Mark, beckoning his followers to join him, was elated. When the flame enveloped him, he had felt a tremendous power hammer at his brain, similar to, but weaker than, that he had felt when Omega had forced knowledge of a complete language into his mind. And with this hammer blow had come the physical consciousness that the air was heating about him. The thought seemed to be sledging into his mind that he was to be burnt to a crisp, utterly consumed, in this conflagration.
But to combat this insidious idea was the ever-present knowledge that the whole performance was a fraud; that there was no dragon and the fire really did not exist. And when he had thrown the axe, he had felt another impression — this one much weaker, and very likely unintentional. This new thought conveyed a feeling of frustration.
HE HAD, he realized, won only the first rounds of the battle. Much depended on the amount of knowledge possessed by the Russians. They knew, it was certain, that this party of Norsemen were out for revenge. That was evident — and easily explainable.
The Russians had merely to listen to the conversations of his men to know that. But did they know that he had divined their weakness? And did they know that he had fortified his men against another attack by their Mongols? If they did not, then they might use the nomads again, and he fervently hoped they would. For the Russians could easily circumvent him by conjuring up some sudden, but perfectly plausible disaster. Something which might engulf them before he realized that it was their work.
The Norsemen were frankly adoring since his outstanding feat of monster slaying. And in spite of himself he liked it. For he knew that in a small measure he deserved their admiration. There had been a tiny, gnawing doubt in his mind when those flames had wrapped about him. A doubt that he would emerge unscathed. And it was probably this rebellious thought, however submerged it had been, which had caused him to feel even the slightest heat from that imaginary flame.
The old river bed widened as they went on. The formation could hardly be called a ravine any more. It was a depressed area in an otherwise flat countryside, but they continued to follow its turnings and windings.
It was late in the afternoon when Mark’s eye was caught by a reflection of the sun’s rays striking a peculiar, domed structure off to the left. Could this be what they were seeking? There was nothing to do but investigate. It certainly wouldn’t do to risk passing it. This might be what Omega had meant when he said that he would know when he got there.
Mark ordered the change in direction, peering into the reflection in an effort to see the details of the thing that caused it. At first this was impossible, but as they scrambled up the sloping bank of the dry river bed, the angle of the sun’s rays changed, making the reflection less intense.
The formation was unmistakably a manmade structure. Completely dome-shaped, and covering an area somewhat larger than the dome of the old White House at Washington, the thing appeared to be made of some sort of shiny metal. He couldn’t be sure, at first, whether this was a building in itself, or if it was merely the domed roof in some enormous structure which had been partially covered by the silt of thousands of years.
It wasn’t until they had walked around to the other side of the thing that the question was settled. It was undoubtedly a complete building in itself, for here before them was a door, curved to match the lines of the dome.
Mark didn’t realize how large the thing was until he pulled aside the door and stepped in. It was a vast place only dimly lighted by slanting rays which were entering a transparent segment of the roof. But most surprising of all was the fact that the place was completely and starkly empty!
Chapter 17: The Real Fight
FOR the first time since his awakening, Mark felt a sensation of weakness. When he had recognized this structure as having been the work of men, he had been certain that here was the end of his quest. And when he had entered the doorway his nerves had been keyed to a fine edge in the expectation of confronting the malignant brains. But here was... nothing.
The Norsemen were evidently experiencing a similar let down. Each had bravely strode through the portal, axe in hand, not knowing what to expect; and they were now gazing aimlessly about the empty interior, their faces mirroring emotions which ranged from acute disappointment to resignation.
Mark was looking disconsolately toward a point directly in the center of the curved floor.
It was here that he had pictured, even before entering, the citadel of the brains. Right at that spot they would have been; enclosed in glass he had thought they would be; two globular crystal containers enclosing human brains, twelve in each, immersed in a greenish fluid. And the whole arrangement, would be mounted on a broad platform, raised from the floor.
Abruptly he realized that he was actually seeing the things he had pictured in his mind. Shimmeringly the vision was taking form!
In a flash his mind sought and found the answer to the amazing phenomenon. No — two answers. The Russians, as a precaution against his band, had assumed a cloak of invisibility. Not actual invisibility, but rather a thought projected into their minds that the place was empty.
He had no guard against that sort of suggestion and it was done without his knowing it. Then, when he looked so fixedly at the spot where they were enshrined, they assumed that he was seeing through the deception and withdrew the hypnotic suggestion as useless. The other solution — and it seemed the more tenable, considering that he had pictured the containers with such uncanny accuracy — indicated that the fine Lunarian hand of Omega might be involved somewhere.
He was considerably heartened by the thought.
But no sooner had the brains become visible than a wall came between him and the sight. A wall of charging Mongols!
With a mad shout that had been heard at Copenhagen and a thousand other places where Norsemen had fought, the Vikings brandished axes and advanced in a solid body to meet the charge. They needed no orders to fight this sort of battle.
The attackers were not mounted, nor were they seemingly directed by any coherent plan of battle. They merely charged in a straggling rush, mouthing war-cries that daunted the Norsemen not in the least. Though outnumbered five to one, Mark’s men advanced steadily in a wedge formation that immediately closed up as the enemy showed signs of clumsily executing a flanking movement.
There was no desperation in their faces. Instead there was the look of unholy joy that they were to be given the opportunity to make mincemeat of the Mongols, and thus gain the revenge for which they thirsted.
And much mincemeat was made.
The Vikings, calm with the knowledge that the armament of the enemy was inferior to their own keen axes and swords, went about their business with deliberate efficiency. Mark found himself at the point of the advancing wedge, slashing vigorously with his flashing axe and glancing at every opportunity toward the platform which was getting nearer and nearer.
It wouldn’t be long until he would get a chance to test the hardness of the glass that enclosed the brooding brains of those monsters who had caused so much suffering on this and other worlds.
But there seemed to be arising a new spirit among the Mongols.
They were fighting with a fresh vigor that had almost stopped the steady advance of the Norsemen. And the slashing blows of the yataghans, which had been ineffectual up to now — mainly because the Vikings were convinced that the edges were too dull to penetrate — were beginning to draw blood from Mark’s men.
He also noticed that the nomads were appearing in ever increasing numbers. Dismayed, he renewed the vigor of his own attack.
HIS racing mind realized what was happening. The Russians had noted that the Vikings were not falling, mortally wounded, with the cuts of the yataghans, and had evidently deduced that they were fortified with the belief that these were not very effective weapons.
So, without changing the type of weapon or the attackers, they had caused the Mongols to appear to be striking much harder blows. Naturally the Vikings would be injured by such blows, for they
could see the force with which they were struck and the suggestion in their minds that even the dullest of weapons could thus inflict punishment, would be accepted without question.
If only his mind was sufficiently trained or sufficiently powerful to banish the suggestions of the Russians, he might be able to reach and destroy them before any more damage was done.
But although he refused to allow the Mongol apparitions who struck at him to inflict a single wound, nevertheless he was unable to deny their existence altogether. He could deny their power to hurt him. In fact he sometimes deliberately allowed one to aim a blow at his head, to test his ability to deny the existence of the wielder.
The blow never was so much as felt. But when he tried to walk through one of the apparitions, he found that he must first use physical force to remove the obstacle.
He was getting frantic as he saw his fine hopes go glimmering, and from the knowledge that his comrades were being wounded, perhaps killed, at his back. Progress had now come to a complete stop.
Bodies of Mongols he had killed were at his feet, and every time he would try to get them out of his way, fresh reserves would hammer at him. The hammering was now becoming acutely painful inside his skull, as well. It seemed that one of the composite intellects was devoting all his attention to stopping him personally, while the other carried on the sham battle with the others. His senses were reeling with the repeated blows at his mind.
How could he hope to gain ascendency over this mighty intellect, made up of twelve human brains and with six thousand years of mental exercise to draw from?
More hypnotic suggestion... He couldn’t win... Better to go back to the ship and leave these others to fight the battle.
The Russians would allow him to live in peace if he would leave them alone. After all these Vikings were no flesh and blood of his. In fact they were pretty dull fellows, when you thought it over. He wouldn’t enjoy a lifetime among them at all. Better to desert while there was still time.
Dimly Mark, through sheer habit, continued slashing at the Mongol forms. His arms moved with a volition all their own. Axe slash with the right, and sword cut with the left. The Mongols were pushing their own dead aside to get at him. But he piled them up just the same. They seemed a bit more solid now. He was beginning to feel their blows. Dimly... not hard. Of course not. They couldn’t hurt him! He was imagining things. With a sideward twist of his head he glanced back to see how the others were doing.
Good... Excellent!
There were more Vikings now than there were when he had entered this accursed building. He downed another Mongol, but not before the other had dealt him a resounding blow on the helmet. That hurt, but somehow it cleared his head just a bit. It shouldn’t have hurt. He knew that in the instant he had turned to look behind him, he had let down in his fight against the hammering waves that were beating at his brain. In that second he had forgotten that the Mongols were phantoms. And he had forgotten something else. There couldn’t be more Vikings than he had brought with him! Omega was here!
GOOD old Omega! Creating real Vikings, to fight the spurious Mongols. He risked another glance. His own force was being shouldered out of the way by these newcomers, and being protected by their blades. Good — they needed a rest. They were not tireless like him. But maybe he wasn’t as tireless as he thought. There did seem to be a weariness in his arms. He couldn’t hit as hard as he had. Maybe this new blood couldn’t replace worn-out tissue as quickly as Omega had said.
Might not be such a bad idea to sort of let the replacements surround him and get a little rest. Let the newcomers carry on this fight for a while.
In fact it might be a good idea to have the remains of his original band retire to the ship. Omega could handle these Bolsheviks by himself, now that he knew that they weren’t as strong as he had assumed. Of course. And then, back on the ship was Nona. He could see the aching warmth of her glad smile. She was in his arms, her soft flesh pressed against him — and he was kissing her, stroking her hair, her shoulders, his arms clamped around her waist. Her fragrance was like a delicious cloud about him, making him drunk...
Abruptly his brain cleared. These thoughts were not his. And with the knowledge his feeling of lassitude left, and new strength flowed through his body.
They were trying to make him think they would allow him peace if he deserted. But they wouldn’t. They evidently thought they could take care of Omega alone, once they could get rid of him. But the suggested thought of Nona’s welcome had undone all the progress they had made in his mind.
It brought back the realization that Nona and all the future happiness that Nona stood for was jeopardized.
He slashed out savagely with both weapons. And the fact that he now knew that he had the upper hand caused the Mongols to fall back at his furious attack. Why? Were they not controlled by the Russians? Would the Russians allow them to retreat, even a step? The answer must be that the sore-pressed pair were having their hands full at the moment combating the mind-force of Omega.
In that case Mark could only be seeing these Mongols because of a posthypnotic suggestion that he must continue to see Mongols barring his progress.
And the Mongols had fallen back because any flesh and blood creature — such as they represented — had to fall back before such a savage assault. Dropping his arms, he faced the platform, a grim smile on his lips. No post-hypnotic suggestion could stop him now. Ignoring the Mongols he moved directly into them.
Hastily, they stepped aside. Mark laughed savagely. He was controlling them now! Even if they wouldn’t disappear, as they should, they at least had no more power to stop him.
With deliberate step he approached the platform. It was only ten feet away now.
He could see the twin containers with their hellish residents. Dimly visible through the greenish liquid, they looked like fat, horrible sausages with a dozen links each. The greenish fluid took on a tinge of red as his rage at these malignant excrescences grew.
With a savage snarl he drew back his axe, and crashed it into the nearer of the crystal globes. A sudden blow of numbing force struck his brain when the glass shuttered and the fluid gushed forth. It was the last dying effort of a doomed intellect, for the numbness left immediately.
But when he advanced upon the next crystal he was met with a force that was far from feeble.
The shock of its impact blinded him for a moment, so great was its intensity. But only for a moment.
His sight returned and he found himself staring at the remaining container. Its greenish liquid was in a constant motion, swirling endlessly about the linked brains. He wondered which of the Russians this was the biologist or the assistant. It mattered not; he was paralyzed; couldn’t move a muscle.
Within the range of his vision was his axe, half raised to strike the final blow.
BUT could he move it? No! The arm was as rigid as if made of steel. He stared into the crystal globe, fighting for consciousness. This was a strain that made the sudden acquisition of a language seem child’s play. But there was one consolation — he was holding his own. If he couldn’t move, neither could the other blank out his consciousness.
Dimly he realized that the fighting had ceased and the Vikings were gazing wonderingly at this strange tableau. The Mongols had probably vanished into the nothingness from which they had sprung.
But where was Omega?
One would think that as long as he had done as much as he had, he would do more and blast this lone opponent. Possibly he knew that success lay within the reach of Mark’s hand, and was standing by to see the outcome. For several moments Mark found it necessary to abandon this line of thought and concentrate all his energy on keeping conscious. This lad certainly wasn’t letting up on him.
He still remained in the rigid posture that the intelligence had arrested. The arm was still half raised. Suddenly the solution struck him.
This entity could hold him here forever, for it was tireless too. And he could stay conscious forever. Ev
en against this mighty opponent, for his blood was building up brain tissue as fast as it was being used up in the effort. But his adversary was dividing his efforts — causing the paralysis, and at the same time trying to render Mark unconscious. And the brain was having all it could do to keep both actions maintained.
Mark was kept busy staying awake, without trying to combat the paralysis.
Suppose something distracted the attention of the entity? And caused some of the already taxed mental power to be diverted? Then obviously, Mark would have some freedom, and possibly be able to strike the necessary blow. But what might cause such a distraction? No sooner did the question present itself than the diversion occurred.
Sven, bleeding from a dozen wounds, decided that if Mark had destroyed one of the crystal globes, then it was the other which was holding him enchanted.
And accordingly the blond giant leaped into action, yowling like a lunatic. But before he had taken three steps, he stopped suddenly, immobile. Mark’s pulses gave a jump.
Concentrating mightily, he tried to bring his axe back further to strike a crashing blow. The arm barely moved. He had some freedom, but not enough! Even if he now brought the axe down, it would never shatter the container.
Turgidly the greenish liquid boiled as he strove against its hellish occupant, he was winning! The axe moved faster upward as he brought the arm back.
Two more Vikings had seen his trouble and tried to help. They were both stopped in mid-rush, but the added strain on the composite brain took some of the power it needed to hold Mark.
Then, as three more Norsemen made the effort, Mark suddenly felt free, and in a brief flash shattered the crystal.
A weird, wailing mental vibration gripped him for another instant, but vanished with the death of the cruel intelligence.
The Best of Argosy #2 - Minions on the Moon Page 12