And, too, Tony saw the carbon-pistol lying on the stones near by.
“Jimmy!” His voice was a cracked wheeze. “Gun—pyramid—”
Into Desquer’s eyes sprang murder-light. The fingers contracted, sending agony down Tony’s spine. Jimmy understood, though, and dived for the pistol. He snatched it up, leveled it at the pyramid and the oncoming priests.
Desquer yelled like a beast. His fingers relaxed. Somehow he writhed free, sprang up, plunged toward Jimmy. “Don’t!” he bellowed. “Don’t—” From the gun’s muzzle burst a raving blast of searing flame. The incredible pressure that had made the Earth Star was released. Straight through the ranks of the priests it bored an aisle, into the heart of the pyramid, melting and wrecking solid stone with the terrific power of its thrust. The volcanic fires of Earth itself seemed to be latent in that—bullet!
Over the cries of the priests came a rumbling, crashing thunder. A block fell, clattering down the pyramid’s side. The structure buckled. Its whole side was torn out. The summit toppled and came thundering down, amid clouds of smoking dust and ruin.
Tony staggered erect, staring up. Something was happening to the cavern roof. The pyramid had been a pillar, supporting it. And now the support was gone—
Rocks fell from above. Cracks ran out like a great spider web. Something silvery flashed down from above, glinting red in the crimson glow. Tony remembered that above Alu was—the Midnight Sea!
And that sunless, tideless ocean was pouring into the cavern world through the crevasse that had been torn in its floor!
The falling water became a column, a torrent, a bellowing Niagara. It drowned the wreckage of the pyramid. Down the flood came thundering, and icy tides lapped at Tony’s feet. He seized Jimmy’s arm, pushed him along.
“We’ve got to get out of here!”
“How—how can we?”
“We can try—”
THEIR voices, raised to shouts, sounded like thin whispers above the mighty rush of the ocean that was pouring into Alu. The priests ran about aimlessly, and among them, Tony saw, was Commander Desquer. A knot of the Atlanteans surrounded the officer. They were trying to pull him down, like wolves surrounding a bison. Unarmed, Desquer yet was stronger than his opponents.
Silently Jimmy pointed. Tony’s teeth showed in a mirthless grin.
“So what?” his lips formed. He was remembering Phil . . .
The brothers plunged along the street, already knee deep in surging black water. A louder thunder came from behind them. A new sound filled the cavern—a deep hissing, like steam. Beyond the wreck of the pyramid, Tony saw with a quick glance, crimson clouds were lifting. So the red light of Alu was actually due to volcanic activity. And now the icy waters of the Midnight Sea were finding the molten fires of lava—
More rocks fell thunderously. Looking back, Tony saw a single figure charging after them—Desquer, a battered, bleeding giant who splashed on through the water amid a hail of stone that dropped from the vaulted heaven of Alu. All about him that deadly hail dropped. One glance Tony had of Desquer rushing on, heavy shoulders hunched, teeth bared in a mirthless grin—
Then he was gone! The avalanche from the cracking skies buried him. A pile of rocks showed for an instant where he had been, and that, too, vanished as the rising waters seethed past.
Tony said nothing, but as he fought past the temple of Osiris where Phil’s body lay, he lifted his hand in a queer, quick salute. Perhaps Phil would know, now, that his death had been avenged . . .
Already the dark tides were seething at the tunnel-mouth that led to the upper world. On the threshold Tony paused, to take one last look at ruined Alu. The red light was darker now, and somber. The flaming clouds boiled up endlessly; the rock shook and quaked underfoot. The Niagara that poured from the roof of the cave looked like a solid obelisk, and an odd thought came into Tony’s mind.
“A pillar of cloud by day . . . and a pillar of smoke by night . . .”
Alu, daughter of Atlantis, was dying as the mother continent had died. Earth-fires and deluge were slaying her, wiping out all life, wrecking the culture that had survived from the misty, unknown eons before Egypt was. The huge temples, half submerged in seething tides, were falling in ruin. All over the vast cavern darkness was falling.
The arched ramp they had seen on entering Alu was still visible, far away. And now Tony saw that there were figures upon it, as there had been at first. Figures with strange, misshapen heads—
The pitiable, terrible beast-gods of Alu, created by dead Thotmes’ science!
One glimpse Tony had of those far figures, outlined blackly against red smoke. Then—the ramp fell.
Over Alu the roaring desolation of death and ruin held sway!
Tony turned to the white-faced Jimmy. Already the water was tearing at their thighs.
“Come on,” he shouted. “We’re getting out of here. Fast!”
They fled up the tunnel . . .
The rest was sheer nightmare. Somehow they found their way, following always the passages that led up, hiding from terrified, frantic Copts, fleeing through corridors whose walls shook with the grip of earthquake. Up and up they went, finding at last a frightened Copt who agreed to guide them to the surface. His own world was falling in pieces about him, and he wished only to escape. A cave-in crushed him not long after, but the passage stretched unbroken before the brothers. They toiled on . . .
Daylight filtered in yellow brilliance through a crack in the rock. Exhausted, haggard, filthy scarecrows, the two squeezed through into blazing sunlight. About them lay rolling dunes. They were in a rocky little valley.
They dropped to the sand and lay there motionless for hours, scarcely conscious of the burning sun.
The soft mutter of a gyro motor woke them. Tony sat up, blinking. He was in time to see a plane land softly not far away, and a figure in flying uniform step out.
JIMMY was still sleeping. Tony lurched forward to greet the new arrival. His eyes were misty with sleep, and he did not at first recognize the pilot—not till the latter took out an automatic and held it ready.
Then he saw it was Zadah, the Rajah’s secretary.
Tony stopped, swaying a little, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Zadah’s round face was triumphant. The beady eyes shone with triumph.
“Luck,” he said. “I’ve been cruising about for hours just on an off chance. I just happened to sight you—”
“The Copts,” Tony said thickly. “They—”
Zadah nodded. “I know. Your legionnaire got through—Jacklyn. There’s an army of troopers at the mouth of Sub-Sahara. But—where’s the Earth Star? If you escaped, that means Desquer didn’t get it.”
“It’s gone. Desquer got it—and used it. The Earth Star’s destroyed, Zadah.”
The other hesitated. Something he saw in Tony’s eyes made him realize that the latter spoke truth. Abruptly baffled rage sprang into Zadah’s round face.
“Gone! Then—”
He lifted the gun, his lips white with fury at the wreckage of his plans. “Maybe! If you’re lying, I’ll find the jewel on your bodies.”
Tony tensed himself for a spring that he knew in advance would be futile. But, before he could move, another figure hurled itself forward. Jimmy’s slight frame dived at the killer.
Zadah’s gun barked. Jimmy cried out; the Oriental swung his weapon back to Tony. But he was too late. His wrist was held in a grip of iron. Tony’s dark face was close to his own. and there was death in the somber eyes.
Zadah screamed.
Tony said not a word. Very slowly, very carefully, he bent Zadah’s hand back. The latter’s finger was still on the trigger. The gun pointed at last at the killer’s heart.
Then Tony smiled—and the muscles of his hand contracted.
The report was shatteringly loud in the desert stillness.
Tony let the limp body slide down, and turned back to Jimmy. The boy was dead. Zadah’s bullet had made a neat little hole in the brown shirt.
After a moment Tony carried the body of his brother to the plane and put it aboard. He followed. He sent the gyro winging up over the desert.
Beneath him the Sahara stretched, a white wilderness under the flaming heat of the Sun. To the north could be seen an encampment, the troopers that had arrived, too late, at the mouth of Sub-Sahara. Tony set the controls and fled beyond them.
The desert gave place to the Mediterranean, and that, in turn, to the Pacific Ocean. The cool blueness of night folded down. Moonlight silvered the waves.
Tony opened a trap-door in the floor and let the body of his brother slide through. Phil rested in the temple of Osiris—and Jimmy would lie beneath the waves that hid Atlantis.
He went back to the controls, staring ahead at an empty horizon. Westward lay New York. He could go back there now; the. motive for keeping hidden had vanished. No one would know who the Merlin was. Some men might guess, might be convinced that either Phil or Jimmy had stolen the Earth-Star—but they would never dare make an accusation, and Seth Martell would need make no compromises with his honor and his ideals.
Only Tony would know that the Merlin had been his brother Phil.
For ten minutes he had been alone with Phil in the Temple of Osiris. And, before the youth died, he had told Tony the truth—that he was the Merlin. He had given his brother the Earth-Star to keep. But no one would ever know that now.
Tony’s throat was tight. He stared at the dim horizon of sky and sea, knowing that beyond it lay New York, and a life he could take up again where he had left it. A life he must live—alone.
A faint glow brightened to the west. The tallest towers of Manhattan were pillars of light against the sky.
WAR-GODS OF THE VOID
Jerry Vanning trailed the fugitive Callahan into the swampy wastes of Venus, Hell-Kingdom of the fabled War-Gods. He reached his goal—walking with the robot-strides of a North-fever slave.
EARTH Consul, Goodenow, tossed a packet of microfilms to Vanning, and said, “You’re crazy. The man you’re after isn’t here. Only damn fools ever come to Venus—and don’t ask me why I’m here, You’re crazy to think you’ll find a fugitive hiding on this planet.” Jerry Vanning, earth state investigator, moved his stocky body uneasily. He had a headache. He had had it ever since the precarious landing through the tremendous wind-maelstroms of the pea-soup Venusian atmosphere. With an effort he focused his vision on the micro-projector Goodenow handed him, and turned the tiny key. Inside the box, a face sprang into view. He sighed and slid another of the passport-films into place. He had never seen the man before.
“Routine check-up,” he said patiently. “I got a tip Callahan was heading here, and we can’t afford to take chances.”
The consul mopped his sweating, beefy face and cursed Venusian air-conditioning units. “Who is this guy Callahan, anyway?” he asked. “I’ve heard a little—but we don’t get much news on the frontier.”
“Political refugee,” Vanning said, busy with the projector. “Potentially, one of the most dangerous men in the System. Callahan started his career as a diplomat, but there wasn’t enough excitement for him.”
The consul fumbled with a cigar. “Can you tell me any more?”
“Well—Callahan got hold of a certain secret treaty that must be destroyed. If he shows it in the right places, he might start a revolution, particularly on Callisto. My idea is that he’s hiding out till the excitement dies down—and then he’ll head for Callisto.”
Goodenow pursed his lips. “I see. But you won’t find him here.”
Vanning jerked his thumb toward a window. “The jungle—”
“Hell, no!” the consul said decidedly. “Venus, Mr. Vanning, is not Earth. We’ve got about two hundred settlements scattered here and there; the rest is swamp and mountains. When a man gets lost, we wait a few days and then write out a death certificate. Because once an Earthman leaves a settlement, his number’s up.”
“So?”
“So Callahan isn’t here. Nobody comes here,” Goodenow said bitterly.
“Settlers do,” Vanning remarked. “Bloody fools. They raise herbs and mold. If they didn’t come, Venus would be uninhabited except by natives in a few years. The North-Fever . . . You’d better watch out for that, by the way. If you start feeling rocky, see a doctor. Not that it’ll help. But you can be put under restraint till the fever passes.”
Vanning looked up. “I’ve heard of that. Just what—”
“Nobody knows,” Goodenow said, shrugging hopelessly. “A virus. A filterable virus, presumably. Scientists have been working on it ever since Venus was colonized. It hits the natives, too. Some get it, some don’t. It works the same way with Earthmen. You feel like you’re cracking up—and then, suddenly—you go North. Into the swamp. You never come back. That’s the end of you.”
“Funny!”
“Sure it is. But—ever heard of the lemmings? Little animals that used to make mass pilgrimages, millions of them. They’d head west till they reached the ocean, and then keep going. Nobody knew the cause of that, either.”
“What lies north?”
“Swamp, I suppose. How should I know? We’ve got no facilities for finding out. We can’t fly, and expeditions say there’s nothing there but the usual Venusian hell. I wish—”
“OH-OH!” Vanning sat up, peering into the projector. “Wait a minute, Goodenow. I think—”
“Callahan? No!”
“He’s disguised, but . . . Lucky this is a three-dimensional movie. Let’s hear his voice.” Vanning touched a button on the box. A low, musical voice said:
“My name is Jerome Bentley, New York City, Earth. I’m an importer, and am on Venus to investigate the possibilities of buying a steady supply of herbs—”
“Yeah,” Vanning said tonelessly.
“That’s it. Jerome Bentley—nuts! That’s Don Callahan! He’s disguised so well his own mother wouldn’t know him—best make-up artist in the System. But I’ve studied his records till I nearly went blind and deaf. I don’t make mistakes about Callahan any more.”
Goodenow blinked. “I’ll be blowed. I’ve seen the man a dozen times, and I’d have sworn . . . well! If you’re sure—”
“I’m sure.” Vanning referred to the records. “Staying at the Star Palace, eh? Okay, I’ll be pushing off.”
“I’ll go with you,” the consul offered, and lifted his bulky body from behind the gleaming desk. Together the two men went out into the muggy Venusian day, which was now fading to a slow, blue dusk.
Venus did not revolve; it librated. There was no such thing as sunrise and sunset. But there was a very regular thickening and fading of the eternal cloudbanks that writhed overhead, approximating day and night. Despite the continual frantic disturbance of the atmosphere, the clouds were so thick that it was never possible to see the Sun.
Only the ragged, eye-straining movement of the grayness overhead, and the warm, humid wind that gusted against your sweating skin. And the sulphurous smells that drifted in from the jungle—odors of stagnant water and rottenness and things that grew unhealthily white.
Frontier town, Vanning thought, as he glanced around. Chicago must have looked like this, in the old days, when streets were unpaved and business was the town’s only reason for existence. But Venus Landing would never grow into another Chicago. A few thousand souls, working under terrible handicaps, always fearing the North-Fever that meant death . . .
Muddy streets, wooden sidewalks already rotting, metal buildings, of two stories at most, long, low hydroponic sheds, a dull, hot apathy that hung over everything—that was Venus Landing. A few natives shuffled past on their snow-shoe feet, looking fat and wet, as though made out of wax that had begun to run.
The Star Palace was a down-at-the-heels plastic building, stained and discolored by the damp molds. Goodenow jerked his head at the clerk.
“Where’s Leester?”
“North-Fever,” the man said, worrying his lower lip. “This morning . . . we couldn’t stop
him.”
“Oh, hell,” the consul said hopelessly, turning to Vanning. “That’s the way it is. Once the fever hits you, you go crazy. Do everything and anything to get away and head north. Leester was a nice kid. He was going back to Earth, next Christmas.”
Vanning looked at the clerk. “A man named Jerome Bentley’s staying here.”
“He’s somewhere around town. Dunno where.”
“Okay,” the consul said. “If he comes in, phone my office. But don’t tell him we were asking.”
“Yup.” The clerk resumed his vague scrutiny of the ceiling. Vanning and Goodenow went out.
“WHERE now?”
“We’ll just amble around. Hi!”
The consul hailed a ricksha, drawn by a native—the usual type of vehicle in Venus Landing’s muddy streets. “Hop in, Vanning.”
The detective obeyed. His headache was getting worse.
They couldn’t find Callahan. A few men said that they had seen him earlier that day. Someone had glimpsed him on the outskirts of the settlement.
“Heading for the jungle?” Goodenow asked quickly.
“He—yeah. He looked . . . very bad.”
The consul sucked in his breath. “I wonder. Let’s go out that way, Vanning.”
“All right. What do you figure—”
“The fever, maybe,” Goodenow grunted. “It strikes fast. Especially to non-natives. If your friend Callahan’s caught North-Fever, he just started walking into the swamp and forgot to stop. You can mark the case closed.”
“Not till I get that treaty back,” Vanning growled.
Goodenow shook his head doubtfully.
The buildings grew sparser and ceased at the edge of the pale forest. Broad-leafed jungle growths sprang from moist black soil. The ricksha stopped; the native chattered in his own tongue.
“Sure,” Goodenow said, tossing him a coin. “Wait here. Zan-t’kshan.” His burly figure lumbered into the translucent twilight of the jungle. Vanning was at his heels.
There were footprints—many of them. The detective ignored them, moving in a straight line away from Venus Landing. Here and there were blazed mola trees, some with buckets hung to collect the dripping sap. The footprints grew fainter. At last only one set remained visible.
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