The Complete Margaret of Urbs

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  “It—it was a Messenger of the Master,” murmured Evanie fearfully. “Jan, do you think it was for one of us? If so, that means he suspects!”

  “God knows!” Jan muttered. “It looked dim to me, like a stray.”

  “And what,” Connor demanded to know, “is a Messenger of the Master?”

  “It’s to carry the Master’s commands,” said Evanie.

  “You don’t say!” he snapped ironically. “I could guess that from its name. But what is it?”

  “It’s a mechanism of force, or so we think,” said Jan. “It’s—Did you ever see ball-lightning?”

  Connor nodded.

  “Well, there’s nothing material, strictly speaking, in ball-lightning. It’s a balance of electrical forces. And so are the Messengers—a structure of forces.”

  “But—was it alive?”

  “We believe not. Not exactly alive.” Connor groaned. “Not material, strictly speaking, and not exactly alive! In other words, a ghost.”

  Jan smiled nervously.

  “It does sound queer. What I mean is that the Messengers are composed of forces, like ball-lightning. They’re stable as long as Urbs supplies enough energy to offset the losses. They don’t discharge all at once like ball-lightning. When their energy is cut off, they just dissipate, fade out, vanish. That one missed its mark, if it was for us.”

  “How do they bear the Master’s commands?”

  “I hope you never find out,” Evanie said softly. “I was sent for once before, but that Messenger missed like this. Jan and I—can close our minds to them. It takes practice to learn how.”

  “Well,” said Connor, “if the Master suspects, you’d better change your plans. Surprise was your one advantage.”

  “We can’t,” Jan said grimly. “Our cooperating groups would split into factions in half an hour, given any excuse.”

  “But—that might have been sent as a warning!”

  “No matter. We’ve got to go ahead. What’s more, we’d better leave now.”

  JAN rose abruptly and departed. A moment later Connor saw him back in a motor vehicle from the hill below the factory. And then, with no more preparation than that, they were jolting over the rutted red clay road, Jan driving, Evanie between the two men.

  When they swung suddenly to a wide paved highway, the battered vehicle leaped swiftly to unexpected speed. A full hundred miles an hour, though that was not so greatly in excess of the speed of cars of Connor’s own day.

  Hour after hour they rushed down the endless way. They passed tree-grown ruins and little villages like Ormon, and as night fell, here and there the lights of some peaceful farm dwelling. Evanie relieved Jan, and then Connor, pleading his acquaintance with ancient automobiles, drove for awhile, to the expressed admiration of the other two.

  “You ancients must have been amazing!” said Jan.

  “What paving is this?” asked Connor as they darted along.

  “Same stuff as our tires. Rubrum. Synthetic rubber.”

  “Paved by whom?”

  “By Urbs,” said Jan sourly. “Out of our taxes.”

  “Well, isn’t that one answer to your objections? No taxes, no roads.”

  “The road through Ormon is maintained without taxes, simply by the cooperation of the people.”

  Connor smiled, remembering that rutted clay road.

  “Is it possible to alienate any of the Master’s troops?” he asked. “Trained men would help our chances.”

  “No,” Jan said positively. “The man has a genius for loyalty. Such an attempt would be suicide.”

  “Humph! Do you know—the more I hear of the Master, the more I like him? I can’t see why you hate him so! Apparently, he’s a good ruler.”

  “He is a good ruler, damn his clever soul! If he weren’t, I told you every-body’d be on our side.” Jan turned to Evanie. “See how dangerous the Master is? His charm strikes even through the words of his enemies!” When they finally stopped for refreshments, Evanie described for Connor other wonders of the Master’s world empire. She told him of the hot-house cities of Antarctica under their crystal domes, and especially Austropolis, of the great mining city in the shadow of the Southern Pole, and of Nyx, lying precariously on the slopes of the volcano Erebus.

  She had a wealth of detail gleaned from the vision screen, but Jan Orm had traveled there, and added terse comment. All traffic and freight came in by rocket, the Triangles of Urbs, a means too expensive for general use, but the mines produced the highly-prized metal, platinum.

  Evanie spoke, too, of the “Urban pond,” the new sea formed in the Sahara Desert by the blasting of a passage through the Atlas Mountains to the Mediterranean. That had made of Algeria and Tripoli fertile countries, and by the increased surface for evaporation, it had changed even the climate of the distant Arabian Desert.

  AND there was Eartheye on the summit of sky-piercing Everest, the great observatory whose objective mirror was a spinning pool of mercury a hundred feet across, and whose images of stellar bodies were broadcast to students around the world. In this gigantic mirror, Betelgeuse showed a measurable disc, the moon was a pitted plain thirty yards away, and even Mars glowed cryptically at a distance of only two and a half miles.

  Connor learned that the red planet still held its mystery. The canals had turned out to be illusion, but the seasonal changes still argued life, and a million tiny markings hinted at some sort of civilization.

  “But they’ve been to the moon,” Evanie said, continuing the discussion as they got under way again. “There’s a remnant of life there, little crystalline flowers that the great ladies of Urbs sometimes wear. Moon orchids; each one worth a fortune.”

  “I’d like to give you one some day,” murmured Connor.

  “Look, Tom!” Evanie cried sharply. “A Triangle!”

  He saw it in the radiance of early dawn. It was in fact a triangle with three girders rising from its points to an apex, whence the blast struck down through the open center. At once he realized the logic of the construction, for it could neither tip nor fall while the blast was fed.

  How large? He couldn’t tell, since it hung at an unknown height. It seemed enormous, at least a hundred feet on a side. And then a lateral blast flared, and it moved rapidly ahead of them into the south.

  “Were they watching us, do you suppose?” Evanie asked tensely. “But—of course not! I guess I’m just nervous. Look, Tom, there’s Kaatskill, a suburb of the City.”

  The town was one of magnificent dwellings and vast lawns.

  “Kaatskill!” mused Connor. “The home of Rip van Winkle.”

  Evanie did not get the meaning of that.

  “If he lives in Kaatskill I never heard of him,” she said. “It is a place where many wealthy Sleepers have settled to enjoy their wealth.”

  The road widened suddenly, then they topped the crest of a hill. Connor’s eyes widened in astonishment at the scene unfolded.

  A valley lay before them and, cupped in the hills as in the palm of a colossal hand, lay such a hive of mammoth buildings that for a moment reason refused to accept it. Urbs! Connor knew instantly that only the world capital could stretch in such reaches across to the distant blue hills beyond.

  He stared at sky-piercing structures, at tiered streets, at the curious steel web where a monorail car sped like a spider along its silken strand.

  “There! Urbs Minor!” whispered Evanie. “Lesser Urbs!”

  “Lesser Urbs!”

  “Yes. Urbs Major is beyond. See? Toward the hills.”

  He saw. He saw the incredible structures that loomed Gargantuan. He saw a fleecy cloud drift across one, while behind it twin towers struck yet higher toward the heavens.

  “The spires of the Palace,” murmured Evanie.

  They sped along the topmost of three tiers, and the vast structures were blotted out by nearer ones. For an hour and a half they passed along that seemingly endless street. The morning life of Urbs was appearing, traffic flowed, pedestrians moved
in and out of doorways.

  THE dress of the city had something military about it, with men and women alike garbed in metallic-scaled shirts and either kirtles or brief shorts, with sandaled feet. They were slight in build, as were the Ormon folk, but they had none of the easygoing complacency of the villagers. They were hectic and hurried, and the sight struck a familiar note across the centuries.

  Urbs was city incarnate. Connor felt the brilliance, the glamour, the wickedness, that is a part of all great cities from Babylon to Chicago. Here were all of them in one, all the great cities that ever were, all in this gigantic metropolis. Babylon reborn—Imperial Rome made young again!

  They crossed, suddenly, a three-tiered viaduct over brown water.

  “The canal that makes Urbs a seaport,” Evanie explained.

  Beyond, rising clifflike from the bank, soared those structural colossi Connor had seen in the blue distance, towering unbelievably into the bright sky. He felt pygmylike, crushed, stifled, so enormous was the mass. He did not need Evanie’s whisper: “Across the water is Greater Urbs.” Those mountainous piles could be nothing less.

  On the crowded sidewalks brilliant-costumed people flowed by, many smoking black cigarettes. That roused a longing in Tom Connor for his ancient pipe, now disintegrated a thousand years. He stared at the bold Urban women with their short hair and metallic garb. Now and again one stared back, either contemptuously, noting his Weed clothing, or in admiration of his strong figure.

  Jan Orm guided the car down a long ramp, past the second tier and down into the dusk of the ground level. They cut into a solid line of thunderous trucks, and finally pulled up at the base of one of the giant buildings. Jan drew a deep sigh.

  “We’re here,” he said. “Urbs!” Connor made no reply. In his mind was only the stunning thought that this colossus called Urbs was the city they were to attempt to conquer with their Weed army—a handful of less than twenty-five thousand!

  CHAPTER X

  Revolution

  WITH the cessation of the car’s movement a blanket of humid heat closed down on them. The ground level was sultry, hot with the stagnant breath of thirty million pairs of lungs.

  Then, as Connor alighted, there was a whir, and he glanced up to see a fan blower dissolve into whirling invisibility, drawing up the fetid accumulation of air. A faint coolness wafted along the tunnel-like street. For perhaps half a minute the fan hummed, then was stilled. The colossal city breathed, in thirty-second gasps!

  They moved into the building, to a temperature almost chilly after the furnace heat outside. Connor heard the hiss of a cooling system, recognized the sibilance since he had heard it from a similar system in Evanie’s cottage. They followed Jan to an elevator, one of a bank of fully forty, and identical to one of the automatic lifts in an ancient apartment building.

  Jan pressed a button, and the cage shot into swift and silent motion. It seemed a long time before it clicked to a halt at the seventy-fourth floor. The doors swung noiselessly aside and they emerged into a carpeted hall, following Jan to a door halfway down the corridor. A faint murmur of voices within ceased as Jan pressed a bell-push.

  In the moment of silence a faint, bluish light outlined the faces of Jan and Evanie; Connor standing a bit to the side, was beyond it.

  “Looking us over on a vision screen,” whispered Jan, and instantly the door opened. Connor heard voices.

  “Evanie Sair and Jan Orm! At last!”

  Connor followed them into a small chamber, and was a little taken aback by the hush that greeted his appearance. He faced the group of leaders in the room, half a dozen men and an equal number of women, all garbed in Urban dress, and all frozen in immobile surprise.

  “This is Tom Connor,” Jan Orm said quickly. “He suggested the rifles.”

  “Well!” drawled a golden-haired girl, relaxing. “He looks like a cool Immortal. Lord! I thought we were in for it!”

  “You’d manage, Ena,” said a striking dark-haired beauty, laughing disdainfully.

  “Don’t mind Maris.” The blonde smiled at Connor. “She’s been told she looks like the Princess; hence the air of hauteur.” She paused. “And what do you think of Urbs?”

  “Crowded,” Connor said, and grinned.

  “Crowded! You should see it on a business day.”

  “It’s their weekly holiday,” explained Evanie. “Sunday. We chose it purposely. There’ll be fewer guards in the Palace seeing room.”

  For the first time Connor realized that Sundays passed unobserved in the peaceful life of Ormon.

  Jan was surveying the Urban costumes in grim disapproval.

  “Let’s get to business,” he said shortly.

  There was a chorus of “Hush!” The girl Maris added, “You know there’s a scanner in every room in Urbs, Jan. We can be seen from the Palace, and heard too!”

  She nodded toward one of the light-brackets on the wall. After a moment of close inspection Connor distinguished the tiny crystal “eye.”

  “Why not cover it?” he asked in a low voice.

  “That would bring a Palace officer in five minutes,” responded the blond Ena. “A blank on the screen sticks out like the Alpha Building.”

  SHE summoned the group close about her, slipping a casual arm through Connor’s. In an almost inaudible whisper she began to detail the progress of the plans, replying to Jan’s queries about the distribution of weapons and where they now were to Evanie’s question about the appointed time, to inquiries from each of the others.

  Evanie’s report of the Messenger caused some apprehension.

  “Do you think he knows?” asked Ena. “He must, unless it was some stray that passed near you.”

  “Suppose he does,” countered Evanie. “He can’t know when. We’re ready, aren’t we? Why not strike today—now—at once?”

  There was a chorus of whispered protest.

  “We oughtn’t to risk everything on a sudden decision—it’s too reckless!” Ena pressed Connor’s arm and whispered, “What do you think?”

  He caught an angry glance from Evanie. She resented the blond girl’s obvious attention.

  “Evanie’s right,” he murmured. “The only chance this half-baked revolution has is surprise. Lose that and you’ve lost everything.”

  And such, after more whispered discussion, was the decision. The blow was to be struck at one o’clock, just two hours away. The leaders departed to pass the instructions to their subordinate leaders, until only Connor and Evanie remained. Even Jan Orm had gone to warn the men of Ormon.

  Evanie seemed about to speak to Connor, but suddenly turned her back on him.

  “What’s the matter, Evanie?” he said softly.

  He was unprepared for the violence with Which she swung around, her brown eyes blazing.

  “Matter!” she snapped. “You dare ask! With the feel of that canaryheaded Ena’s fingers still warm on your arm!”

  “But Evanie!” he protested. “I did nothing.”

  “You let her!”

  “But—”

  “You let her!”

  Further protest was prevented by the return of the patrician Maris. Evanie dropped into a sulky silence, not broken until shortly Jan Orm appeared.

  It was a solemn group that emerged on the ground level and turned their steps in the direction of the twin-towered Palace. Evanie had apparently forgotten her grievance in the importance of the impending moment, but all were silent and thoughtful.

  Not even Connor had eyes for Palace Avenue, and the tumult and turmoil of that great street boiled about him unnoticed. Through the girders above, the traffic of the second and third tiers sent rumbling thunder, but he never glanced up, trudging abstractedly beside Evanie.

  A HUNDRED feet from the street’s end they paused. Through the tunnel-like opening where Palace Avenue divided to circle the broad grounds of the Palace, Connor gazed at a vista of green lawn surmounted by the flight of white steps that led to the Arch where the enormous diorite statue of Holland, the Fath
er of Knowledge, sat peering with narrowed eyes into an ancient volume.

  “Two minutes,” said Jan with a nervous glance around. “We’d better move forward.”

  They reached the open. The grounds, surrounded by the incredible wall of mountainous buildings, glowed green as a lake in the sun, and the full vastness of the Palace burst upon Connor’s eyes, towering into the heavens like a twin-peaked mountain. For a moment he gazed, awe-struck, then glanced back into the cave of the ground level, waiting for the hour to strike.

  It came, booming out of the Palace tower. One o’clock! Instantly the ground level was a teeming mass of humanity, swarming out of the buildings in a torrent. Sunlight glanced, flashing from rifle barrels; shouts sounded in a wild chorus. Swiftly the Ormon men gathered around Evanie, whose brilliant costume of green and crimson formed a rallying point like a flag.

  The mob became an army, each group falling into formation about its leader. Men ran shouting into the streets on the broad avenue that circled the grounds, on the second and third tiers. Instantly a traffic jam began to spread to epic proportions. And then, between the vehicles, the mass of humanity flowed across the street toward the Palace.

  From other streets to right and left, other crowds were pouring. The black-haired Maris was striding bare-limbed and lithe before her forces. White, frightened faces stared from a thousand stalled cars.

  Then the heterogeneous mob was sweeping up the slope of grass, a surging mass converging from every side. The Palace was surrounded, at the mercy of the mob. And then—the whole frenzied panorama froze suddenly into immobility.

  From a dozen doors, and down the wide white steps came men—Urban men, with glittering metallic cuirasses and bare brown limbs. They moved deliberately, in the manner of trained troops. Quickly they formed an inner circle about the Palace, an opposing line to the menacing thousands without.

  They were few compared to the revolutionary forces, yet for a tense moment the charge was halted, and the two lines glared at each other across a few hundred feet of grassy slope.