by Ryder Stacy
Sighing, Rock said, “Now I want you to watch with me. Watch and exult as the earth moves by this world safely.”
They all stood outside the pyramid, looking up.
Rock squinted up into the bright, alien sky, and pointed. “See? See?”
Above them the ever-enlarging blue-white orb of Earth filled half the sky. It was not heading directly at them. It was moving to the west, even as they watched. The collision would not take place, that was becoming obvious.
“I could sure use a cigarette,” Scheransky said, “and I don’t smoke.” The blond man turned to his commander. “I didn’t understand a word you said, but I want to. We all want to understand.”
“And you will.” Rock smiled knowingly. But there was a blackness in his stare, and the pinprick incisions on his forehead oozed blood. He didn’t look well.
He looked like a man who’d seen far too much.
Twenty
At that instant, on the other side of the asteroid, Killov and his Japanese manservant Tekkamaki were making the final approach for a crash landing. Killov had partial power on the reverse thrusters and some altitudinal control. He exclaimed, “This is it Tekkamaki. Pray to the Dark One to protect us.” He pulled the lever that shot the last of the power to slow them.
The speed indicator dropped from 700 km per hour to just over 70 km per hour. Then the torn-up wreck of a rocket went silent.
This was the best they could do.
“Impact in twenty seconds,” the KGB commander said. He stared out at the rapidly approaching desert surface. Killov listened to the howl of the Karrakan atmosphere tearing at the rocket’s rent skin. It sounded like the voice of death. The whole ship began vibrating wildly, as if it was falling apart. The winds howled.
Perhaps he would not make it this time, Killov admitted to himself. Perhaps the ship would break up upon impact. But . . . that would mean that Rockson wins.
“No! That won’t be. It just won’t be!” Killov screamed.
Closer! Now Killov could see individual boulders directly below. Not even a sandy surface to cushion the crash. This was it.
Killov screamed out, “Curse you, Rockson! Curse you to hell!”
Three, two, one—impact! They landed hard, but the ship didn’t break apart, nor did the straps they’d rigged up to hold them in their seats.
The rocket missed the boulders and hit the top of a sandy hillock, coming in at a steep angle. It bounded wildly through the dune and through several more sandy hillocks. Each time it hit a dune it lost speed. Finally, it came to rest nose-down, and made Killov instantly sick to his stomach.
“Quickly, Tekkamaki, I smell fire. We must get out!” Killov madly fumbled with the straps to untie them, but he was unable to do so.
His servant rushed out of his seat and helped, exclaiming, “Master, you are the greatest pilot in the universe.”
“Yes, I am,” Killov said, “but hurry. Get me out of here. Now!”
In a matter of moments, they were clambering up the sand dune that was spilling into the wreckage of the burning spacecraft. They scrambled across the surface until they were well away from the wreck. Then it exploded, a ball of orange-red fire.
Killov took a deep breath. “Hmmm, nice air,” he exclaimed. “Just like the ancient records promised. Tekkamaki, smell the air. How sweet it is to be alive. We have done it, we live. I live, to destroy Rockson.”
Killov got a faraway look in his eye, “I see my destiny now,” he said. “It is plotted out before me. The Dark One has answered me. I will use the weapons on this asteroid to blast Earth to bits. Somehow, by some trick, Rockson has diverted this world from the collision course. But you and I, Tekkamaki, you and I will destroy Earth. We will be the last human beings alive in the whole solar system. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yes, master,” Tekkamaki said glumly.
Twenty-One
Killov pulled a singed map out of his pocket, the map of the asteroid that had been found in the Incan records in Machu-Pichu. He and his Japanese manservant started walking overland toward the pyramid storehouse, the place the ancient records promised held all the powers of the universe . . . and all the weapons any man could dream of. The trek wasn’t arduous, for Killov was assisted by the drugs he’d shot into his veins. That and the low gravity. And Tekkamakki was an accomplished hiker. They would be there in ten minutes.
Unknown to Killov, Rockson and the surviving members of the American crew were at that moment moving in the opposite direction, leaving the pyramid to head back to their space saucer. Their paths were bound to cross.
But not yet. The Dark One had a present for his dear one, Killov.
“Rock? You all right?” Chen asked.
Rockson said, “Fine . . . there’s no time to waste; let’s get back into the saucer and make the return trip,” Yet the minute Rockson moved, he sagged. His legs were like rubber.
“Rock, are you sure you’re all right?” Scot demanded. “Do you want us to carry you?” He moved to support Rockson.
Rockson pushed Scot away. He looked strange. The Chinese-American Freefighter said, “I think we should set him down, Scot. Right in the sand. Maybe after a minute or two of rest . . . he’s been through a lot, you know.” But Chen’s eyes showed he was very worried.
McCaughlin and Chen eased Rockson to a sitting position on a mound of gravely sand as the others looked on with concern. Rockson mumbled something; it was difficult to hear, for his voice seemed to have little energy. Chen’s ears were sensitive, though, and he caught Rockson’s words: It was a poem of sorts:
Nothing to win,
Nothing to lose,
Nothing to practice,
Nothing to prove,
All is illusion,
Why grasp at illusion?
Then he started laughing to himself, and making growling sounds.
“Has he gone mad?” Scheransky worried. “What the hell do we do?”
Suddenly there was a glow in the sky, and that blue-white glow coalesced into a form. It was Pruzac again. She appeared over the. sands like an angel, semi-transparent, with the earth shining right through her.
Her angelic voice spoke out: “Let him rest. It is necessary that he step down mentally from the charge of knowledge he was subjected to in the Neuro-dancer. The Neuro-dancer has given him too much information. Rockson must spill out some of it. He’s absorbed too much for any earthman. Let him be, let him recover. He will remember what he needs to know to tell your people of Earth, after a rest.”
Detroit looked at the blue-white earth above. It wasn’t growing larger anymore; instead it was starting to move closer to the horizon. The asteroid they were standing on, propelled by the geyser of gas unleashed by the nuclear explosion, was now moving past the earth with ever-increasing velocity. They could be marooned.
“Pruzac!” Detroit exclaimed. “We must get going as soon as possible. Can’t we just get him to the ship and let this ‘spilling’ occur on the way back to Earth?”
“No. He would be unable to fly the saucer for at least the next hour. None of you understands how to fly it.”
Everyone looked to Chen, who shook his head. “Pruzac’s right. I never flew it, I just worked the power switches on the drive. We have to have Rock alert and capable in order to take off.”
“Walk him around slowly,” Pruzac suggested. “Keep Rockson moving. He will say things, some of which you might care to listen to and remember. Some of what he says will be gibberish to you all. When his speech slows down and the glassy-eyed look fades, Rockson will be well enough to pilot your spacecraft. Now I must go—back to the world of the dead.” And with those enigmatic words, she faded.
They did as the ghostly Pruzac had asked, started walking Rockson around, supporting him on their shoulders.
Chen said, “I don’t like this. When does Rock start all this dumping of knowledge? He’s silent as a—”
Just then he was interrupted by a flood of words from his commander’s lips, words spoke
n with a singsong cadence.
“What is all that, philosophy?” Scheransky asked. The Russian defector had a dislike of philosophy; it reminded him of the propaganda he’d been subjected to early in life in the Soviet Union.
“No,” McCaughlin said, “it’s religion, I think. Listen: he’s talking about some great religion.”
Indeed, their commander was spewing out a scripture of the religion of the asteroid dwellers. It sounded rather convoluted to Rock’s men—something about ‘mystery being all one can know.’ He went on and on, gesticulating wildly.
“Sort of confusing, isn’t it? Like a catechism lesson,” Scheransky uttered.
“Shut up,” Chen insisted. “Let him speak. Do you know how immensely important this is? This asteroid will soon be out of range of Earth. Humans may never get to tap its knowledge again. I’m lucky I have my pocket recorder. I have it on now. Just keep him walking, and keep quiet. I want to record his every word.”
Rockson was soon going on about some belief called Kroock, the religion of a world known as Talus Twelve. Only snatches of it were caught by Chen’s ears, but he had the cassette mike pinned near Rock’s lapel. The recorder would get it all.
Then came a burst of talk about the religion Tookil, an early Earth religion, dead long before the last ice age. It was a religion centered on bears, Chen would later remember.
Then Rockson spouted formulas that were the derivations of a religion of pure mathematics on Orion Alpha Seven. His words were in English, and the identification of these worlds were in human terms. The asteroid apparently had roamed far and wide in the universe. The Karrakans had visited many worlds, probably never returning to them. The immensity of the knowledge stored in the Neuro-dancer became evident to them all when they realized this.
“Imagine,” Cohen said, “a billion or more years of interstellar travel! No wonder that accumulated knowledge was too much for Rockson to stand. Chen, you sure you’re getting all this on that recorder? Is it working?”
“Yes. It’s turning, at least. I hope to God it works well enough. The recorder took lots of bangs on the way here.”
Suddenly Rockson stopped talking, right in mid-sentence. He jerked and then blinked rapidly. He more readily supported himself on his two feet. He looked around at them, and his eyes unglazed, and he mumbled something like, “Hi—what’s up?”
“Rock,” Chen asked. “Are you all right?”
“Sure—I guess so. Where—oh, now I remember. I was in the Neuro-dancer. I learned . . . yes. I still remember it. I have a message for Earth. What are we walking around in circles for? We have to get to the saucer. Let’s go.”
Chen smiled, snapped the mike off Rockson’s lapel, and attaching it to his recorder, shoved the recorder into his belt-pack. “Explain that later,” he smiled.
Rock took the lead as they rushed for the saucer.
Killov and Tekkamaki, meanwhile, were walking in a path that would intersect with Rockson and his men’s in a matter of minutes. Killov stepped rapidly over the pink sands, moving toward the rough-shaped pyramidal mountain half obscured by a dune ahead. Tekkamaki scrambled on his short legs to keep up. His master was eager to get to his goal. Because of their haste, Killov didn’t notice several objects half-buried in the sands that he and his servant traversed. That is, he didn’t notice until he stumbled on one of them.
Cursing, Killov fell to his knees, and as he rose he saw a dull metallic gleam. He mumbled, “What the—” and dug the object from the sands, picking it up. It was a sculpted piece of dully gleaming black metal, incredibly light to the touch. It was a seven-pointed-star about a foot wide.
Killov’s mind clicked. He remembered a dream he’d had in Peru. Yes! This object was the power thing he’d seen in his dream. It had to be.
“Master,” Tekkamaki pleaded, “what are you doing? No time for souvenirs. You said we must—”
“Shut up, Tekkamaki. This thing has a power of some sort. It is a weapon. I sense that.” He turned it over and over in his hands. “So lovely, so powerful . . .”
“How does it work, Master?”
“I—I can’t remember,” Killov admitted, “but it was in my dream. It seemed easy to use in my dream. We’ll take it along with us to the pyramid. Perhaps I’ll remember on the way there. Or maybe the Neuro-dancer can tell me how to use it.” The KGB leader zipped the object into his black leather jacket and again rushed toward the pyramid with Tekkamaki following.
At the top of a rolling dune, the pair were suddenly face to face with a party of earthlings who were coming up the other side of the dune.
“Rockson,” Killov said breathlessly. His eyes fixed like black marble bb’s on the tall, tan leader of the group of khaki-clad Americans.
“Killov,” Rockson gasped, almost as nonplussed as his nemesis. The Doomsday Warrior, though, spent no time thinking about the how or why of meeting with Killov; instead he drew the weapon strapped to his belt and began firing.
But nothing happened.
The other Freefighters opened up on the pair confronting them with liberator rifles and shotpistols.
The weapons clicked and clicked. Still nothing.
Killov, who had been shrinking and wincing, expecting an ignominious end, for he had no weapon, now stood up and smiled. Killov understood now. He remembered his dream about the black star-shaped metal object. This was a weapon he held. It had no trigger; it had no mechanism; but it responded to the wishes of its owner. The black star was a thought-weapon. It could manipulate matter with the mind. Killov had hoped against hope that the weapons of his enemies wouldn’t fire—and they hadn’t. It was that hope that had activated the black star. He’d be quick to capitalize on this fortunate event.
“Now,” Killov said, triumphantly, “it’s time for some fun.”
“What is this, magic?” Chen asked. “Well, maybe magic doesn’t work against my weapons.” Chen threw a spinning skuriken star-knife at the chest of the man holding the strange black object. And despite Killov’s desire for the star-knife to disappear, it didn’t. Killov would have been killed for sure, but his servant Tekkamaki dived in front of his black-clad lord and took the hit himself. The star-knife exploded, severing his jugular vein, and the servant fell onto the dune, gurgling out his life essence on the sands.
Killov thought of his loss for a mere instant, then decided he’d better do something fast, before another star-knife was unleashed. Evidently the black star “thought-weapon” worked only against mechanical objects—guns and such. It could manipulate the mechanical weapons, move them . . .
“That’s it,” Killov said. “I command all those guns, and the people attached to them, be blown away,” he yelled. “Away with Rockson’s men, but not Rockson; he stays. It will be I against Rockson. I will it!
“I am the most powerful warrior the ancient ones of this world ever knew! So be it!”
And with these words from Killov’s lips, there was a terrific wind, and the sand blew around, obscuring all. When the wind stopped, Rockson faced his opponent alone. All Rockson’s men, and the body of Tekkamaki, were gone from the scene. Killov still stood there, however.
But Killov was transformed. The KGB leader was barely recognizable. For one thing, there was the matter of his size: he’d been an emaciated figure of a man, stringy, almost skeletal. Now Killov was a muscular nine-foot-tall creature. In place of his two beady dark eyes were three bright yellow ones, like an awful nightmare.
Somehow Rockson could still recognize, in that drooling, green-skinned alien creature’s face, the essential features of Killov. There was no mistaking that voice from the bony-ridged lips of the monster. The voice belonged to Killov: “You see, Rockson,” the Killov-thing rasped, “you see now how strong I am? Do you realize how much fun I will have killing you? This is the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. You should feel the power, the immense speed of this new body of mine. I have become Mu-Temm, the Great Warrior. Prepare to die, puny one.”
Rockson co
uldn’t help but gulp. Somehow his nemesis Killov had neutralized the Rock team’s guns, swept his men God-knows-where, and become some fantastic overmuscled green creature. How? The KGB man had shouted something about becoming an ancient warrior of the asteroid people, and then the winds blew. Magic, Chen had said before he’d disappeared. It must be!
The three yellow eyes of the nine-foot-tall creature called Mu-Temm stared down at Rockson. The thing was biding its time. Rockson looked it over for a weak spot. It had clawed hands and feet, folds of armorlike bones and flaps of steel-hard skin all over its lizardlike body. Its muscles flickered with energy. He didn’t see anything he could call weak.
Rockson took a step back, involuntarily, as the thing Killov had become laughed a harsh, raspy laugh and stepped forward.
Twenty-Two
Killov moved forward slowly, speaking out words of his glory: “Yes, Rockson. A miracle, is it not? By merely wishing so, I am an invincible fighter. I am Mu-Temm, champion of old. Now you die, in a most horrible way. Maybe dismemberment!”
Rockson had no time to think about it; the nine-foot-tall horror was coming at him, trying to back him against a dune.
“I will amuse myself,” Mu-Temm’s voice boomed. “You will not die fast, like Tekkamaki died. Oh, no. Not that easy!”
Rock fired, spraying the giant, gleaming metal thing with the rest of his cartridges, hitting every part of the thing’s body. Nothing. It smiled. “Time to die, Rockson, but you die slowly, slowly. I let your gun fire this time, to show you my strength.”