“A big spotlight will help a lot,” he informed Antigonus. “And that means electricity—batteries. Simple ones.
Zinc, copper, and sulphuric acid. I can make zinc—let’s see—by distilling it with carbon. Only I need the ore.”
Antigonus scratched his head. “Zinc is alloyed with copper to make brass. I know that.”
Pete Manx grinned delightedly. “You’ve got some? Swell!”
Sulphuric acid was not difficult, either. There were two ways of obtaining it that Pete Manx could employ: he could distil alum, or he could burn sulphur with saltpetre. He chose the easier method, with satisfactory results. In the end he had several crude but workable batteries, consisting chiefly of two rods—one of zinc, one of copper—immersed in dilute sulphuric acid. Wire was somewhat more difficult, but Manx finally drew some through a die he laboriously drilled.
Meanwhile, with the aid of Antigonus, he organized the slaves. It was, necessarily, a whispering campaign. But the Amazons had such a contempt for men that none of the warrior-women suspected what was going on.
“Dopes,” Mr. Manx remarked scornfully to himself. “This is gonna be easy.”
He sought out Antigonus. “Know what creosote is?” he wanted to know.
“No. Is it something to eat?”
Manx shook his head. “Not exactly. Never mind. I’ll just look around a bit.”
He experimented with various bushes, burning them and distilling the vapors. The sulphuric acid helped, too. At last he had several jugs filled with a deceptively mild-looking fluid that had a smoky, curious odor. Some of this he supplied to each of the men assigned to laundry duty.
“Just drop it in the tubs,” he instructed. “That’s all.”
The initial step was to start the Amazons wondering. After a consultation with Antigonus, he managed to swipe Queen Theda’s sword and spent a difficult night electroplating it. The next morning when the Amazon ruler unsheathed the blade at the pagan mating prayer, every eye was riveted on the weapon. It had apparently turned to copper, except for a line of Greek letters that read crisply. “The curse of Artemis on the Amazons.”
A GASP of amazement went up.
Those who were close enough to make out the message whispered it to their neighbors. Thecla looked worried. And like wildfire the story ran through the camp.
The curse of Artemis! But why—how—
They were not long in finding out. Those Amazons who had donned clean clothing that day began to twitch uneasily. They scratched futilely at their armor. Groups of them went down to the river to bathe.
It did no good. The strange malady persisted. The brawny Clio nearly dislocated a shoulder trying to scratch her back. Moreover, the slaves who had done the washing the day before all had an angry rash about their wrists.
Pete Manx thought happily about creosote and satisfactory imitations of it, and chuckled to himself as he watched Clio frantically writhing in her armor. He ducked for cover as the Amazon glared at him and snatched up a convenient spear.
There were other manifestations that day. Pete Manx had seen to it. The horses could not be ridden, since their trappings had been well soaked in an irritating but harmless compound the ingenious Mr. Manx had prepared. Since horses were sacred to Artemis, the Amazons felt more and more uneasy as the day wore on.
He had even made use of the time-honored dribble glass, boring tiny holes in metal goblets, so that when the Amazons drank, the result was far from neat.
It was sound psychology, for the warrior women, despite their habits, were vain as peacocks, and wore gorgeous trappings. Quantities of these were ruined, and a great many tempers lost in the process. Pete Manx wandered about, with a blandly innocent eye, watching the steady demoralization of the Amazons.
He did not want to go too far. He was merely breaking the ground for tonight’s coup de grace. Even so, Clio sought him out and showed him the point of her sword.
“Do you know anything about this?” she snarled.
“I?” Pete Manx was the picture of injured innocence. “Why, what’s wrong?” But it was quite obvious what was wrong. On Clio’s sword-blade was copperplated a Greek sentence that was, to say the least, rather insulting. The Amazon, purple with fury, cursed Manx in terse monosyllables.
“If you weren’t the Queen’s favorite,” she ended, gripping the sword-hilt, “I’d slice you into food for vultures. Miserable worm of a man.” She looked more than ever like Margie.
There was a shriek from a nearby pavilion. Queen Thecla appeared, a golden jar in one hand and a look of anguish on her face. She was preceded by a strong and unpleasant odor.
“What now?” Clio inquired grumpily.
“My perfumes,” Thecla gasped. “My most precious ointments—ambergris, attar of roses. Smell this.” She thrust the jar at Clio, who was rash enough to sniff. Both Amazons turned a delicate pea-green. Even Pete Manx, who had spent a few hours mixing iron pyrites with other nauseous chemicals, gulped unhappily.
“It—does smell,” Clio said inadequately.
“It’s the curse,” Thecla whispered. “Artemis is avenging herself on us. But why?”
The other Amazon shrugged and scratched her flank. “I never heard of a curse like this. Lightning I can understand. But smells and itches! ’Tis more like the work of a mischievous satyr.”
The Queen hurled the golden jar into the river. “We shall sacrifice to Artemis when the moon rises, and beg for forgiveness. Hera help us!”
Pete Manx, who had retreated into the shadow of a bush, grinned diabolically. All was going even better than he had planned.
HE MADE a quick trip of inspection to the sacred grove, where he examined the altar of Artemis and checked the batteries and improvised searchlight he had set up there. There was nothing amiss. He was ready.
Minor manifestations continued all that day. By sundown the Amazons were in a state of nervous exhaustion. By moonrise they were fit to be tied. Matters were scarcely helped when the Queen, drawing out her golden crown from its jeweled chest, discovered that the diadem had apparently turned to some dull, grayish metal. Luckily for Pete Manx, she did not scrape through the plating to the solid gold beneath.
In a body the Amazons trooped toward the grove. They gathered there before the altar, while their worried ruler sacrificed to Artemis. Nothing happened.
The silence was broken. From the direction of the camp came a loud chant, confused and unmusical, in which could be traced some vague resemblance to “Mademoiselle from Armentieres.” It made, at any rate, a stirring marching song.
The Amazons stirred uneasily. What in the name of Hera was this? An unsightly rabble of slaves—men—pouring toward the grove, shouting, singing, and carrying banners inscribed with strange and fantastic devices.
“Equal rights for slaves!’ Thecla gasped. “ ‘Suffrage for men!’ ‘We want the vote!’ Are they gone mad?” Her eyes had widened with amazement.
The banners were plain to read in the bright moonlight. They demanded recognition.
“No more K.P.,” said one. Another went into more detail. “Are we mice or men? We want the four freedoms!” A third declared: “We’ll wear the greaves in our families!”
“They are mad,” Clio said. “Shall I gather a few warriors and drive them back to camp?”
But by this time the men were within the grove. They came to a halt, milling around in an uncertain fashion. Abruptly a blazing light flashed out of the darkness in the trees. It fell full on the altar of the goddess.
Ventriloquism was only one of Pete Manx’s accomplishments. Lurking in the gloom, he cupped his hands to his mouth and spoke.
“Gather ’round, folks! I come here to instruct you—Amazons and gentlemen! Just a bit closer, there. Now—”
Antigonus had been previously instructed.
“ ’Tis Artemis,” he shouted. “ ’Tis the goddess!”
Clio grew rather pale.
“It is not meet for men to be in the sacred grove,” she said. “Drive them
away.”
“Hold!” Pete Manx’s disguised voice shrilled through the clearing. He swung the guide-wires to the searchlight so that its beam found Clio. “My message is for all.”
“She has brought the moon down from the skies,” Thecla whispered.
There was a pause. Then the Queen bowed before the altar. “We give you worship, Great Huntress. Why are you angry with us?”
Pete Manx almost purred. This was too easy. He took a deep breath.
“It ain’t right. It is not meet for women to rule men.”
“It has always been thus among the Amazons,” Clio cried.
“Then it’s gotta be changed,” Pete Manx said doggedly. “I’m your goddess and what I say goes. This set-up ain’t natural. It’s all right for women to have their rights, but making the men your slaves ain’t—is not meet.”
Thecla spoke unbelievingly. “You would have us live as the Greeks do?”
“Sure,” Pete Manx told her, switching the searchlight again. “Equal rights. The women gotta stay home and mind the kids. The men—er—make a living.”
THE Queen drew a long, shuddering breath and glanced around at the ranks of frozen astounded Amazons.
“We obey, O goddess,” she whispered. “If this is why you put your curse upon us, we obey.”
“Swear it,” Pete Manx said inexorably. The Queen dropped on her knees, as did the other warrior women. But before she could speak, there was an interruption. With a clatter of racing hoofs, a charger thundered into the clearing, carrying on its back an Amazon who bore a rather grim resemblance to Tony Galento.
“What?” the woman bellowed. “Amazons on their knees?”
“Urganilla!” Clio cried. “’Tis Artemis who speaks to us.”
Urganilla! Pete Manx’s knees turned to castanets. This was the woman who knew him as a traitor, the one who would denounce him at sight. A fine time for her to arrive!
The war-charger stepped about nervously.
“Time enough for the goddess later,” Urganilla roared. “I have ridden hard and fast to bring news. The Greeks have rallied and will be upon us by midday tomorrow. We must march to meet them or they will fall upon us here in the camp.”
Clio’s sword whipped out, but Queen Thecla struck down the other’s arm. “Nay, Artemis has spoken! We are no longer the rulers here. By the goddess’s command, we must go to our tents. ’Tis the men who must sally forth to fight the Greeks.”
She strode forward, extending her sword, hilt-first, to the shrinking Antigonus. “Here. This shall be yours.”
“B-but!” stuttered Antigonus. “Your Majesty, we cannot fight.”
“You must. Else the Greeks will slaughter us all. It is the divine command.”
The men dropped their banners and wailed in horror. Above the tumult rose Antigonus’s terrified voice.
“Nay, we have no wish to rule. We are content as we were. It was that slave Petros Mancos who bent us to his wishes. We d-don’t want equal rights. Oh, your Majesty, please let us go back to our tents and do the washing as we’ve always done.”
“Petros Mancos!” There was fury in Clio’s voice. “I suspected him of trouble-making. Where is he now?”
Antigonus was spared the necessity of answering. Urganilla’s horse, frightened by the commotion, danced over to the altar and tried to mount it. The searchlight swung wildly as flying hoofs jerked at concealed wires. The glaring beam swept in an arc, and, as though guided by some malevolent demon, rested on the shrinking figure of Pete Manx, cowering in the lower branches of an olive tree.
“Petros Mancos!” It was Clio who spoke, and in no friendly voice.
“Nay,” Urganilla bellowed. “That is not his name. That coward slave is Zeno, who once betrayed us to the Greeks. I promised then that I would tear out his heart and eat it. A-argh!” With that, she hurled herself from the horse’s back and plunged like a berserk gorilla toward Pete Manx.
There was no time for thought. Automatically Pete Manx jerked at a wire, and the searchlight’s beam vanished. In the sudden darkness, he descended from the olive tree and took to his heels. Behind him he heard a thunderous crash and a roar of searing oaths. There was tumult.
“Find him,” Clio shouted. “Throw a cordon around the camp. Search the tents. Warn the sentries. We shall slay him together, Urganilla.”
“Oh, gosh,” Pete Manx gasped as he fled for his life. “This is the worst yet. What a spot.” Impartially he cursed Professor Aker, Margie, the Amazons, and Fate.
PINE torches flared. The camp was a riot of activity. The men were cowering in their tents, horrified at the result of their abortive rebellion. The women went raging about, swords bared, keen eyes searching for sight of Mr. Manx.
That worthy was high in an oak tree, sharing his quarters with a disinterested owl. He had already tried to pass alert sentries, and escaped capture only by the skin of his teeth. He was safe on his precarious perch till daylight. Then anything could happen.
“Think, brain,” Pete Manx admonished himself. “Quick, go to town. I’ve gotta figure something out, and fast.” Then inspiration came. Pete Manx let out a subdued whoop of joy that made the owl contemplate him curiously. With a quick glance around, he descended from the oak and stealthily slipped off into the gloom.
There was a way, a desperate one, but it was the only chance Pete Manx had. If it worked—he might manage to save his skin.
Twenty minutes later the searchlight again blazed out on the clearing in the sacred grove. An Amazon saw it, then another. One by one and two by two the perspiring, panting warriors hurried off to investigate.
They found Pete Manx sitting on the altar, swinging his legs and grinning happily.
“Wait,” said an Amazon, seizing her companion’s arm. “Urganilla will wish to kill the slave herself. He cannot escape.”
Pete Manx seemingly had no wish to escape. He waited till Queen Thecla and Clio had appeared, and then leaped nimbly to the ground. In the distance the bellowing of Urganilla was growing louder. Someone had told her that the culprit was found.
“It is no use to throw yourself on my mercy,” Thecla said coldly. “You must die.”
“Let me slay him,” Clio urged.
“Urganilla shall have that pleasure. For his blasphemy he deserves death.”
“Well, here she is,” Clio said, smiling in a pleased fashion.
Urganilla burst into view, roared, and made for Pete Manx, sword flashing. Pete Manx summoned all his courage.
“Halt!” he yelled.
Automatically the Amazon slowed down. Manx followed up his advantage.
“Listen,” he said. “This ain’t fair. I don’t mind a fight, but that dame’s got a sword.”
Urganilla laughed like a hyena. “With my bare hands I shall crush you. I need no sword.” She hurled it away.
Pete Manx nodded, glancing around the ring of Amazons. “Fair enough. You ladies think you’re pretty tough. But you never run up against a real man before. If you ain’t afraid of me, Urgie, how about a wrestling match?”
Someone laughed. Even the giantess could not repress a grin.
“Puny shrimp! Aye, we wrestle. As you like. No one has ever challenged me and lived.”
Pete Manx looked at Thecla. “How about it? If I win, can I go free?”
The Queen nodded. “Aye, poor fool, if you win.”
And with that the female gorilla rushed at Pete Manx.
There was a confused tangle, a shriek of agony from Urganilla, and the lady landed flat on her back near the altar. Mr. Manx brushed off his sleeve and sighed in a bored fashion.
The Amazons gasped.
Urganilla bounced up.
“Yaah!” she bellowed. “By Zeus, Hero, Apollo and all the devils of Hades, I shall eat your heart for this!”
She looked as if she meant it.
Instead, she described an arc that ended at the foot of a gnarled oak. Urganilla twitched a few times and then lay still. There was blank silence.
Pete
Manx yawned. “Anybody else?” he inquired. “One at a time, of course. That’ll make it last longer.”
Clio accepted the offer. Grinning with fury, she leaped for Manx. Then, suddenly, she screamed at the top of her voice and almost turned a backward somersault, landing heavily on her back.
She did not offer to get up.
“Well, I’m open to offers,” Pete Manx remarked. “Winner take all. Who wants to wrestle?”
An Amazon glanced at Thecla for permission, which was given with a nod. She landed on top of Clio. Another tried her luck. Then another. None of them had better luck.
Thecla was the last. She, too, uttered a piercing scream and fell sprawling. By the time she revived, the other Amazons were sitting quietly in a group, staring at Pete Manx. The Queen, gulping, unsheathed her sword and held it out hilt-first to the man.
“Forgive us,” she said, unsteadily. “We did not recognize you in mortal form, O Zeus. Loose no more lightnings upon us. Only tell us how we can serve you and atone for our blindness.”
“Forget it,” Pete Manx said generously. “Just see it don’t happen again, that’s all. We’ll let bygones be bygones. You trot out and drive off the Greeks, and we’ll call it quits.”
“As you command,” Thecla said humbly, and all the Amazons crawled off backward, dragging with them the unconscious bodies of Urganilla and Clio. Pete Manx heaved a deep sigh.
“Women!” he said bitterly.
Woosh!
HE WAS, of course, back in the laboratory, sitting in the time-machine chair and looking up into the massive red face of Professor Aker. The scientist appeared rather repentant.
“Well,” said Pete Manx. “A fine pal you turned out to be.”
“I couldn’t resist the temptation,” Aker explained, helping the other stand up on cramped legs. “Besides, I’ve always been curious about the Amazons. It worked out all right, I see—eh?”
“No thanks to you.” Pete Manx massaged aching arms. “Oh-oh! I almost forgot. What about Margie?”
Aker fingered a slight discoloration under one eye, “She gave me a—uh—mouse, I believe it is termed. An extraordinary woman. I showed her your body and said you were dead, but she didn’t believe it. She’s marching up and down outside the house now, with two snakes around her neck.”
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