The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

  Finally one of the two Aliens placed a web-like wire helmet upon his domed head. Waring noticed that this individual was more elaborately dressed than the others. His metallic-gleaming robe shone with rich color, and the heavy belt which bound his waist glittered with jewels. Waring guessed the Alien to be a leader of some kind.

  The Alien held out a second helmet to Waring—and incredibly he smiled. Or at least Waring interpreted the grimace which passed over his strange features as a smile. Waring hesitated, wondering what purpose lay behind the proceedings. Whatever it was, it seemed clear that no harm was intended.

  Waring shrugged and accepted the helmet. It was too large, but he found, by placing it at a rakish angle, that it wouldn’t slide down over his ears. He waited tensely for what was to happen next.

  There was a sudden hum from the machine. Lights flamed and glowed within its intricate workings. Waring winced as a stab of pain lanced suddenly through his head. But it was gone as swiftly as it had come. Following it now came an inchoate stirring within his brain, a nebulous feeling which was more mental than physical. It strengthened, became a current that rushed along faster and faster, carrying his thoughts before it, leaving his mind dazed and numb as though before the onslaught of some unimaginable force.

  Afterward Waring could never recall how long it was he stood there with that web-like affair of metal atop his head. It might have been seconds or years. All he could remember was an interval of the strangest blankness, a kind of awake unconsciousness, during which he had the puzzling impression that his mind was something being—filled.

  And then it was over. Waring felt a touch upon his arm. The helmet was lifted from his head. Awareness rushed back to him, as though he were awakening from slumber.

  “Lon—look at me!” a frightened voice demanded. “Are you all right?”

  “Why, of course,” Waring answered. He grinned at Sally’s worried expression.

  Sally’s blue eyes cleared with relief. “I…I was frightened for a moment. You looked like a statue, Lon. I thought—”

  “It’s all right now,” Waring assured her. He did not know what was all right beyond the fact that his trial with the machine seemed to be over. The two Aliens were bent over the device. Waring stared as he saw that it was now blackened and fused. Had something gone wrong?

  The leader straightened, his metallic robe shimmering with the same gorgeous play of color given off by a film of oil on water. He noted the direction of Waring’s wondering gaze.

  “The educator is ruined,” the Alien explained. “It is to be expected, however, for its mechanism had deteriorated through the years.”

  Waring stiffened in stunned surprise. He had understood every word spoken to him!

  The Alien smiled. “You are amazed, no doubt, at what has been accomplished. By means of the educator we have impressed upon your mind a thorough knowledge of the Drurian tongue. You should now be able to converse with us quite easily.”

  Waring nodded slowly, dazed by the revelation. He felt a touch upon his arm. He turned to find Sally gazing at him in perplexity.

  “Lon, what did he do?” she asked. “Can you…understand him?”

  Waring explained briefly the new ability given him by the machine. Sally looked disappointed at having been left out.

  “I am sorry we could not have included the young lady also,” the leader of the Aliens said. “Educator machines, because of their delicate construction, wear out very quickly. This one was the last we had. And as the skilled technicians who constructed them are gone, I’m afraid you will be the only member of your race able to communicate with us.” The Alien abruptly became grim and purposeful. Some gnawing fear, hitherto concealed, now seemed to leap out all over him.

  “But enough of this. Our lives are a matter of time—and that is growing very short. First of all, I want you to understand that I am your friend, and that no harm shall befall you while you are in my hands. Now—listen closely to what I have to say.

  “There are two political groups here in Cirron, capital city of Drur. One is led by myself—Grevellon, Chief Coordinator—and the other by Varranagh, the rebel. Varranagh seeks to destroy my group so that he may set himself up as overlord of Drur. And I assure you he has the means within his power to do so.

  “Most important to you, however, is the fact that Varranagh is not only my enemy, but the enemy also of your people. Through the medium of prisoners, I have learned it is Varranagh’s intention to exterminate every member of your race here upon Drur. He is cruel, ruthless, utterly without conscience or scruple. He desires his power to be supreme, his authority absolutely unquestioned. Moreover, he is too selfish to share the wealth of Drur with beings of another race. Thus, even though he may not triumph entirely in the end, he can, however, cause the extermination both of my followers and of your people here on Drur.” Grevellon’s large eyes burned with urgency.

  “I had you brought here for two reasons—first that you may warn your people of the danger which confronts them; and the second that you may organize forces to aid me against Varranagh. I am desperately in need of help. My followers have been depleted to the extent where now their sole effectiveness is in guerilla warfare. It was a small band of such fighters that rescued you and the girl from Varranagh’s henchmen. I regret they arrived too late to save the other being of your kind also. There is no telling how many of your people Varranagh may not have killed already in his mad plan of extermination.” Grevellon turned toward the doorway.

  “Now follow me quickly. I will lead you from the building and to your vehicle that you may warn your people and prepare against Varranagh. There is not a moment to lose.”

  Waring nodded and took Sally’s arm. “Come on—we’re getting out of here. I’ll explain everything later.”

  There came an abrupt flurry of sound and motion. A Drurian burst into the room.

  “The rebel, sir!” he gasped. “Varranagh has broken into the building. His men are advancing through every corridor!”

  Grevellon’s stalk-like body sagged in despair. “Too late!” he groaned. “We’re trapped!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Desperate Venture

  Waring felt hopeless, completely out of his element. Within him still was the old courage and cunning which had pulled him through many a hopeless situation during his service in the Interstellar Rangers. But he did not know the various details necessary upon which to base a course of action. He was ignorant both of the location of the building and its architectural plan, information which might have enabled him to suggest strategic places of defense or retreat. Neither did he know the extent of the opposing rebel forces, or the kind of weapons they used.

  Yet he felt a compelling need for action which quickly dominated his first feeling of inadequacy. He turned to Grevellon.

  “Is there any means of exit by which we could retreat from the building?” he queried swiftly.

  The Drurian shook his domed head. “None, I am afraid. We are within the Crypts of Sleep, deep beneath this building which we call the Fort of Sleep. We Drurians did not vanish from the face of the planet as your people must have thought when finding our deserted cities. You see, a terrible sickness which we called the Sneezing Death had stricken Drur. Our people were decimated so rapidly that we feared the extinction of our race. The only way for those remaining to survive was by having themselves placed in suspended animation within specially constructed underground rooms until such time as the Sneezing Death had died out for lack of further victims. The buildings chosen for this purpose were called Forts of Sleep. There is one such in each city. We of this Fort have just lately awakened.”

  “But what about the Drurians in the other five cities?” Waring wanted to know. “Have they awakened also?”

  “Not yet,” Grevellon replied. “The controls of the sleep cabinets were timed to that we of this city should awaken before the others. We
were then to determine whether or not the Sneezing Death was still present above us. If so, we were to return to suspended animation; if not, we were to awaken the others in the remaining cities. We have determined, however, that all danger of the Sneezing Death has gone. Yet I have hesitated to pull the master switch which would awaken my people in the other cities for the reason that Varranagh’s revolution would spread there also.”

  Waring was astonished. “Do you mean he was plotting uprisings in all the other cities at the same time?”

  Grevellon nodded somberly. “Exactly. From what I have learned thus far, Varranagh has been plotting a revolution for a long time. The advent of the Sneezing Death merely postponed it. He has confederates planted in each of the other five cities. Pulling of the master switch would awaken them along with my own loyal followers, and with the advantage of surprise and organization, they would triumph easily.”

  “I get the picture now,” Waring said. “This Varranagh wants to capture the master switch so as to awaken his men among the Drurians in the other cities. Then, after he has control there, he intends to go after my own people. Great space, it’s simple—and horrible. Isn’t there something we can do?”

  Grevellon spread his long-fingered hands in a gesture of futility. “None—unless we could open the Arsenal.”

  “The Arsenal?” Waring frowned his lack of understanding.

  “It is a vast room on the same level as the Crypts of Sleep,” Grevellon explained. “Within it are the old weapons—the supreme achievements of Drurian science; robot soldiers, airships equipped with atomic bombs and destructive rays, protective screens, and various types of disintegrator weapons. Before Varranagh’s uprising, there had been peace on Drur for many centuries, and all implements of warfare had been placed within the Arsenal here in Cirron, the capital city. With them in our possession, we could defeat Varranagh easily.”

  “Then why don’t you do so?” Waring demanded impatiently.

  Again Grevellon spread his hands, “You do not understand. The lock of the Arsenal can be opened only by a combination of certain electronic frequencies. We have lost this combination through the passing of years. My men have found clues in various old records, and are working upon the combination. They have not yet solved it—nor is there any indication that they will, within the short space of time required. The doors of the Arsenal are of such atomic construction that no disintegrator beam can touch them. My followers, however, are holding the Arsenal corridor in the event that the combination is solved.”

  “That’s too small a hope,” Waring pointed out. “Somehow, we’ve got to get out of this building. If I can warn my people and get them to help while you hold the master switch, Varranagh is certain to get what’s coming to him.” Waring straightened purposefully. “Your men are now defending the corridors here against the rebels?”

  “Yes,” Grevellon responded. “But I fear they will not last long. Their number is already too few.”

  “Then look,” Waring went on quickly, “have you the means to blow up the corridors—that is, block them against passage?”

  “We have—yes. But what do you intend to do?”

  “This—order your men to blow up all the corridors except those leading to the elevator. Then they can be assembled into a spearhead with which we can fight our way to the elevator. Do you see?”

  Grevellon’s eyes lighted with new hope. “I do—and I shall carry out your plan at once.” He turned to the Drurians standing at attention within the doorway, issued quick commands.

  With Sally, Waring followed Grevellon through the doorway and into a dimly-lighted passage. Now, faint with distance, he could hear sounds of struggle as Grevellon’s loyal fighters sought valiantly to halt the relentless advances of Varranagh’s rebels. Presently there came dull, booming sounds which heralded the blocking of the corridors.

  Finally all was silent. A Drurian appeared up the passage on the run. He raised an arm to Grevellon in a gesture that was obviously a salute.

  “It is done, sir,” he reported.

  “Good!” Grevellon turned to Waring. “This is the test of your plan. May the gods grant that we reach the elevator! Follow me carefully now.”

  Waring took Sally’s hand and trotted in the Drurian’s rear. Sally was bewildered at the proceedings because of her inability to understand the discussion which had taken place in the Drurian language. Waring explained pertinent bits of information as they went.

  The route led through a confusing and seemingly interminable maze of dim-lit corridors. Slowly, an excited hubbub of sound deepened until at last a turn in one corridor brought them to where Grevellon’s men were gathered.

  Grevellon shouted an order. The Drurians formed into ranks, a column of spindling giants that filled the corridor from one wall to the other. Then they released a loud roar and swept forward.

  Grevellon gestured. “Come. My men form a protecting barrier for us, but keep low. If Varranagh does not anticipate this trick, we are fairly certain to win through.”

  Waring transmitted this information to Sally. Gripping her hand, he raced along in the wake of Grevellon’s attacking spearhead as fast as his lame leg would allow.

  The pounding feet of the Drurians echoed down the dim corridor like a never-ceasing roll of thunder. Several times they turned as they wound their course through the underground maze. Then, finally, a turn brought them to a corridor which was wider and higher than the others, more brilliantly lighted.

  “Main corridor,” Grevellon panted. “The elevator is straight ahead.”

  The spring of tension wound to ultimate tightness within Waring. Now, he thought. Now. Everything depended on what was going to happen within the next few minutes. His grip on Sally’s hand tightened.

  Still they raced forward, yard after yard, until it seemed incredible that anything could stop their headlong advance. And then, abruptly, the battle cry of Grevellon’s warriors rose anew, and their mad pace slowed, halted entirely. Colored lights flamed into lurid being ahead, and shrill screams mingled with shrieked commands.

  “Down!” Grevellon shouted. “Keep low. Varranagh has organized a counter-attack.”

  Waring crouched with Sally behind the shelter of the column of loyal Drurians. An awed sense of horror grew within him as he thought of the carnage taking place ahead. The corridor was no place for a battle of the kind being waged, with the weapons being used. There was absolutely no room for cover, no room for movement save for that forward and backward. The two opposing groups could only rake each other with their terrible rays until the morale of one or the other finally cracked.

  Several times Grevellon’s forces moved forward, though each time they were forced to retreat. Then the retreats predominated. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, Grevellon’s followers were forced back under the superior might of the opposing rebels. Then they turned at last to flee the battle, a screaming, clawing mass of panic-stricken Drurians.

  “Varranagh has defeated our plan,” Grevellon almost sobbed. “Our last bid for existence has failed!”

  CHAPTER V

  Pardon My Sneeze

  There was something of nightmare unreality about that frenzied retreat. Waring pulled Sally along while behind them pounded Grevellon’s routed troops. Pain throbbed agonizingly in Waring’s lame leg at the intense strain to which it was being subjected. He had hardly been conscious of it before, but now it was all he could do to keep himself in motion. He knew he could not stop, for it would mean being trampled under the racing feet of the demoralized Drurians behind him.

  The retreat flowed back through the main corridor and retraced its way through the lesser ones. Finally they reached that farthermost portion of the Crypts from which they had originally started. To Grevellon’s men, this was the place of the last stand. Their terror changed swiftly to the desperate fury of trapped animals. Whirling upon Varranagh’s eagerly pursu
ing rebels, they unleashed a barrage of deadly rays. Taken by surprise, the rebels momentarily were forced back. And before they could recover, Grevellon yelled an order, and the passage was blown down, cutting off Varranagh’s men.

  “That won’t hold them off for long,” Grevellon said labouringly. “Our deaths are only a matter of time.”

  Waring, slumped on the floor of the passage, said nothing. Agony pulsed and flamed through the tortured muscles of his lame leg, and his mouth was pale and tight with suffering. Sally sat beside him, eyes closed, her head resting tiredly on his shoulder. Except for her, he would almost have been glad to have everything ended then.

  He tried to find reproach within himself for his attitude of defeat—and failed. Never before had the stakes been so great, nor the odds against him so overwhelming. By comparison his adventures in the Rangers seemed but the game of a child. Here the lives of uncounted thousands depended upon what help he could give—the lives both of Grevellon’s loyal Drurians and of the Terran colonists on Faltronia—and there was nothing he could do. Varranagh had them trapped—whipped completely.

  Grevellon voiced the end with fatalistic calm. “My men have instructions to sell their lives dearly, Varranagh will meet with heavy losses before he can claim this portion of Cirron. And as for myself, my last act will be to destroy the master switch. Varranagh will thus have to travel from city to city, awakening the rebels among the sleepers. Perhaps in that way your people will become warned.” He looked at Waring, and the grimness softened in his glowing eyes. “I regret, my friend from another world, that I can do nothing to save your life. I would die more gladly were I able to do so—”

  Grevellon turned sharply at a sudden burst of excited activity down the passage. Waring saw several Drurians approaching on the run. The foremost held a small black box in his long-fingered hands.

  “What is it, Evansu?” Grevellon demanded, his elongated body tense.

  “The combination!” Evansu gasped breathlessly. “We have solved it at last!” For an instant Grevellon’s features lighted. Then his gaunt shoulders slumped listlessly. “What is the good—now?” he muttered. “The corridors are blocked, and Varranagh holds those leading to the Arsenal.”