by Don Wilcox
Prepare for the worst? Neither Zaleena nor Stupe was prepared for the shocking thing they discovered when they ascended the steps of the balcony throne.
“Wake up, Old Man . . . Wake up . . . Wake . . . What’s the matter with him? His hands are cold.”
“Dead,” said Zaleena quietly. “In his sleep Death has overtaken him.”
CHAPTER XL
For a long while the two of them stood in respectful silence. He had been a grand Old Man, a deity by the grace of men’s belief in him. Now he had slipped away from the world of the living, as all mortals must do at sometime.
At once Stupe knew that Zaleena’s difficulties had bounded out of hand. What could she do? The wall, in spite of successive patches was still leaking. The people were complaining that spots around the new patch were allowing slow streams of water to seep in.
But for their superstitious faith in the Old Man, the whole city would be in a panic at this very moment. A stampede of any sort would probably cost several lives.
“They mustn’t know,” Stupe said. “Not yet.
Zaleena’s eyelids flickered rapidly. She walked down the steps to the balcony level, took one glance at the quiet city below her, then called across to a servant on an adjoining bridge.
“Will you please take a message to the committee for me? . . . Tell them this: In three days when the celebration is held, I shall be wedded to the Old Man.”
CHAPTER XLI
It all happened quietly and swiftly.
Only a few of Zaleena’s trusted servants knew. They assisted her with the delicate operation of cutting off the Old Man’s white hair, bushy eyebrows and flowing beard. Then, they buried him at sea, and they mourned in private through the hour of dawn.
It was a bold plan. There was no time to waste. Zaleena’s own skilled fingers did most of the work, a few servants assisting. Stupe Smith lay back in his chair beneath the white light as they worked on him. The long, white whiskers that had belonged to the Old Man were being painstakingly glued to his face.
Stupe, henceforth, must be the Old Man.
“It is the only way,” Zaleena said over and over. “You must play the part.”
Stupe was on pins and needles. His furtive eyes watched the reactions of the make-up artists as they worked on his face. Little by little they were accomplishing their purpose with him.
“The irony of it,” he thought. “The goddess of eternal youth loves me, and so she makes an Old Man of me.”
When at last a mirror was set before him, Stupe was astonished and delighted to discover how he had been transformed.
Zaleena, having pledged her helpers to secrecy, led Stupe at once to the balcony throne. Henceforth he would guard the spiral stairs that led to the sea platform overhead.
Mirrors were placed in his small throne room to enable him to practice the mannerisms of the Old Man. He experimented with his voice until he learned to speak slowly and with the little quaver of age in his tones.
“You are so good a substitute that I am not sure you were ever Stupe Smith,” said Zaleena, running her fingers through his white hair.
“I may be an Old Man,” he said, “but remember you are still Dudu to me.”
She bent to kiss him, in spite of his long beard. Her action was interrupted by the footsteps of an official messenger bounding up the six steps that lead to the throne room.
“Begging your pardon,” said the messenger. Stupe’s fingers twitched nervously on the arm of his massive chair. This was his first test before the eyes of his subjects.
The messenger had come to speak to Zaleena of the rumor concerning the wedding. The news, spreading swiftly through the city, was a signal for rejoicing.
“Now the undercurrents of fear will melt away,” the messenger said. “The people know that your marriage to the Old Man will guarantee long life to him. He will live on, and our walls will be safe.”
Stupe held his breath. The messenger’s simple faith was touching. But Stupe and Zaleena were standing on the brink of disaster. One word, one slip could shatter the faith of this man and all his people.
Stupe kept nodding slowly, just as the Old Man would have done. The messenger gave him only a few kindly glances, concentrating most of his attention upon Zaleena and the mirrors. Curiously enough, the mirrors, giving back to the messenger his own reflection from several angles, performed a helpful function. He was unconsciously distracted by these images of himself so that he did not scrutinize the features of the “Old Man” as Stupe had feared he would do.
“With your permission,” the messenger said, “the people would like to begin their celebration at once and continue through the hour of the wedding.”
Zaleena turned to Stupe. He knew her thoughts. She was grieving inwardly over the loss of the Old Man, and could never endure two days of merry-making. It would be all the two of them could do to carry on with their awful deception.
She turned the question to him. “How would you answer the messenger?”
Stupe’s throat tightened. He spoke in an uneven voice, gesturing slowly with his trembling hand.
“Have the people look to their walls,” he said. “The flow of water must be stopped completely. Let the workmen try once more to build a stronger patch.”
The messenger bowed, swallowed his disappointment, and hurried away to report the wishes of these deities.
“Well done, Old Man,” Zaleena said softly, taking Stupe’s hand. Then he saw that she was weeping. “Don’t worry, little goddess,” he said. “We’ll come through somehow.”
For many minutes he comforted her. She was so very human, so full of human weaknesses, that in this dark hour she believed she had never deserved the gift of a goddess. Had she the will to go on with this desperate plan of deception?
“The worst is already over,” said Stupe. “If your servants will keep our secret, and if you will not make any public appearances too difficult, no one will ever know.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Stupe Smith. It’s much easier being a goddess with you to lean upon.”
He gave her a comical wink. “The joker in your bargain is that you’re going to have to marry me. Have you stopped to think of that?”
She looked away, and her shining dark eyes were wistful as she said, “You needn’t feel that you are really married to me, you know. After all, we’re only doing this so our people will believe—”
She didn’t get to finish for Stupe quickly drew her into his arms and said, almost fiercely, “Dudu, you can’t dodge me that way. You and I are going to be married, and I mean married.”
He brushed his white beard out of the way so that he could kiss her as convincingly as possible under the circumstances.
There was mischief in her eyes as she said, “You’re not behaving at all like an Old Man . . . but I think I’m going to like being married to you.”
CHAPTER XLII
From South America to New York to the Southeast Ocean of Venus, a rambling pattern of Stupendous Smith’s activities spread wide and deep.
There were many people in the Andes who remembered the unrecognized heroism of Smith’s rescue expedition from many months before.
Through America and Europe many comfortable arm-chair travelers mused over chance items in the travel magazines and paused at the name of “Stupendous” Smith.
“So he’s gone to Venus with some sort of exploring party,” they might say. “Wonder what he’ll find up there?” or “I hope he gets his dues this time. It seemed to me the newspapers never gave him full credit for the fine work he did down in South America.”
Avid readers of the gossip columns in Boston or Los Angeles might have commented too. “Well, of all things. Here it says Mae Krueger has gone along with her husband on a Venus expedition. Now there’s a juicy item. You know she’s the only girl Stupe Smith ever fell for, and he’s in Venus too.”
Such trifles of gossip meant nothing to the pompous Mr. Wellington. In his mind’s eye, the new empire was at last taking shape. Word had come
back from Venus that the American Ambassador was proving no match for the diverse machinations of his two expeditions. The Ambassador’s activities had, of necessity, been limited to sending out scouting parties and forwarding their reports to Washington.
“They’ll wake up in Washington some bright morning,” Wellington said to his personal staff of assistants, “to discover there’s already a Wellington flag flying over the upper half of a continent.”
Somewhere in England the eccentric little Mr. Vest lectured to a group of professors. He climaxed his remarks with, “Gentlemen, I have told you these experiences without exaggeration or restraint. And let me add that my story of the strange phenomenon of Venus has been told only once before, in strictest confidence. J.J. Wellington based his expeditions to Venus upon this story, and as long as he acted in good faith this knowledge remained exclusively his. But now—well, Mr. Wellington has misused my information for certain unethical purposes. His changed attitude has killed my confidence in him. You, gentlemen, I want you to know these facts. If they are of any use to the world of science, please make the most of them.”
“It sounds like a figment of Mr. Vest’s imagination,” one of the professors commented afterward, “but I never say yes or no to any theory until I have examined the evidence. I propose we send a delegation to this Mr. Wellington of America and ask him to make public the findings of his two expeditions . . .”
On the planet of Venus at the American Embassy, Ambassador Jewell looked out upon the space port, and pondered the ills of the world. The American Government would have to appropriate more money for its interplanetary stations if it expected to keep tab on all of these pioneers of space.
The second Wellington party had come like an eager prize fighter stepping into the ring, and had hardly taken time to shake hands. Its leader, Captain Sam Krueger, must have had his plans for swift action all set. While he and his attractive red-haired wife were politely dining with the Ambassador, at noon an official from the space port tiptoed into the dining room and whispered, “Mr. Jewell, they have not allowed us to inspect their goods. They appear to be all set to move on without unloading.”
The Ambassador paled as he turned to his guests. “Is there any reason why the official inspection of your equipment shouldn’t take place at once?”
Krueger, a wide shouldered man with a hard jaw and thick curly hair, gave a solid gesture of approval. “Let ‘em do their worst, Ambassador. Hell, yes, tell ‘em to go ahead.”
But his wife had touched the Ambassador’s arm with her graceful fingers. “My, is time so precious on this planet that we can’t wait until we have finished this delightful dinner? Your officials must have been reared in the subway.”
Ambassador Jewell smiled politely, and said that the inspection could wait until after dinner.
After dinner he was drawn into an unexpected conference concerning the wingmen that seemed too important to be delayed. A wingman had brought back a suitcase which one of his fellows had evidently stolen. This gesture of honesty might mean much in the promotion of peace between the races. The Ambassador devoted twenty minutes to the conference, and in his absence, the new Wellington party dashed away.
“Here’s Krueger’s note,” an official said, “Their spaceship was all set for an after dinner air cruise. Krueger said he wanted to get a bird’s eye view of the planet yet this afternoon.”
“Of all the ill manners!” The Ambassador’s comment was a masterpiece of understatement.
The following day several of the Ambassador’s picked scouts returned in their midget planes to report that the new air cruising space ship was planting small batches of military supplies at various strategic points over the continent. Ambassador Jewell went to bed with a raging headache.
At the beach beyond the Thirteenth Finger the circle of wingmen grew weary of their stalemated siege. Many hours had passed since they had taken up their position around the mountainside caverns.
On the first night they had broken ranks and carried the body of Gunawoo into the mountains for burial.
The parents of little Gooyay had ventured in another direction. They had approached the mouth of the cave cautiously, found no one there, had waited, listening. Finally they called softly. No answer. Panno wanted to venture in, but Latee dissuaded him.
“We had better stay with the tribe. They have come all this distance to help us. We must not do anything contrary to their plan.”
“We shall wait until morning.”
Then the two of them had returned sorrowfully to the ranks that were reforming around the cave. The hours of waiting passed slowly . . .
Meanwhile Dr. Jabetta had groped through the long, dark tunnel in search of the rest of the party. His sunset vigil at the mouth of the cave, with a deadly hypodermic needle ready, had ended with the coming of darkness. By then he had guessed that the wingmen did not intend to attack. Their attitude was that of patient waiting.
He had gathered up all the food supplies he could carry, and had retreated into the tunnels.
Occasionally he stopped to hide part of the supplies as his load grew too heavy. Now and then he came upon a sign that reassured him—an arrow cut in the wall, a foot print in the wet clay, or an orange colored feather that pointed the way ahead.
Down and down the path led, and often the descent was steep. A subterranean river had flowed through this channel on its way to the sea. Waterfalls, eddies, sharp twists and turns marked its now deserted course.
“Voices!” the doctor said from time to time. “Voices! I must be getting nearer. Why did they go so far?”
If gravity had not been with them, they certainly would not have traveled such a distance. But an errant little winged boy had set the pace for them, and he had followed the line of least resistance. The doctor couldn’t help wondering how one of the Stevens girls had kept pace on such a rough path. Her recent illness would tell on her. They shouldn’t have allowed her to go so far.
“Did that little winged cuss know where he was leading them?” the doctor wondered. “Does he know a way out of this, or is he playing a devil of a trick on everybody. Including himself?”
Then, “Voices! Voices!”
But the voices materialized as a gurgling waterfall. The tiny underground stream echoed among the stalactites and stalagmites like the laughter of children.
Water was welcome. The doctor drank deeply, rested a moment while he flashed the light over the foot tracks on the clay floor, and then hurried on.
An hour later the voices became a reality. He found almost all of the party huddled together, cold, damp and weary, in a dark cavern chamber.
“Ve vere so scared,” Gypsy Brown said sleepily, “We thought you vould be dead bevore ve turned der vourth corner.”
“The fourth corner is a long way back,” said the doctor.
“You are telling us!”
“Are you all here?”
“All but Hefty. He iss still on der chase. Dot leedle vinged scamperbug, he keeps six chumps ahead, right down der line!”
CHAPTER XLIII
The “basket” was like an immense red and yellow flower pot, large enough that Stupe could stand in the center, rest his hands on the ornamented rim, and look out at the assemblage of undersea citizens.
The basket was lowered from the overhead balcony by cables. Stupe moved down with it slowly, his heart pounding, his fingers tight upon the curved sides. The hour had come for him to make his first public appearance in the guise of the Old Man.
Fully ten thousand people, dressed in their most colorful holiday costumes, waved to him as he slowly descended. He brushed his white beard casually, as the Old Man might have done. The first words of his speech were waiting on the tip of his tongue. The basket began to sway a little, and its slow pendulum effect caused the thousands of faces, upturned against the light, to move back and forth in slow rhythm.
He glanced toward the upper walls. The new patch was fully one hundred and twenty feet in width. The Inspector
had been working overtime, it was rumored, to make sure all of the Eggs were in good condition. Were the people secure in their faith that the Old Man could insure them against disaster? Stupe wondered.
In spite of the new patch, the water was still seeping in slowly. Seven long ribbons of seepage stretched from the lower edges of the patch to the ground level several hundred feet below. Pools of water had formed in the yards of the residents who lived on the outer rim of the city.
“Have those stone-glass patches always worked?” Stupe had asked Zaleena earlier. “Can we be sure that we are safe? Shouldn’t we try experimenting with some new materials?”
Zaleena had not known what to answer. She was afraid that any change of materials would shatter the confidence of the engineers. “I don’t understand. Do you suppose the Old Man’s death is responsible?”
Stupe preferred to believe that the explosion had caused some sort of decay to eat its way through the stone-glass. Still, he wondered . . . To what extent could the superstitions of these people be trusted?
“Does the Spirit have any answers for you?” he had asked her. “If we should read more from the book would some vision of help come to us?”
Zaleena-Zaleese had led him, then, to the study table beneath the amber light, and had turned the thick pages slowly.
“Take me away soon, Stupe. Take me away from this world, back to your own country.” That was all she would say.
Now as he descended to speak to the vast crowd assembled before him, these thoughts weighed down upon him. Disaster hovered over the city. The gods had played false with these people.
Did gods deserve to be gods, he wondered, when they had made people remain in a city even though it had sunk into the sea? These superstitious citizens had believed this spot to be sacred. And through the past decades, as the coastline sank rapidly, they had clung fanatically to their chosen soil.
Did a goddess deserve to be a goddess? This question weighed upon Stupe’s conscience like lead.