Flash Gordon 1 - The Lion Men of Mongo

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Flash Gordon 1 - The Lion Men of Mongo Page 8

by Alex Raymond


  The young policeman stumbled back out of reach of the chained man, dropping his torch as he did.

  “Stun the brute,” ordered the sergeant.

  Both of the stun rifles whirred.

  The apeman froze, his teeth still bared.

  “Pick up that torch, you young idiot. Next time don’t go taunting the prisoners to the neglect of your duty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sergeant took out a ring of keys and unlocked the stunned man from the string of apemen. He glanced over at Flash and Tun. “I’ll have to leave your worthy opponent here and send someone to get him later,” he told them. “Don’t be frightened, he’s going to be stiff as a log for many hours.”

  “It will take more than that poor lout to frighten Tun the lion man,” said Tun.

  “Aye?” The sergeant laughed. “You’ll change your mind when you reach the arena.”

  “When are these tournaments to be held?” asked the lion man.

  “Anxious for a fight, are you? Be patient. If all goes well, and I can get sufficient work out of these clumsy men of mine, this is your last day of life.”

  “Then the tournaments will be . . . ?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  The glow from the spy screen etched deep shadows beneath Ming’s eyes, making his sharp nose more prominent, He was hunched in a highback chair, hands gripping the carved arms, studying the images on the screens mounted on the wall. “Anyone can be broken,” he murmured. “This Flash Gordon may act calm and unafraid now. Once he is in the arena, however, the situation will alter. He’ll beg and plead for his miserable life then.” A chattering laugh came out of Ming, shaking his thin body.

  The infrared cameras hidden in the cell brought the emperor clear sharp pictures of Flash and the lion man.

  “Strut while you may, lion man,” said Ming.

  “Beg pardon, sir.” A small round man in a white work smock came up and stood to the rear of the emperor’s chair. He had a roll of paper under one arm, a sheaf of drawings in his hand.

  Ming kept his eyes on the screen. “I can see why Dale Arden might be attracted to such a man,” he said. “It’s a surface appeal, nothing behind it and no intellect to speak of, I wager. Stop rattling those papers, Norber.”

  “Forgive me, sir.” With his free hand, Norber straightened his rimless spectacles.

  Ming’s hand flicked out to shut off the spy screen. He rose up to his full height,. turning to face the small round scientist. “What do you want, Norber?”

  Ming’s movement caused Norber to take an involuntary step back. “The gun, sir.”

  “What gun, Norber?”

  “The weapon which was taken from the alien prisoner, Dale Arden. I’ve made tests, quite thorough preliminary tests,” explained the nervous technician. “I haven’t yet had time to get around to the other pistols.” He held out his handful of notes and drawings.

  “I employ, at no small expense, scientists such as yourself, Norber, so that I may be spared the task of having to plow through a mass of technical trivia,” said the emperor. “Just tell me what you’ve found out.”

  One of the drawings shook free of the pile and fluttered toward the glistening black floor. “Please excuse me, sir,” apologized Norber as he bent to retrieve the drawing.

  “Leave it be. Tell me about this gun, Norber.”

  Norber straightened. “It’s considerably ahead of any hand weapon we now have even in a planning stage, sir. The microcircuitry is much more sophisticated than anything the imperial labs have come up with. And its range and destructive capabilities are quite fantastic. I made a rough chart to show the comparisons between—”

  “Spare me the graphics, Norber,” Ming interrupted. “Go back to your laboratory and get busy constructing a duplicate. I expect a working model by this time next month.”

  “Sir,” said Norber, “that may be impossible.”

  “Impossible?”

  “There’s a memorandum here explaining, but, since you don’t want to read anything, perhaps I could try to explain. It comes down to this, basically. There are three small components of this pistol which I cannot understand. What they are, what purpose they—”

  “Get busy, find out.”

  “I intend to, sir. Which is why I’ve come to you.” Norber pointed at the now dead spy screen. “If you could have that blond alien fellow brought to our labs so we—”

  “No, he is to remain in the dungeon.”

  “He might be able to explain these puzzling parts to me. Otherwise, we may require long weeks of work.”

  “You cannot consult Flash Gordon.”

  “But—”

  “Tomorrow you may interview Dale Arden.”

  “It’s a rare woman who could understand—”

  “She’s a trained interplanetary explorer, Norber, with a good scientific background,” said Ming. “Should she not be able to help you, you’ll have to wait until we find the third member of their party, this Dr, Zarkov.”

  “All well and good, sir, but again it could involve weeks of waiting,” said Norber. “It really would be much simpler if I could talk to Flash Gordon now.”

  “I have other things in mind for Flash Gordon.”

  “Oh, so?”

  “He will die in the arena tomorrow,” said Ming.

  The aircruiser dropped gently down through the morning sky. Soon it was floating through a labyrinth of trees. Huge trees, with branches of incredible breadth, crossed and twined. And built in among the gigantic branches was a city.

  “Even I,” exclaimed Zarkov in his booming voice, “have never seen anything quite like this. Look at the size of those chenopodium botrys, and the rheum rhaponticum. Fantastic, fantastic.” His beard rasped across the window of the passenger compartment as he studied first one aspect of Arboria and then another. “That’s quite a trick. Quite a trick to build an entire damn city up in the trees, Anmar.”

  “It was begun several decades ago by a banished king,” explained Anmar, “and completed by Prince Barin since his exile.”

  “Look at the size of those walnut trees,” said the impressed Zarkov. “And what’s that running up inside the trunk? Huh, an elevator.”

  “Arboria has several distinct levels,” said the sorcerer. “Not graded by class, you understand, but by function. A quite complex system of elevators, ramps, and moving stairways links the levels.”

  Zarkov cocked his head far to the right, trying to see as high up as he could. “You’ve got guns placed up there above the city?”

  “Aye, as a defense against an air attack by Ming. Thus far they have served us in good stead. The emperor tried two raids, and both of those failed. We have not been troubled from the air for many months.”

  Dr. Zarkov could see the citizens of the Forest Kingdom now as the ship cruised toward a landing area. They all wore clothes of forest colors. “Everybody looks young,” he remarked.

  “It may be the healthy life in Arboria,” said Anmar, “though I suppose a goodly portion of those who have deserted Ming to join us are young in years. When one is older, there is oft too much to leave behind. And so they never make a move, no matter how cruel and repressive Emperor Ming grows.”

  “That’s how they end up hanging from gallows in public squares,” said Zarkov. “Well, sir, I’ve always felt free to roam the universe. You should never own more than portable property if you can help it. Though that notion is not original with Zarkov, it’s still a good one.”

  A scarcely noticeable bounce told them the ship had landed.

  The circular landing area was supported on an interlacing of huge branches and was pale gold in color. Standing beside the exit ramp was a middle-sized young man in a deep green cloak.

  As Zarkov strode from the ship, the young man came out onto the pale gold landing area to greet him. “Dr. Zarkov,” he said, “allow me to welcome you to Arboria. I hope your stay here will give you a better impression of Mongo and its people than what has befallen you thus far. My
name is Marco.”

  After scanning the tree city which rose up all around him, Zarkov said, “Well, as long as I’m going to be a prisoner I might as well serve my time in pleasant surroundings.”

  Marco bowed his head for a moment. “Allow me to express the sincere regrets of Prince Barin for having had to recruit you in such a high-handed manner, Doctor. The problems we face, however, are such as to make it necessary at times.”

  “Just so you don’t make a habit of it,” said Zarkov. “Because if you get to believing that the ends justify the means, then you’re not much better than Ming. I’ve lived somewhat longer than you have and in a good many more places. I guarantee you there’s no such thing as a nice tyrant.”

  Marco continued to avoid looking Zarkov in the eye. He cleared his throat, saying, “Prince Barin is on a hunting trip at the edge of the kingdom and will not return for a few days. I have, however, been in communication with him. He sends you his good wishes, Dr. Zarkov.”

  The doctor asked him, “What exactly is your function in this setup, Marco?”

  “I am,” said the young man, “what you would call on your planet . . . Anmar, what is the equivalent term?”

  “Public relations man,” supplied Anmar.

  “Ah, that explains it,” rumbled Zarkov.

  “Now,” said Marco, his face a bit flushed, “Dr. Anmar will show you to your quarters, which adjoin the lab complex.”

  “I’d like too see the lab first,” Zarkov told Anmar.

  “Very well, come along.” The rest of the sorcerers stayed behind with Marco. Anmar guided Zarkov toward an immense tree trunk at the edge of the landing disc. He reached out, pushed a button and the trunk slid open. “This will carry us part of the way.”

  Swiftly, the elevator shot up through the hollow tree. “Fantastic, fantastic,” said Zarkov.

  They left the elevator to walk across a connecting ramp to another immense tree. They entered that and dropped down two levels. Stepping from this elevator, they were in a long curving pastel green tunnel.

  At the tunnel’s end stood a door. When Zarkov and Anmar were three steps from it, the door was pulled open. A tinny voice said, “Hello, hello, hello.”

  Zarkov glanced at the opener of the door as he crossed into the large laboratory building. “Ha, a robot.”

  The metal man was five feet high, a dusky copper color. His head was a rough caricature of a human head. Bowing, he said, “Hello, hello, hello. I am at your service, service.”

  “I must admit,” said Anmar, “that I have not as yet eliminated all the flaws in my mechanical man.”

  “Flaws, flaws,” echoed the robot.

  “Once I get your weapons in tiptop shape,” promised Zarkov, “I’ll overhaul your robot for you.”

  “Good, good, good,” said the robot.

  CHAPTER 19

  Pennants and streamers were everywhere. Every tower, every spire of the vast capital city appeared to have a yellow pennant flying from it. Streamers of scarlet hung from street lights and window grills. Huge flags, each with a sunburst symbol, were draped from balcony railings. It was a bright, clear, warm morning. The streets were already crowded with people moving toward the tournament arena.

  The huge outdoor stadium was circular in shape, made of smooth stone. Flagpoles, each sporting a sunburst flag, ringed its rim. The towers of the imperial palace showed beyond it.

  Two Royal Policemen, young and thickset, marched down the main street against the current of the crowd. Their boots gleamed, their scarlet cloaks fanned out behind them. Pushing their way, they entered a large cafe.

  The proprietor was in the doorway to the kitchen. There were thirty small white tables in the room, but only four customers. “Yes, gentlemen?” asked the gray-haired owner.

  “Merely a routine visit, grandfather,” said one of the policemen. “This is Tournament Day, you know.”

  “Aye, I well know. It accounts for there being so little business.” said the old man. “And last week, I could get no meat or fresh—”

  “On Tournament Day,” said the other policeman, rubbing his stubby fingers over the gold armor of his breastplate, “the emperor wishes everyone to enjoy himself.”

  “I enjoy hard work. There is much work to do here.”

  One of the customers left his table, hurrying to the door. “I’ll pay you tomorrow, Egon, he called. Now I must hurry to the tournaments.” He left.

  “A good idea,” said the first policeman. “You others, go.”

  “You, old grandfather,” said his partner. “You go as well.”

  “I have been to many tournaments in my life, under kings and princes and emperors,” he told them.

  The second Royal Police officer walked up to the old man and slapped him hard across the face. “You don’t seem to understand, grandfather. The emperor wishes everyone to attend, so that all may see what happens to rebels and traitors to the New Empire.”

  The old man slowly untied his apron, letting it drop to the floor. “I will go,” he said.

  A murmuring grew in the wide street outside. Six chunky white workhorses were pulling a golden cage uphill toward the stadium.

  “Look there!” exclaimed a plump woman in a patchwork cloak.

  “I’ve never seen one before.”

  “No man will have a chance against one of those!”

  Within the strong cage stalked two large tigers, roaring, yowling in protest at their captivity and their hunger, slashing at the golden bars. The animals were a rare breed, originally found only in the wilder reaches of the Forest Kingdom. Growing out of the forehead of each tiger was a single white horn, a foot and a half long and as sharp as a spear. Since Ming had come to power, these unihorn tigers were bred in the royal game preserve on the outskirts of the capital.

  The cage rolled steadily uphill. The people climbed, many of them reluctantly, toward the arched entrance-ways of the outdoor arena.

  Ming’s bony fingers tightened around Dale’s bare arm. “What better way to learn about my people than by witnessing an event such as this, my dear.”

  “I’d rather stay right here.” Dale was dressed now in a sleeveless floor-length gown of a style much favored by the women of the palace. “I’d like my own clothes back, too.”

  Ming raised his thin eyebrows. “I thought you had selected this lovely and most becoming frock yourself.”

  “Two burly women came in here and sat on me this morning,” replied Dale. “They took my jumpsuit and left me this little creation. It was either wear this or nothing.”

  “Again, my dear, I must apologize for the over-zealous nature of my servants,” said the emperor. “You can not as yet fully appreciate how much it means to each and every one of them to serve me well. Now come along, my dear, it is nearly midday. We must go to the royal box.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “You must, I really insist.” Holding her arm, he guided her toward the gilded door of her chamber. “You will witness many unusual sights, I promise.”

  Resignedly, Dale allowed him to escort her down a series of lofty corridors, then through an underground passageway. In ten minutes they emerged into a large glass-enclosed box overlooking the arena.

  Several members of Ming’s inner staff, including Erik, were already seated there. A moment after Ming ushered Dale to the seat next to his, young Haldor brought Princess Aura into the box.

  Ming drew his cloak tighter round himself before turning to speak to his daughter, “I am very pleased you’ve returned to the capital in time for this eventful day.”

  The auburn-haired Aura took a seat behind her father. “Your police persuaded me to come home,” she said, “and Haldor persuaded me to come here.”

  Haldor smiled at the girl. “Like a spoiled child, Aura, you often pretend to dislike things you’re really anxious to take part in.”

  “You’re very perceptive, Haldor,” said the princess. “I often wonder why you’re not able to see your own assistants taking bribes.�
��

  “A gutter rumor,” said Haldor, slouching down next to the girl. “If you persist in hanging around in gutters, Aura, you can’t help hearing such things.”

  Ming rested an elbow on the rail of the royal box. Stroking his beard, he surveyed the crowded tiers of seats. “A goodly crowd,” he said, “Every bench filled.” He raised his right hand, waved it.

  From all around the great oval arena trumpets blared. Uniformed men were stationed at ten-foot intervals, golden trumpets aimed at the clear blue midday sky.

  Ming leaned close to Dale. “I have a highly efficient administration,” he said. “Notice how everything is occurring on schedule.”

  “What,” asked Haldor, “is the first event?”

  “The traditional one,” replied the emperor. “The procession of prisoners.”

  Trumpets sounded again, the fanfare echoing. Down at the other end of the arena, a high iron gate swung open.

  “You should have put someone in better shape to lead off,” remarked Haldor.

  The first prisoner onto the tanbark of the arena, a frail man in a tattered tunic, stumbled and fell to his knees. A palace guard goaded him with a spear.

  There were fifty men in the line which came straggling out of the dark tunnel mouth into daylight. Some were battered and bent, shambling in their gait. Others strode forward, proud and straight. A dozen guards, armed with spears and stunrods, prodded the prisoners around the arena toward the emperor’s box.

  Dale suddenly sat up straight, inhaling sharply. She’d noticed the blond young man near the end of the line. “Flash,” she said.

  Behind her, Princess Aura echoed the name. “Flash.”

  Ming laughed.

  CHAPTER 20

  Flash looked up at the emperor’s box. The sunlight made its thick glass glare and sparkle. But he saw Dale Arden. He raised his right hand in a gesture of greeting.

  “Here now, prisoner,” warned a guard, “no waving at Emperor Ming. Mind your place and station in life.”

  Grinning at him, Flash lowered his hand.

 

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