by Don Wilcox
At once the dogged armies of huskies and Nazies set up camp outside the peak to besiege us.
“You’ll starve out in ten days!” old Thunder Splitter roared at us from behind a safe rocky wall. And the next day, “You’ll starve out in nine days.”
The professor added, “You could send your women and children out now. We’ll take care of them.”
Our outlook was blacker than the chamber walls. We felt that for the last time we were united—wingman and non-winged, young and old—to face our common fate. Wells called roll each day and Rattle Whiskers distributed food in even shares. A fine subterranean river of water could be depended upon. But the grim fact was, we were already starving. When Thunder Splitter’s taunt still gave us eight days I didn’t see how we could last four.
The machine gun and a little ammunition, stored here as an emergency protection for Orchid Wings and her babe, now came to life for a last brief fling. We brought it up to the tunnel entrance and used it at night to distract the besiegers while a party of food gatherers would creep forth through a newly dug exit.
Then the ammunition ran out and the gun was dead. And the siege around us intensified. The ingenious German planted guns to cover every tunnel opening. He must have had the triggers set to fire automatically from an impulse of infra-red light rays.
On the blackest night any slight movement at the mouth of a tunnel would draw bull’s eye bullets. Our trap was as complete as a six-walled steel vault with an explosive mine for a door.
Down in a deep chamber above the river that Maxie Hammerstein had named for himself I heard him and McCorkle pacing the floor cursing their luck.
“To think that we once had that damned professor right here,” said McCorkle. “We could have killed him so easy.”
“Easier than getting him up through the tunnel,” Maxie. “A guy ought to think twice before he does his fellow man a kindness. He may live to regret it.”
One pathetic bit of happiness came to all of us in the midst of descending tragedy. Little Wells was now several months old—not old enough to try walking, but a wonderful crawler on hands and knees.
One day the baby’s random wing flapping that accompanied his crawling exercises suddenly produced the magical effect that made hearts skip beats! Little Wells flew!
Only a short hopping flight, of course, but a flight nevertheless.
In that hour starving men and wingmen watched in awe, and some laughed with delight and others wept. It was like a vision of what could be—what might have been if these ruthless men of power from our earth civilization hadn’t come to shatter all hopes.
“I knew he would fly,” Orchid said, smiling and weeping at once. “I knew it.”
Back and forth the little fellow went, laughing and gurgling. It’s the nearest thing to a miracle I know, the way a baby less than a year old can redirect the spirits of a group of heavy-hearted grown-ups.
Wells kissed the child. “My funny little human angel,” he said. “Maybe I won’t see you again. But what you’ve shown me today is your promise—to all of us—that if you live—if you grow up—you’ll finish this task we’ve started. Good bye, little fellow.”
Then to the rest of us Wells gave strict orders that we were not to follow him. He bade Orchid Wings a brief farewell and was off. He wended his way through the dark passage to the old river tunnel that had gone dry before our time.
McCorkle nudged me and we followed.
“That’s the McCorkle river, named after my granddaddy who turned prohibitionist before he died. I’ve got a right to see what goes on here. Come on.”
Darkness, darkness, darkness! Then—
A bit of silvery light—darkness again—then bright gleams of gold glinting from iron-stained rocky walls.
The light footfalls of Wells were a few turns ahead of us, barely within hearing.
Now the light burst full and white upon our eyes, and there was Wells kneeling, gaping upward.
This was the pit of the Goddess!
We were at the bottom of what had appeared to be a well, only now we saw it as a vast wide hall of space between the black floor and the glassy ceiling thirty feet or more overhead.
We were looking up at the fire—a weird golden blaze that would leap and fall and spread and narrow down to a slender flame. Tongues of flame would reach out to illuminate the glassy ceiling overhead—vast arms that must have been a mile or more long. And where they reached, we could momentarily see up through the sand crystals—could see Nazis treading drowsily over the desert floor above us, or lazy sand rats sunning themselves.
With what ease an observer from this vantage point might follow the goings-on of the desert! Were there any limits to the Flame Goddess’ range of observation? we wondered. Perhaps we would always wonder.
There she stood, in the full glory of blinding incandescence, towering up through the opening in the round-topped mountain.
Then she looked down at Wells and smiled such an interesting smile! She knew all the time that he was there—and that he was almost stunned with surprise that the tunnels led him there. That smile of hers—for an instant my heart stopped beating. I had never seen her at close range before. I had never felt the curious electrical vibrations from being in her presence. I recalled McCorkle’s vivid account Of her strange magnetism. Then my fears eased, for she spoke in her soft whispering voice.
“Your friends, Wells . . . have them join you . . . to listen to my words . . . I am aware of your troubles . . .”
Wells looked around, amazed and a bit dismayed to discover that he had been shadowed.
“There is no time to loose,” the Goddess whispered. “Follow me.”
Maybe the passage had been there before. Maybe the mountain broke apart for us to pass through. I was too bedazzled to know. We moved—I cannot say that we walked—we moved as if drawn along upon the train of a flowing gown of cold fire.
We were taken to the top of the Green Tooth peak, where the deadly automatic guns might perforate us with bullets.
The bullets came, then, with their familiar clatter and whine of death. But for some reason they were not Striking us. They curved upward as if magnetically drawn by a widespread pair of wings—wings of silver fire. They were consumed.
Pfft, pfft, pfft—tiny wisps of yellow blaze popping over the silver like any sand rat dropped in the pit—or any Franz Cobert, whose pellets of death were being caught and consumed in the Goddess’ feathers of fire.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Flash Death
She was calling now. Her low whisper could be heard above the rattle of guns. It penetrated the tunnels. She was calling for our besieged people to come out.
“Come . . . All of you come . . . and follow me.”
I looked down the slope, then, and saw the German professor calling to some Nazi soldiers to help him to his feet. He wanted to run but he couldn’t rise.
And they couldn’t come to help him. They were caught in their tracks, as if hypnotized by the blinding figure of fire On this mountain.
Thunder Splitter tried to take to his wings. He was held in the very act of springing from his talons, balanced like a statue that could turn its head or flap its wings, but could not release itself.
Many were the faces of our enemies that now looked up in amazement, caught in the grip of the Goddess’ power.
Now our people emerged, a long unbroken line like a tribe starting to migrate. The fear in their faces changed to bewilderment as they heard the bullets being consumed in the Goddess’ wings, and saw the weird array of statues down the slope.
The gunfire ceased. The Goddess spoke.
“These people have suffered enough . . . at your hands . . . the hands of inhumanly cruel beasts . . . Not wings or claws . . . not features or color . . . or manner of brains . . . can make men beasts . . . but actions . . . actions of hate and greed . . . where there should be goodwill . . . and fair play . . .
“I promise these people a good future . . . on this con
tinent . . . which shall soon become a garden . . . of life . . . The races . . . that come to this garden . . . shall enjoy its blessings . . .
“But there is no room . . . for any member of any race . . . who holds delusions of superiority . . . over other races . . . whether you are a wingman . . . or a Nazi . . . if you have that lie in your heart . . . you have no place here. . .
“Now you know . . . why I have fixed you . . . immobile . . . Because I intend to burn to cinders . . . the evil hearts among you.
“I am life . . . to those who love their fellow men . . . But to those who feed their hearts on hate . . . I am the god of your ancient legends . . . I am the Flash Death!”
There was an awful outcry from the statues. You could see Thunder Splitter beating the air, trying to free himself from his paralysis. You could guess his inspiration—to run forward and shout—to catch the ears of his followers with an oration powerful enough to overthrow this threat.
You could see the beef-faced German professor grinding his teeth, waving his hands violently. He seemed tied down by invisible wires. He yelled and cursed. So did his soldiers and many a husky feast-loving wingman. But not for long.
The Goddess struck.
They burned. Like matchheads they went, one by one—pffst!—pffst—pffst!
Here and there a few of Thunder Splitter’s wingmen were left, to march up toward our group—creatures whose good will must have got rolled under by pressures, or possibly creatures who had been striking their true blows on our side all along.
When the fiery purge was done there were no enemies left on the desert. That strange silence, that sudden emptiness in the danger lands below us was a mark of that rare phenomenon called peace. And most welcome! Time leaped along quite gaily after the purge.
The new leader of the wingmen was Orchid Wings herself, a queen by dint of courage and personal valor. She began at once to reorganize the tribe in ways to facilitate the climb toward a sort of stable civilization. Quite naturally, the wingmen depended upon her to confer with her good husband, who—in spite of his unfortunate wingless condition—appeared to have many valuable ideas about how a good society should be run.
New vonzels came to us as time went on, some from modern pages and modern races; some from the thousands of years previous to modern times. A marriage license bureau would have flourished!
Meanwhile I prepared my notes, deeply grateful to McCorkle and Rattle Whiskers for having dropped in on me one rainy night.
Now I am awaiting one of those rare storms that may furnish me with the needed transportation back to the earth.
The last time I talked with McCorkle I asked him if was all set for a storm.
“Storm?” he said, giving me a comical eye. “That was six mouths ago. It’s the stork we McCorkles are waiting for. Or haven’t you met that certain winged colleen who took up an Irish accent just for me?”
Fantastic Adventures
September 1948
Volume 10, Number 9
From beyond the purple mists in the valley of Karridonza came a weird force, the lavender vine—of death . . .
FOREWORD
Space travelers will tell you all about the great capitals and industrial cities of various planets, among them the skystation of Karridonza. Many will remark upon the beauty of Karridonza, whose alabaster buildings stand white and graceful against the background of the purple mists. But few travelers can tell what lies beyond those purple mists. Very few indeed have ever heard of the “lavender vine” which floats through Karridonza Valley that airy mysterious something whose strange powers over life and death cause even the king to tremble in his dreams . . .
CHAPTER 1
As usual, the king was trying to avoid an argument, and the prime minister was doing his best to argue. The king was only thirty-five. The prime minister was fifty. Fifty and smart. Smart and clever and stubborn. It was easier to let him have his way and be done with it.
“The earth girl is walking out on u»,” the prime minister was saying. “She’s sore. She thinks we shouldn’t have slaves. We beat them too much, she says. So she’s all packed to go. We can’t keep her.”
The king shrugged and started to speak, but the prime minister beat him to it.
“My idea is this,” said the prime minister. “Just for the irony, we’ll use a slave to pilot her across to the skystation.”
The king waved his hand irritably. “Haven’t I already said yes?”
“Six times.”
“I’ll say it ten times if you like. Go ahead. Use a slave.”
“You’re quite sure-r”
“Yes!” The king rose and walked to the window. He pretended to be absorbed in watching the storm clouds gather over the valley.
Prime Minister Nitticello followed him. “I don’t think you agree with me, King Arvo. You’re afraid a slave will run away with the air spinner. Not likely. Not when we punish runaways with death. Or maybe you’re afraid that he would try to make love to the earth girl instead of taking her safely to the skystation. Is that it? Ah-ha!”
King Arvo winced. He didn’t care to discuss his feelings for the girl.
“There’s a heavy rain coming,” he said gloomily.
Prime Minister Nitticello said he would beat the storm. He would drive down into the valley and pick up a slave at once. “I’ll pick up the ugliest, scrawniest specimen I can find—one that no slave master will ever miss.” King Arvo looked at him suspiciously. What did he mean? The king could never tell what schemes filled Nitticello’s mind. All right, let him go. Anything to have a little peace and quiet.
“I’ll go at once, with your consent—your majesty.”
Your majesty! Mock politeness! King Arvo watched him as he walked down the steps to the plaza and called for his car. It was miserable, King Arvo thought, being under the thumb of that crafty old diplomat. Small but mighty. Nitticello was more than a head shorter than King Arvo; he was a wrinkled, wiry man with a powerful voice and troublesome will.
“But I’m not afraid of him,” King Arvo told himself. “I ought to override him every day, just for the exercise. Why do I keep yielding to him? . . . H-m-m . . . I wonder if the girl from the earth noticed it.” For the thousandth time King Arvo vowed he would break this invisible bondage.
Nitticello looked back with a knowing glint, and Arvo wondered if his own secret thoughts had been guessed.
Nitticello beckoned.
“Come along. The fresh air will do you good.”
King Arvo drew a painful breath. Here it was again—Nitticello’s deft suggestion. Fresh ajr? Yes, the king thought, he did need the fresh air.
He walked down the steps and crossed the plaza as the car drew up. Nitticello got in and he followed.
As the car drove away, the earth girl watched from her room.
Marcia Melinda was a long way from home. This morning the earth seemed farther away than ever, somehow, a storm had advanced across the valley and she could no longer see the purple mists. Somewhere a hundred miles or more across the way was the skystation of Karridonza. Late this afternoon a space ship would take off. Would she be aboard? Was she going to walk out on this country without accomplishing anything?
“You’re all packed, Miss Melinda,” the lady-in-waiting said, coming over to the window. “Can you see them, Miss? I’ll get you some field glasses.”
The lady-in-waiting referred to the court car, evidently. Marcia knew that the prime minister and the king had quarreled over something. Something about her passage to the skystation. Now they had taken a quick ride down into the valley, but the storm was closing in on them. They stopped, turned around, and started back by way of a short cut up the slope.
The lady-in-waiting re-entered and handed her a pair of binoculars.
“Thank you. Do you know where they were going?”
“We had our ears to the door, Miss. The prime minister said he was going to pick up the meanest slave he could find.”
“A slave? Why?”
Marcia’s binoculars came to a focus upon a lonely figure trudging along the road. The rain was descending now, but he couldn’t be bothered. He was apparently coming to the king’s fortress. He was a slave, naked to the waist like all slaves, wearing the brown belt and dun-colored trunk of the laborer in servitude. Marcia believed that he must be one of the earth men rumored to be among the Karridonza prisoners. A little tremble of anxiety went through her.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he walked with a purpose. If he had been a native, he would have worn a high narrow mane of hair straight back over the center of his head. That was the Karridonzan style
For a moment Marcia couldn’t help wondering what might happen if an American slave were assigned to pilot her to the air spinner across to the skystation.
She watched with a tremble of excitement as the car approached the pedestrian. There was another figure down there, too—something that came up out of the marsh. It looked like a child—or was it a huge frog?
Now the rains were beating down and presently the slave, frog, the car and the entire valley scene were swallowed up in the gray downpour.
CHAPTER II
Just before the rain struck, Joe Peterson heard a familiar voice calling to him from the side of the road.
“Hi, there, slave. Don’t you know enough to come in out of the rain?”
Joe looked around but failed to see the source of the voice. “Where are you?”
“Right down here in the marshes.” It was Pudgy, as Joe had guessed. Half boy, half frog. Always popping up where you least expected him. Always laughing. Always looking bright and mischievous, with his sparkling green eyes as large as silver dollars, and a shiny green pair of legs with webbed feet.