by Don Wilcox
Gooyay pointed to the balcony. The throne where the Old Man had sat was empty. A dinner had been brought to him on a tray, but he had evidently failed to come for it.
“It was a good dinner,” said Gooyay, rubbing his fat little stomach.
“It’s a wonder they didn’t catch you and clip your wings, you little daredevil. Stay right where you are. I want you to run some errands for me. How long would it take you to retrace your steps through that long tunnel if I got a flashlight for you?”
Gooyay looked to the throne again, and his eyes roved upward to the tower that rose through the dome-like ceiling.
“There is a shorter way,” he said, smiling wisely, and his wings gave a proud little twitch.
Hefty stroked, his chin thoughtfully. “A way out?”
“To the sky,” said Gooyay, “and to the sea . . . and back to the land.”
“Eureka, little pal!”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’d pin a medal to your chest if I had a medal and you had anything besides bare skin to pin it to. Now listen to me closely.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your parents are on the land looking for you.”
“Of course. And all my Uncles and Cousins. You were afraid of them. That is why you took me down in the cave.”
The little dickens was wise, all right, Hefty thought. “It was a case of bad judgment, pal. We should have tried to make friends.”
“But Gunawoo does not make friends with you wingless people.”
“That’s the point. Gunawoo was a tough hunk of feathers. Well, Gunawoo is dead now.”
The lad already knew this, too. He hadn’t missed much of the earth party’s guarded conversation. “He died when he shook hands with the doctor. Now that he is dead, you can be friends easier.”
“You’re on the beam, Gooyay. You should have two medals. Here’s your first errand. Get out of this undersea booby trap and fly back to the land. Find your parents. Tell them you’re alive. Tell them you haven’t been harmed.”
“I will tell them everyone has been good to me. I have had fun.”
“Lad, I could hug you if I wasn’t afraid of crushing your wings.”
“I will tell them that Aunt Gypsy feeds me chocolate pies.”
“Yes!”
“But I will not say that I stole some.”
Hefty chuckled. “I’ll trust your good judgment on those delicate matters. Now, the second errand. If your parents aren’t too angry, ask them if you can come back.”
“I’ll run away.”
“No, don’t do that. That’s what caused all the trouble in the first place. Ask permission. Tell them you have some unfinished business out here in the sea—”
“The guards are coming.” Gooyay interrupted. “Shall I go?”
His orange wings showed bright under the intense glow of the concentric lights overhead. But his instinct told him how to make the most of shadows and protective coloration. He skipped quietly along a path of orange light and took to his wings almost silently. Hefty saw him circle to the balcony, bound up the spiral stairs, and disappear.
The four guards trudged past the other tower cells with speculative glances at the inmates.
“Here are the two we captured first,” Hefty heard one of them say as they approached his cell.
“Two?” said another. “I see only one.”
The four guards paused before Hefty’s bat, staring at the floor, the ceiling, and all the corners of the well built cage. Most of all, they stared at Hefty.
“Where is he?” they said.
“Who?” said Hefty innocently.
“You know who. There were two of you. What went with number two?”
“I’ve been asleep,” said Hefty. He yawned and patted his stomach. “Funny thing. I dreamed I ate a little winged boy. And to tell the truth I feel awful full.”
They guards may have lacked a sense of humor, Hefty thought; or they may have considered cannibalism a definite possibility among the various denizens of Venus. Their deadpan expressions told him nothing. Their one purpose now was to take him before the authorities to give an account of himself.
A quick walk along the elevated passages high above the city brought Hefty to the throne, six steps above the central balcony.
The Old Man shuffled uncomfortably, Hefty thought, and appeared to be more ill at ease than the six stern-faced committeemen.
“Sit down,” the Old Man said in a cracked voice. “We have several questions for you. First, why did you come here?”
Hefty tried to turn away from those searching eyes. He caught a glimpse of the other towers and knew that the other members of his party, imprisoned there, were depending upon him to lie his way out of this one. Very well, he would lie magnificently.
“We were searching for a friend,” said Hefty slowly. His furtive glance passed along the row of faces. The committeemen drilled him with accusing eyes. One of them said, “Go on, tell us your story.”
“We were looking for a friend named Stupe Smith—”
“Where? Down in our mines?” the Old Man said, gruffly interrupting. “All right, go on. What was he doing in our mines? Spying on us?”
“He wouldn’t do that,” said Hefty, oiling his voice with innocence. “He is an explorer and a right guy. He just got off the trail.”
“How? Why?”
“Well, something bumped him on the head. One of those five-ton snails pushed a couple-ton rock off a cliff accidentally, and it hit this guy Stupe—”
“How do you know the snail did it accidentally?” the Old Man asked.
“Because this guy Stupe is such a square guy that not even a snail would do him a dirty trick.”
“All right. The two-ton rock fell and killed your friend. Then what?”
“It didn’t exactly kill him,” said Hefty, mopping the perspiration from his forehead. “It just knocked him cuckoo. So he started running around like a bumblebee in a hail storm and he ran into that cave.”
“Why?”
“Because he was crazy. He didn’t know where he was going.”
“He should be killed on sight,” said the Old Man. “Tell us what he looks like.”
“Well, he’s about as tall as you, and his eyes are about the color of yours, and his nose—”
“Never mind the details,” said the Old Man. “If he’s down in our mines we’ll find him. The committeemen will no doubt dispatch a party at once . . . What do you say, gentlemen?”
The committeemen nodded and echoed, “At once.” The Old Man dismissed them.
Hefty gave a relieved sigh and turned to go, but the Old Man barked at the guards.
“Keep him here until I question him further.”
Hefty gulped. The blood rushed through his brain. It was going to take a bigger and better lie, he decided, for the Old Man’s fingers were twitching and that might be a sign of anger.
When he, the four guards and the Old Man were alone, the investigation started all over again.
“I can always tell when men are lying to me,” the aged voice resumed. “You see, I have the gift of reading minds. Your name—your name is Hefty Winkle . . .”
Hefty’s blood froze. He sank deeper into the chair as the Old Man, unquestionably a wizard, unfolded many facts before him. He told Hefty his age, his birthplace, his occupation and the number of prize fights he had lost and won.
“I can also name the members of your party.”
This was too much for Hefty. He noticed that the guards, too, were standing in awe of the Old Man’s every word. Then Hefty saw something that eased his tense muscles just a trifle. It was such an infinitesimal detail that he couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to him that the face hidden within the flowing white locks and the bushy white beard was smiling.
Yes, there was a barely perceptible Santa Claus twinkle at the corners of the Old Man’s eyes.
“So you were looking for your friend Stupe,” the Old Man went on, “and you d
on’t know where he is?”
Hefty raised an eyebrow. “Confidentially, I think I do. But I won’t tell.”
CHAPTER XLVII
The undersea courtroom scene became more complicated later in the day when the rest of the earth party was ushered in for questioning.
“Vot effer you’re accusing me uff, I didn’t do it,” Gypsy Brown asserted, her earrings clinking as she shook her head with innocence.
“They can’t pin anything on us,” said Thelma Stevens. She whispered to Frenchy, “What did you do with your knife?”
Frenchy shrugged and wobbled his eyes as if to avoid any mention of the matter. Hefty, looking him over, decided that the guards had probably taken it. Frenchy and Jake Fiddle were unshaved, and Hefty knew that their pirate-like appearance would go against the whole party in a trial like this.
The Old Man’s questioning was resumed as soon as the six committeemen reentered and seated themselves. Earlier the committee had recessed to start a search for the Mystical Stupe Smith, rumored to be somewhere in the mine tunnels. A happy inspiration had come to their rescue, however. The flow of water seeping through the patch and sliding down to the city streets was diverted to the mine shafts. Until a new patch could be prepared, the mines would serve as a flood-control measure. Anyone hiding within those myriad shafts had better come out or be drowned out.
“It’s a wonder the Old Man didn’t think of that idea himself,” one of the committee men had commented. “By the way, do you notice how he has changed? He has only been married to the goddess a few hours and already he seems younger. Her gift of Youth Eternal is extending to him also.”
Other members of the committee agreed. They noted that he spoke a little less slowly.
“His voice is stronger,” one said.
“His decisions, too.”
“But he is worried about the leaking wall. Watch his eyes.”
“That is why our people need not worry. Our gods do our worrying for us.”
“Are we sure he is a god?” one, skeptic asked. “To me, he is a god only as long as the wall holds the sea out. For several days the wall patch has been leaking. I am uncertain . . .”
There was similar confusion throughout the undersea city. Everyone had heard the mysterious words of the Spirit, during the wedding. Puzzling words, indeed—words which seemed to warn the city against bearing the weight of too many gods.
The Old Man rapped for attention, and the six native dignitaries ceased their whispering. The Old Man spoke, directing his words toward the eight members of the earth party.
“It is unnecessary for me to ask you more questions,” he said slowly. “I can read your minds and your motives. I know what it is that you want most of all.”
He paused. One of the committeemen, feeling that the committee was being left out in the cold, asked, “What is it that they want most of all?”
“They want to find their friend, Stupe Smith,” the Old Man said. “They came to Venus to help him look for our own goddess, Zaleena-Zaleese, who rides the white stallion under the sea.”
Gypsy Brown’s eyebrows jumped. “How did you know dot?”
“I know your mind, and your motives,” the Old Man repeated. “But I am afraid you will be disappointed. I am afraid that Stupe Smith has betrayed you.”
Hefty felt his nerves tying into knots. Was this Old Man actually Stupe Smith, in disguise? A few minutes earlier Hefty would have sworn that he was. But these words made him doubt it.
“I am afraid you have placed your faith in the wrong leader,” the Old Man continued.
“Is he alive or dead?” Dr. Jabetta asked.
“He is alive,” said the Old Man, “but he does not intend to go through with his original plan.”
“I don’t believe it.” Hefty came to his feet, shaking his fists. “Stupe Smith wouldn’t let us down. We’ve been loyal to him—”
“Silence!” The Old Man warned in a quavering voice. “He has changed. He has dropped old loyalties for new ones.”
“Vot kind of dope did you gif him?” Gypsy asked.
“He has seen the goddess Zaleena-Zaleese.”
“Don’t tell us he falls vor a woman so easy,” Gypsy retorted. “Besides, they say she iss married to you!”
The Old Man’s stony face gave no flicker of response. “I can only tell you that Stupe Smith, having seen the goddess, believes that she belongs here with her people. He would never be a party to her kidnapping.”
There were sullen mutterings among the eight earth folks. The six committeemen looked on with puzzled expressions. This was too much for them. A kidnapping plot against their goddess? Unthinkable! Absurd!
Slowly the hard meaning of the Old Man’s words penetrated. “We’ve been made fools of,” one of the Stevens girls mumbled. “Stupe has betrayed us.”
Dr. Jabetta spoke up. “All right, you whiskered wizard, you seem to know all the answers. I suppose you know what I’m thinking right now.”
“You are thinking,” said the Old Man, “that you will take over Stupe’s purpose yourself, that you will kidnap the girl and claim the prize yourself . . . Am I right?”
The doctor glared, red-faced. “All right, what if I do?”
“You wouldn’t!” Hefty leaped to his feet again.
“Why not? If Stupe has walked out on the job—”
“If he has, there must be a good reason!” Little Hefty Winkle smacked his fists together, just daring anyone in the crowd to disagree with him. Two guards forced him to sit down.
From her wall-side palace the goddess herself now appeared, riding across the elevated passageway to the central balcony. Hefty was fascinated as the bright glow of lights flooded down over the stallion’s gleaming white mane. Sparkles of colored light flashed from the jeweled harpoon the girl held carelessly over her pink shoulder. She tossed her head, and smiled as if to convey her blithe unconcern for all of this serious business. But Hefty sensed that she knew what was happening and had deemed it high time for her to get into the game and to play her own hand.
“How earnest you earth people do talk,” she said, pausing in front of the group. “Marble Boy and I can answer for ourselves.” She ran her fingers over the proudly curved neck of her mount. “We wish to leave this undersea kingdom. Which of you can lead us to a skip that will take us into the sky? Marble Boy and I wish to go to your earth at once.”
Her words struck like a bolt of lightning. The committeemen sat open-mouthed, gasping for words.
Gypsy Brown blurted. “Vell, say something, somebody. Ven do ve start? Does your Old Man go mit?”
“That,” said the goddess, “is entirely up to him.”
CHAPTER XLVIII
The continents of Venus, as viewed from the air by the second Wellington expedition, were bright and tempting. Vast untitled acres of level land awaited the pioneer farmers who would soon come to this planet. Mountain ranges lifted their rocky peaks to the passing summer clouds. Their sides were bluish-green in the late afternoon sunshine, their shadowed valleys a brilliant purple. Silver streams threaded the colorful landscape. It was an enchanting picture, one which, to the eyes of any earth visitor, gave promise of a prosperous and peaceful nation in the future.
Peace was hardly the word for the present state of human relationships in this broad land, however. The second expedition had come prepared to accomplish Wellington’s purpose, the swiftest way, let the chips fly where they may.
By this afternoon they had already run rough shod over two barriers. They had by-passed the American Ambassador’s official inspection. They had retorted with sarcasm to radio messages from Captain Meetz.
Mae Krueger, the pretty, red-haired wife of the second expedition’s captain, was not pleased by this second rash action.
“We better make our peace with Captain Meetz, Sam,” she advised. “He’s already on the grounds. What he has learned might be valuable.”
During the past hour she had observed several flocks of wingmen and had had her first
sight of the red-and-white monster snails moving along a valley where the rains had recently fallen.
“We’ll start right with Meetz,” said her husband, his jaws snapping. “We’ll give no orders and take no orders.”
They expected to find the captain of the first expedition in a well established camp on the beach somewhere above the Thirteenth Finger. The radio messages had advised them of the location and assured them that the terrain was suitable for a landing of their ship. Sam Krueger assumed that all fourteen of the original party would be grouped around waiting to receive them.
“I don’t care to have my plans laid out for me like so many pills to be swallowed.”
“Are we to land or not?” the navigator asked.
“Fly over, keep your elevation, and we’ll look the situation over.”
They cruised above the Thirteenth Finger and looked down on the yellow beach. One plane stood there unconcealed. Not far from it a line of tiny figures could be seen in semicircular formation around a patch of mountain side.
“There’s your party,” said Mae Krueger. “Not fourteen but a hundred and forty.”
Her husband handed her the binoculars. “Take a look.”
She gazed and drew a surprised breath. “Wingmen . . . What does that mean?
Isn’t this where they told us to land?”
“It is,” said Sam, “but we’re not taking orders.”
They cruised over. The radio failed to pick up any more messages. This was disturbing, and Mae began to fear that some trouble had overtaken the original party.
“We’d better go back, Sam.”
At sunset, after the quick survey of the “shoulder” and “face” which the continent outlined against the blue of the Southeast, Sam Krueger decided there was no better landing spot than the designated beach. The ship glided down slowly, silently.
“They see us,” Mae exclaimed. “They’re turning to watch us ride in.”
The ship came to a stop within a few yards of the apparently deserted plane. To the west, in the shadow of the mountain, the semicircle of more than a hundred wingmen stood their ground. They appeared to be guarding the entrances of a few scattered caves in the mountain slope, though they had now turned to watch the landing of the new ship.