He scanned the ground for a few yards around, found a half-rusted metal bar, and jammed its thin end between the edges of the two great doors. A few heaves of his muscular shoulders, applied to the makeshift pry-bar, and the doors creaked open.
Buck stepped inside.
The inside of the old temple still had an air of splendor for all that its roof and walls were falling in and its once-polished floor was thickly littered with debris and covered with thick dust and windblown sand and salt-crystals. Buck wandered through the building until he found a directory hanging crookedly from a single wall-bracket.
He rubbed away the accumulated grime from the covering of the directory and found the words, Genealogy Section in Basement. He picked his way through fallen fixtures and rotting rubble until he found a stairway. No point in looking for an elevator—if there was one it would surely be inoperable.
In the basement he found the genealogy section, threw open its doors and stepped into—a completely empty room!
What had happened? No files, no shelves or cabinets or stacks of crumbling papers. No trays of microfiches or racks of computer tapes.
Nothing!
Buck stood, stunned, gazing at the cavernous, vacant vault. Suddenly he was buried under half a dozen muscular bodies. Buck flailed out with arms and legs, struggling to free himself of the grip of his unanticipated assailants. He landed a solid right to the jaw of one attacker, felt a satisfying impact as he planted one foot in the belly of another.
He freed an elbow long enough to land it in the Adam’s apple of a third, and over the turmoil and confusion of the free-for-all, heard the man gasping and retching desperately.
An arm clamped around Buck’s face, the beefy muscle closing off his nose and mouth in an effort to smother him into submission. He managed to get his teeth open, then clamped them ferociously into the arm. With a howl of outrage his attacker released his grip, yanked the arm away with a sound of tearing cloth—or flesh!
The force of the man’s reaction spun Buck out of the grip of his remaining assailants and he sprawled a few yards across the untenanted floor of the room, leaped to his feet and drew his laser-pistol. Before he could get off a single bolt he was dealt a vicious, treacherous rabbit punch from behind. He was stunned, his knees buckling beneath him.
Through dimming eyes he saw a huge Draconian lunging toward him. He managed to squeeze off a bolt at the attacker but the Draconian’s momentum carried him forward and he collided with Buck, the two of them collapsing to the floor. A hand reached into the tangle of flaccid limbs and seized Buck’s laser-gun. Thick fingers adjusted the setting and another bolt was fired—this time at Captain Buck Rogers!
The gloom and partial unconsciousness that he had been fighting increased, then disappeared into total nothingness.
The giant Draconian starship received the little shuttlecraft into its hangar bay, the movable plates of the bay’s outer shell rotating on their gimbal joints as servomotors whined. The hatches of the shuttlecraft swung open as soon as air-pressure indicators showed a safe level of atmosphere inside the bay.
Draconian-uniformed crewmen swarmed around the shuttlecraft as it unloaded. Two of the six Draconians aboard the shuttle were carried out on stretchers, two went toward a debriefing room, and two headed for the first-aid station. The prize prisoner, Buck Rogers, was brought out on a stretcher. He was transferred from stretcher to rolling cart and checked over at once by a Draconian medic, who looked up from his medic-probe readouts and nodded his satisfaction.
On the control bridge of the starship, meanwhile, commands were issued to put the engines of the behemoth into star-warp mode. With an acceleration almost imperceptible to the occupants of the mighty hulk, the ship accelerated past conventional speeds, through the perilous light-speed zone and into warp-space where all of the normal laws of time and dimension are called into question.
As those crewmen brave enough to watch the normal universe turned inside out gazed in awe through the viewing ports of the ship’s bridge, Buck Rogers opened his own eyes. They were still somewhat bleary, his ears still rang and his body ached and tingled as if it had been struck by a bolt of lightning—which, in a sense, it had.
The room in which Buck found himself was a sumptuous stateroom aboard the Draconian ship. The furnishings were soft, rich, clearly designed for the pleasure of one whose sensuous impulses were routinely indulged to the ultimate degree.
And, looming above Buck, the carefully calculated casualness of her posture designed to show off the luxuriant, tempting curves of a generously proportioned torso, was the Princess Ardala. Last unmarried daughter of the Emperor Draco, Ardala was heiress-apparent to the throne of the greatest interstellar empire in the known history of the universe.
The Draconian Empire stretched from Canopus to Tau Ceti, from Ophiuchi to Wolf-35. It took in stars, planets, and nebulae, worlds of incredible mineral riches, magnificent wildlife, and intelligences and civilizations so perfectly humanoid that no earth-born visitor could detect a difference—as well as some so totally alien that no ordinary man could look upon them and still retain his sanity!
The Emperor Draco had fathered thirty children in his lifetime—or, thirty that he was willing to acknowledge as royal offspring. By an incredible medical anomaly—or perhaps, simply, by a wildly astonishing run of chromosomes on the cosmic wheel of fortune—all thirty of the royal offspring were daughters.
Of these, twenty-nine had married. And Draco had found each and every one of his twenty-nine sons-in-law unsatisfactory stock for the breeding of an interstellar imperial dynasty. All had been gently but firmly buried in the administrative bureaucracy of the Draconian Empire, sent to obscure military outposts in positions of grand pomp and no authority, appointed to positions academic or administrative where they and their wives, the imperial princesses, could live out their lives in comfort and honor—but would pose no threat to the throne of the empire.
Draco’s last hope was Ardala. She must find a mate suitable to father the future emperors of the Draconian realm! She must!
Kane, the oily and treacherous satrap of a series of imperial enclaves, had attached himself repeatedly to Ardala’s entourage, hoping to ingratiate himself with the princess and establish himself as prince-consort to the heiress-apparent of the empire. Ardala had played with Kane, now leading him on, now rebuffing his overeager advances.
It was only when she first saw Buck Rogers that she understood why she had refused to give her hand to Kane. Here, in this earthman from the past, was the proper consort for Her Highness! As Kane had pursued Ardala, so Ardala now was prepared to all but fling herself at Buck Rogers.
There had been one problem to overcome—reading between the lines of the reports from her spies, Ardala had seen that Rogers had apparently chosen the simpering, scrawny Wilma Deering of Earth.
But the lusty, voluptuous Ardala was by no means giving up on her choice of a consort. Certainly not with Wilma Deering safely out of the way—at least for a time!—and Buck Rogers lying helpless on his back beneath the hot eyes and hotter hands of Princess Ardala!
Rogers managed to focus his eyes, peering helplessly up into the dark, fiery orbs of the princess. As he did so the princess whispered, “Welcome, Buck Rogers. You are in my domain now, and I offer you warmest welcome.”
Buck blinked. “Princess Ardala,” he said at last. “So it is you. I thought I was having a dream.”
“How nice of you to say so,” the princess cooed. She leaned closer to Buck so he could feel her breath on his cheek, her soft, eager torso pressing against his chest.
“It was like—” Buck paused.
“Yes,” Ardala prompted, “what was it like, your dream of me?”
“Like—some kind of weird nightmare,” Buck said.
The exertion of even the brief dialogue was too much for a man who had survived the strains that Buck Rogers had endured. Once more consciousness slipped from him.
Ardala pulled away from the unconscious m
an, fury written boldly across her barbarously beautiful features. “A nightmare,” she echoed furiously. “A nightmare! You swine! You insolent, worthless dog, Rogers! You shall pay for that insult! You and your pale nothing, your excuse-for-a-sweetheart Deering!
“You shall pay for that, both of you!”
N I N E
The Intelligence and Scanning Center of Inner City command headquarters was the second most important and second most secret location in the planetary capital’s military establishment. It was second only to the War Room itself. And there were those who maintained, not without good cause, that even this was a reversal of the true situation—that the Intelligence and Scanning Center was actually more important than the War Room itself.
Radar screens glowed eerily in the gloomy, cavernous room. Computer terminals clicked and chattered as they printed out status and condition reports on the Earth’s military preparedness, on the location and course of every known spacecraft within striking range of Earth, of every interceptor ship and weapon in the planet’s defensive arsenal.
Things had not always been so on Earth. At one time the planet’s military preparedness was divided and directed at other targets on the surface of the planet itself. Nation had stood poised, ready to spring at the throat of nation. Real or imagined enemies glared angrily across polar azimuths, each tensely awaiting a sign that the other was preparing to attack, each ready with a preemptive strike force of its own.
Then had come the holocaust.
And after the holocaust, just as Earth was beginning to recover its strength for a new assault on the heights of civilization, the planet had learned that it needed all its preparedness and all its fighting strength to defend itself against a new menace—the Empire of Draco!
The result had been the construction of Inner City’s defense squadron, the War Room, the planetary defense shield, and the Intelligence and Scanning Center.
Now, as teams of male and female technicians clad in form-fitting, trim unisex uniforms crouched over glowing readout screens and diode-generated messages flashed on overhead projector screens, the most highly respected scientific mind and political leader of the Inner City and the entire planet entered the room.
He was a small, unobtrusive man garbed in prosaic white laboratory clothes. His head was as bald and pink as a baby’s, but behind his old-fashioned lens-and-earpiece spectacles, the only personal idiosyncrasy he permitted himself, there gleamed bright and gimlet-sharp eyes.
Dr. Huer approached the chief supervisor of the Intelligence and Scanning Center. The supervisor looked up and greeted the familiar form of the scientist, as did a few technicians not too absorbed in their duties to notice. There were faces of every race and age known on the surface of Earth. Most of them were human, a few of them slightly mutated. One non-human face was that of a Tigerman, and another was the sterile, intelligent visage of the armorer robot, Ellis 14.
“Dr. Huer,” the supervisor greeted, “come in.”
“Thank you, Latner, I’m already in,” the scientist responded sharply. “I want to know the status.”
Latner turned to a senior technician. “Put the path readout up on the main screen,” he commanded.
The technician obeyed. The main projection screen of the Intelligence and Scanning Center flashed into life. Its surface represented a three-dimensional image of deep space. Glowing points of variously colored light appeared and moved slowly across its surface, representing spaceships being tracked by the monitors.
“We traced Captain Rogers’ line-beam to the area on Earth that used to be called the Great Salt Lake,” Latner explained to Huer. “The lake is long gone but there are still salt flats there.
“At or near the site of the lakebed, Rogers entered a ruined building. Shortly thereafter he left—or was taken from—the building. We suspect that he was taken, unless he’s playing a complex game with us, and had prearranged the whole expedition. Because the ship in which he left was very large. At least a C-III, possibly even a D-III class deepspace cruiser.
“Captain Rogers left his own starfighter behind on the salt flat. It has been retrieved. Totally undamaged and ready to fly.”
Latner pointed to the screen again. “The cruiser followed the trajectory indicated on the scanning screen, Doctor. If Captain Rogers meant to escape from Earth, I should think he’d have abandoned or disabled his line-beam. On the other hand, he may be leading us on some sort of subtle chase.” He spread his hands helplessly.
Dr. Huer paced back and forth, his hands clasped in the small of his back. “The size of the ship suggests Draconians.”
“Yes,” Latner agreed, “as far as we know only their ships have D-III capabilities, and hardly anyone else has even C-III.”
“Well, then.” Huer’s eyes snapped a jolt of interrogation at Latner. “What was the final destination of the cruiser?”
Latner made a series of embarrassed, throat-clearing sounds. “Ah, we don’t exactly know that, Dr. Huer. We lost the line-beam when the ship was somewhere in the Tri-org galaxy.”
“They went extra-galactic?” Huer demanded.
“Yes. And at some point the cruiser’s course took it to a position where a black sun intervened between the line-beam and our scanners. We lost them, Doctor. We’re continuing the scan. Maybe we’ll pick up the beam again, sir.”
Huer sighed dishearteningly. “I thought you people claimed you’d developed a foolproof scanning technique with the line-beam and scanner setup. What’s the matter with you people?”
“Sir, I didn’t say the line-beam was foolproof. None of our people did. It was the robot that developed the line-beam, he’s the one who claimed it was foolproof.” Latner jerked a thumb angrily toward Ellis 14.
The robot shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.
The family of planets circling a distant star whose very light, by the time it reaches Earth, is merely part of a galactic shimmer, bears only a slight resemblance to the family of planets circling Earth’s own sun. There is no analogue for tiny, sun-baked Mercury. None for giant, gaseous Jupiter. None for beautiful, ringed Saturn. And surely none for warm, life-spawning Earth.
But there is one point of similarity: there is, in each of the two solar systems we are considering, a belt of “asteroids.” More properly (the original name was applied through an ancient astronomical misunderstanding) they should be called “planetoids.” That is, a hoop-shaped belt of small, planetlike bodies that revolve around their sun in a common orbit, well out between two of the larger planets’ orbits.
On one of these miniature worlds circling that alien sun, there stands an astonishing city. The planetoid is too small to retain any natural atmosphere, but thanks to the well-developed technology of races who dwell within the Draconian Empire—whose science had been looted without payment by their conquering masters—this city boasted a comfortable outdoors atmosphere, complete with parks, roadways, and plazas.
In one of the buildings of the city an earthman lay recovering from exposure, assault, and laser-stun. He was Buck Rogers, having been transferred here at the personal command and under the personal supervision of the Princess Ardala, following their brief, unpleasant exchange aboard the Draconian D-III deepspace cruiser.
Emerging from the deep sleep of exhaustion, Buck looked up to see the sensuous form of the Princess Ardala bending over him, gazing solicitously into his eyes.
“Princess Ardala,” Buck said. “I had the strangest dream. I said some things in it . . .”
The princess smiled oddly into Buck’s face and took a step away from the place where he lay.
“Don’t go,” Buck asked.
The princess didn’t reply.
Buck reached for her, tried to grasp her with one hand. He thought he had put his hand on her arm, but he must have misjudged, for his hand passed through the air.
He sat up, reached with both arms, tried to embrace the voluptuous curves of the princess. His arms passed right through her as if she wasn’t there.
&n
bsp; “Now this must be the dream,” Buck gasped. “Maybe that was real before and I’m sleeping now. Maybe I’m not even here, is that it?”
“Oh, you’re here all right,” the princess said. “I’m not.”
As Buck watched, open-mouthed, the Princess Ardala slowly, slowly faded from view. Just before she disappeared completely Buck made a lunge, a final attempt to embrace her, but his arms passed completely through the space where she had stood.
“I bet you’re not much fun on a date,” Buck wisecracked.
The almost-invisible Ardala said, “Oh, I’m real enough, Buck. But my body isn’t there with you. I’m speaking via a PersonImage, a holographic projection. You might say that that’s what I am—a hologram.”
“Swell,” Buck snapped. “And I’m a Methodist. But I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”
“Oh, I’ll come by later, Buck. The next time you see me I’ll be there . . . in the flesh.” The emphasis she placed on the final words sent a ripple of goosebumps running over Buck’s body.
Before he could say anything further, the PersonImage had faded into complete invisibility.
“Out-a-sight,” Buck exclaimed. Then he caught onto his own double entendre, laughed and repeated it. “Out-a-sight!”
There was a knock on Buck’s door, and the panel slid aside, admitting a distinguished-looking elderly man before Buck had time even to call a summons to him to enter. The man bowed slightly, stepped into the room, and said, “Good day, Captain Rogers. I hope you do not mind receiving visitors.”
“Why should I talk to you?” Buck snapped back. “You’re not really here. I’ve been through all of that with Ardala. I mean, with Ardala’s PersonImage.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I assure you, Captain, that I am really here.” The newcomer walked to Buck’s side and said, “Here, try me and see.” He held out his arm in front of Buck.
The earthman tested the other’s arm and chest with both hands, making good and certain that he was really present and not merely a holographic projection before he would accept that reality. “Okay,” Buck finally admitted. “So you’re really here and she really isn’t. I have all the luck.”
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