the fierce laughter had ceased, that the dryland warriors were watching him in a silence tinged with respect.
The lashes ceased. Khal Kan jeered over his shoulder.
“What, no more? I thought you had more spirit, my sweet.”
Golden Wings’ voice was raging. “There’s still whips for you unless you beg pardon for your insolence.”
“No, no more,” rumbled old Bladomir. “This princeling’s wit-struck, it’s plain to see. Tie them all up tightly and we’ll send to Jotan demanding heavy ransom for them.”
Khal Kan hardly felt them carrying him away to a dark, small tent, his body was so bathed in pain. He did feel the gasping agony of the jolt as he was flung down beside Brusul and Zoor.
They three, bound hand and foot with thongs of tough sandcat leather, were left in the tent by guards who posted themselves outside.
“What a girl!” exclaimed Khal Kan. “Brusul, for the first time in my life, I’ve met a woman who isn’t all tears and weakness.”
“You’re wit-struck, indeed!” flared Brusul. “I’d as lief fall in love with a sandcat as that wench. And look at the mess you’ve got us into here! Your father awaiting our report—and we prisoned here. Faugh.’”
“We’ll get out of this some way,” muttered Khal Kan. He felt a reaction of exhaustion. “Tomorrow will bring counsel—”
He heard Brusul grumbling on, but he was drifting now into sleep.
Golden Wings’ face floated before him as sleep overtook him. He felt again the strong emotion with which the dryland girl had inspired him.
Then he was asleep, and was beginning to dream. It was the same dream as always that came quickly to Khal Kan.
He dreamed, first, that he was awaking—
He was awaking—in fact, he was now awake. He yawned, opened his eyes, and lay looking up at the white-papered bedroom ceiling.
He knew, as always, that he was no longer Khal Kan, prince of Jotan. He knew that he was now Henry Stevens, of Midland City, Illinois.
Henry Stevens lay looking up at the ceiling of his neat maple bedroom, and thinking of the dream he had just had—the dream in which, as Khal Kan, he had been flogged by the drylanders.
“I’ve got myself in a real fix, now,” Henry muttered. “How am I going to get back to Jotan? But that girl Golden Wings is a darling—”
Beside him, his wife’s plump figure stirred drowsily. “What is it, Henry?” she asked sleepily.
“Nothing, Emma,” he replied dutifully. He swung out of bed. “You don’t need to get up. I’ll get my own breakfast.”
On slippered feet, Henry Stevens plodded across the neat
bedroom. As he carefully shaved, his mind was busy with remote things.
“Even if Jotan can pay the ransom, it’ll be a week before I can get back there,” he thought “And who knows what the Bunts will be up to in that time?”
Out of the mirror, his own newly-shaven face regarded him. It was the thin, commonplace face of Henry Stevens, thirty-year-old insurance official of Midland City—a face far different from Khal Kan’s hard, bronzed, merry visage.
“I suppose I’m crazy to worry about Jotan, when it may be all a dream,” Henry muttered thoughtfully. “Or is it this that’s the dream, after all? Will I ever know?”
He was facing the mystery that had baffled him all his life.
Was Khal Kan a dream—or was Henry Stevens the dream?
All his life, Henry Stevens had been beset by that riddle. It was one that had begun with his earliest childish memories.
As far back as he could remember, Henry had had the dream. As a child, he had every night dreamed that he was a child in a different world far removed from Midland City.
Each night, when little Henry Stevens had lain down to sleep, he had at once slipped into the dream. In that dream, he was a boy in the city Jotan, on the shore of the Zambrian Sea, on the world of Thar. He was Khal Kan, prince of Jotan, son of the king, Kan Abul.
All through his years of youth and manhood, the dream had persisted. Every night, as soon as he slept, he dreamed that he was awaking. And then, in the dream, he seemed to be Khal Kan again. As Khal Kan, he lived through the day on Thar. And when Khal Kan lay down to sleep, he dreamed that he awoke as Henry Stevens, of Earth!
The dream was continuous. There was nothing incoherent or jerky about it. Day followed day consecutively in the life of Khal Kan, as logically as in the life of Henry Stevens.
Henry Stevens grew up through boyhood and youth, attending his school and playing his games and going off to college, and finally getting a job with the insurance company, and marrying.
And each night, in Henry’s dream Khal Kan was similarly pursuing his life—was learning to ride and wield a sword, and explore the mountains west of Jotanland, and go forth in patrol expeditions against the hated Bunts of the south who were the great enemies of Jotan.
The Edmond Hamilton Megapack: 16 Classic Science Fiction Tales Page 12