The Second Murray Leinster Megapack

by Murray Leinster

  “So is the plane,” said Bell emotionlessly.

  “And there is a sign, in English, posted where we tied it up. The sign says, ‘The Señores Bell and Jamison may recover their boat on application to The Master, and may also receive news of a late traveling companion from him.’”

  “We’re known,” Bell told him—and amazingly found it possible to smile faintly—“Ribiera met me on the street and spoke to me and laughed and went on.”

  Jamison stared. Bell’s manner was almost entirely normal again. Then Jamison shrugged.

  “The sense of what you’re saying,” he observed wryly, “is that we’re licked. Let us, then, go to see The Master. I confess I feel some curiosity to know just what he’s like.”

  Bell was smiling. Being in an entirely abnormal state, he had a curious certitude of the proper course to adopt. He went up to a policeman and said politely, in Spanish:

  “I am desired to report to The Master, himself. Will you direct me?”

  The policeman abased himself instantly and trotted with them as a guide. And Bell walked naturally, now, with his head up and his shoulders back, and smoked leisurely as he went, and the policeman’s abasement became abject. All who walked with that air of amused superiority in Punta Arenas were high in the service of The Master. Obviously, the two men in these dejected clothes must also be high in the service of The Master, and had adopted their disguise for purposes into which a mere policeman and a slave of The Master should not dare enquire.

  Jamison was rather grim and still. Jamison thought he was walking to his death. But Bell smiled peculiarly and talked almost gaily and—as Jamison thought—almost irrationally.

  They came to a house set in a fairly spacious lawn behind a rather high wall. There were greenhouses behind it, and there were flowers growing as well as any flowers can be expected to grow in such high altitudes. It was an extraordinarily cheerful dwelling to be found in Punta Arenas, but the shuddering fear with which the little policeman removed his hat as he entered the gateway was instructive.

  They were confronted by four other policemen, on guard inside the gate.

  “Estos Señores—” began the abject one.

  “Take us to The Master,” commanded Bell in a species of amused and superior scorn.

  “It is required, Señor,” said the leader of the four on guard, very respectfully, “it is required that none enter without being searched for weapons.”

  Bell laughed.

  “Does The Master manage things so?” he asked scornfully. “Now, where I am deputy no man would dare to think of a weapon to be used against me! If it is The Master’s rule, though.…”

  The policeman cringed. Bell scornfully thrust an automatic out.

  “Take it,” he snapped. “And go and tell The Master that the Señores Bell and Jamison await his pleasure, and that they have given up their weapons.”

  The policeman scuttled toward the house. Bell smiled at his cigarette.

  “Do you know, Bell,” said Jamison dryly, in English, “I’d hate to play poker with you.”

  “I’m not bluffing,” said Bell. “Not altogether. I’ve a four card flush, with the draw to come.”

  Almost instantly the policeman returned, more abject still. He had stammered out Bell’s message, just as it was given him. And the slaves of The Master did not usually disobey orders, especially orders designed to prevent any danger of a doomed man or woman trying to assassinate The Master before madness was complete. Bell and Jamison were received by liveried servants in utter silence and conducted through a long passageway, too long to have been contained entirely in the house as seen from the front. Indeed, they came out into a great open greenhouse, in which the smell of flowers was heavy. There were flowers everywhere, and a benign, small old man with a snowy beard and hair, sat at a desk as if chatting of amiable trivialities with the frock-coated men who stood about him. The white haired old man lifted a blossom delicately to his nostrils and inhaled its perfume with a sensitive delight. He looked up and smiled benignly upon the two.

  It was then that Jamison got a shock surpassing all the rest. Bell’s hands were writhing at the ends of his wrists, writhing as if they were utterly beyond his control and as if they were longing to rend and tear.…

  And Bell suddenly looked down at them, and his expression was that of a man who sees cobras at the ends of his arms.

  CHAPTER XVII

  There was a long pause. Bell was very calm. He seemed to tear his eyes from the writhing hands that were peculiarly sensate, as if under the control of in intelligence alien to his own.

  “I believe,” said Bell steadily, “that The Master wishes to speak to me.”

  With an apparent tremendous effort of will, he thrust his hands into his pockets. Jamison cursed softly. Bell had taken the direction of things entirely out of his hands. It only remained to play up.

  “To be sure,” said a mild, benevolent voice. The man with the snowy beard regarded Bell exactly in the fashion of an elderly philanthropist. “I am The Master, Señor Bell. You have interested me greatly. I have grown to have a great admiration for you. Will you be seated? Your companion also pleases me. I would like”—and the mild brown eyes beamed at him—“I would like to have your friendship, Señor Bell.”

  “Pull out a chair for me, Jamison,” said Bell in a strained voice. “And—I’d like to have a cigarette.”

  Jamison, cursing under his breath, put a chair behind Bell and stuck a cigarette between his lips. He held a match, though his hands shook.

  “You might sit down, too,” said Bell steadily. “From the manner of The Master, I imagine that the conversation will take some time.”

  He inhaled deeply of his cigarette, and faced the little man again. And The Master looked so benevolent that he seemed absolutely cherubic, and there was absolutely no sign of anything but the utmost saintliness about him. His eyes were clear and mild. His complexion was fresh and translucent. The wrinkles that showed upon his face were those of an amiable and a serene soul filled with benevolence and charity. He looked like one of those irritatingly optimistic old gentlemen who habitually carry small coins and stray bits of candy in their pockets for such small children as they may converse with under the smiling eyes of nurses.

  “Ah, Señor Bell,” he said gently. “You do cause me to admire you. May I see your hands again?”

  Bell held them out. He seemed to have conquered their writhing to some extent. But he could not hold them quite still. Sweat stood out on his forehead. He thrust them abruptly out of sight again.

  “Sad,” said The Master gently. “Very sad.” He sighed faintly and laid down the rose he had been toying with. His fingers caressed the soft petals delicately. “Fortunately,” he said benevolently, “it is not yet too late for me to relieve the strain under which you labor, Señor. May I send for a certain medicine which will dispose of those symptoms in a very short time?”

  “We’ll talk first,” said Bell harshly. “I want to hear what you have to say.”

  The Master nodded, his fingers touching the rose petals as if in a sensitive pleasure in their texture.

  “Always courageous,” he said benignly. “I admire it while I combat it. But the Señor Jamison.…”

  Jamison had been looking fascinatedly at his own hands, opening and closing the fingers with a savage abruptness. They obeyed him, though they trembled.

  “I didn’t drink the damned stuff that hotel keeper brought us last night,” he growled. “Bell did. And I—”

  “Wait a minute, Jamison,” said Bell evenly. “Let’s talk to The Master for a while. I swore, sir,” he said grimly, “that I’d kill you. I’ve seen what your devilish poison does, in the hands of the men you’ve chosen to distribute it. I’ve seen”—he swallowed and said harshly—“I’ve seen enough to make me desire nothing so much as to see you roast in hell! But you wanted to talk to me. Go ahead!”

  The Master beamed at him, and then glanced about at the frock-coated men who had been a
ttending him. Bell glanced at them. Ribiera was there, chuckling.

  “I told you, tio mio,” he said familiarly, “that he would not be polite. You can do nothing with him. Better have him shot.”

  Francia, of Paraguay, nodded amusedly to Bell as their eyes met. But The Master shook his really rather beautiful head. An old man can be good to look at, and with a saintly aureole of snow-white hair and the patriarchal white beard, The Master was the picture of benign and beautiful old age.

  “Ah, you do not understand,” he protested mildly. “The more the Señor Bell shows his courage, hijo mio, the more we must persuade him.” He turned to Bell. “I realise,” he said gently, “that there are hardships connected with the administration of my power, Señor. It is inevitable. But the Latin races of the continent which is now nearly mine require strong handling. They require a strong man to lead them. They are comfortable only under despotism. The task I have chosen for you is different, entirely. Los Americanos del Norte will not respond to the treatment which is necessary for those del Sud. Their governments, their traditions, are entirely unlike. If you become my deputy and viceroy for all your nation, you shall rule as you will. A benevolent, yet strong, rule is needed for your people. It may even be—I will permit it—that the democratic institutions of your nation may continue if you so desire. I am offering you, Señor, the position of the absolute ruler of your nation. You may interfere with the present government not at all, if you choose, provided only that my own commands are obeyed when relayed through you. I choose you because you have courage, and resource, and because you have the Yanqui cleverness which will understand your nation and cope with it.”

  Bell inhaled deeply.

  “In other words,” he said bitterly, “you’re saying indirectly that you offer me a chance to be the sort of ruler Americans will submit to without too much fuss, because you think one of Ribiera’s stamp would drive them to rebellion.”

  The fine dark eyes twinkled.

  “You have much virtue, Señor. My nephew—though he is to be my successor—has a weakness for a pretty face. Would you prefer that I give him the task of subduing your nation?”

  “You might try it,” said Bell. His eyes gleamed. “He’d be dead within a week.”

  The Master laughed softly.

  “I like you, Señor. I do like you indeed. I have not been so defied since another Americano del Norte defied me in this same room. But he had not your resource. He had been enslaved with much less difficulty than yourself. I do not remember what happened to him.…”

  “He was taken, Master,” said a fat man with hard eyes, obsequiously, “he was taken in Bolivia.” It was the man whom Bell had seen earlier that morning in a carriage. “You gave him to me. He had insulted me when I ordered him sent to you. I had him killed, but he was very obstinate.”

  “Ah, yes,” said The Master meditatively. “You told me the details.” He seemed to recall small facts in benevolent retrospection. “But you, Señor Bell, I have need of you. In fact, I shall insist upon your friendship. And therefore—”

  He beamed upon Bell.

  “I give you back the Señorita Canalejas.”

  He shook his head reproachfully at the utterly grim look in Bell’s eyes.

  “I shall give you one single portion of the antidote to the medicine which makes your hands behave so badly. You may take it when you please. The Señor Jamison I shall keep and enslave. I do not think he will be as obstinate as you are, but he has excellent qualities. If you prove obdurate, I may yet persuade him to undertake certain tasks for me. But you and the Señorita Canalejas are free. Your boat has been reprovisioned and provided with fuel. You may go from here where you will.”

  Ribiera snarled.

  “Tio mio,” he protested angrily, “you promised me—”

  “Your will in many things,” said The Master gently, “but not in all. Remember that you have much to learn, hijo mio. I have taught you to prepare my little medicine, it is true. That is so you can take my place if age infirmity shall carry me away.” The Master folded his hands with an air of pious resignation. “But you must learn policy. The Señorita Canalejas belongs to the Señor Bell.”

  Jamison was staring, now, but Bell’s eyes had narrowed to mere slits.

  “You see,” said The Master gently, to him, “I desire your friendship. You may go where you will. You may take the Señorita Canalejas with you. You will have enough of the antidote to my little medicine to keep you sane for perhaps a week. In one week you may go far, with her. You may do many things. But you cannot find a place of safety for her. I still have a little power, Señor. If you take her with you, your hands will writhe again. Your body will become uncontrollable. Your eyes, staring and horror-struck, will observe your own hands rending her. While your brain is yet sane you will see this body of yours which now desires her so ardently, tearing at and crushing that delicate figure, gouging out her eyes, battering her tender flesh, destroying her.… Have you ever seen what a man who has taken my little medicine does to a human being at his mercy?”

  The figures about The Master were peculiarly tense. The fat man with the hard eyes laughed suddenly. It was a horrible laugh. Francia of Paraguay took out his handkerchief and delicately wiped his lips. He was smiling. Ribiera looked at Bell’s face and chuckled. His whole gross figure shook with his amusement.

  “And of course,” said The Master benignly, “if you prefer to commit suicide, if you prefer to leave her here—well, my nephew knows little expedients to reduce her will to compliance. You recall Yagué, among others.”

  Bell’s face was a white mask of horror and fury. He tried to speak, and failed. He raised his hand to his throat—and it tore at the flesh, insanely.

  “Let—let me see her,” croaked Bell, as if strangling.

  Jamison stiffened. Bell seemed to be trying to get his hands into his pockets. They were apparently uncontrollable. He thrust them under his coat as there was a stirring at the door.

  And Paula was brought in, as if she had been waiting. She was entirely colorless, but she smiled at Bell. She came quickly to his side.

  “I heard,” she said in a clear and even little voice. “We will go together, Charles. If there is a week in which we can be together, it will be so much of happiness. And when you are—The Master’s victim, we will let the little boat sink, and sink with it. I do not wish to live without you, Charles, and you do not wish to live as his slave.”

  Bell gave utterance to a sudden laugh that was like a bark. His hands came out from under his coat. Dangling from each one was a small, pear-shaped globule of metal. A staff projected upward from each one, and he held those staffs in his writhing hands. About each wrist was a tiny loop of cord that went down to a pin at the base of the staffs.

  “Close to me, Paula,” he said coldly. She clung to his arm. He moved forward, with half-a-dozen revolver muzzles pointed at his breast.

  “If one of you damned fools fires,” he said harshly, “I’ll let go. When I let go—these are Mills grenades, and they go off in three seconds after they leave the hand. Stand still!”

  There was a terrible, frozen silence. Then a movement from behind Bell. Jamison was rising with a grunt.

  “Some day, Bell,” he observed coolly, “I’ll be on to all of your curves. This is the best one yet. But you’re likely to let go at any second, aren’t you?”

  “Like hell!” raged Bell. “I drank some of your poison,” he snarled at The Master. “Yes! I was fool enough to do it! But I took what measures any man will take who finds he’s swallowed poison. I got it out of my stomach at once. And if you or one of these deputies tries to move.…”

  Ribiera had blanched to a pasty gray. The Master was frozen. But Bell saw Ribiera’s eyes move in swift calculation. There was a solid wall behind The Master. It seemed as if the greenhouse were a sort of passageway between two larger structures. And there was a door almost immediately behind Ribiera. Ribiera glanced right—left—

  He flung himsel
f through that door. He knew the secret of The Master’s power. He was The Master’s appointed successor. If The Master and all his deputies died, Ribiera.…

  But Bell snapped into action like a bent spring released. His arm shot forward. A grenade went hurtling through the door through which Ribiera had fled. There was an instantaneous, terrific explosion. The solid wall shook and shivered and, with a vast deliberation, collapsed. The greenhouse was full of crushed plaster dust. Panes of glass shivered.…

  But Bell was upon The Master. He had struck the little man down and stood over him, his remaining automatic replacing the grenade he had thrown.

  “Ribiera’s dead,” he snapped, “and if I’m shot The Master dies too and you all go mad! Stand back!”

  The deputies stood frozen.

  “I think,” said Jamison composedly, “I take a hand now. I’ll pick him up, Bell.… Right. I’ve got him. With a grenade hanging down his back. If he jerks away from me, or I from him, it will blow his spine to bits.”

  “Hold him so,” said Bell coldly.

  He went coolly to where he could look over the heap of the collapsed wall. He saw a bundle of torn clothing that had been a man. It was flung against a cracked and tottering chimney.

  “Right,” he said evenly. “Ribiera’s dead, all right.”

  He turned to the deputies, whose revolvers were still in their hands.

  “The Master’s carriage, please,” he said politely. “To the door. You may accompany us if you please, but in other carriages. I am working for the release of all the Master’s slaves, and you among them if you choose. But you can see very easily that there is no hope of the release of The Master without the meeting of my terms.”

  The Master spoke, softly and mildly and without fear.

  “It is my order that the Señor Bell is to be obeyed. I shall return. You need have no fear of my death. My carriage.”

  A man went stiffly, half-paralyzed with terror, to where chattering scared servants were grouped in the awful fear that came upon the slaves of The Master at any threat to his rule.