Craig stopped before a little dais where a big man sat, hunched forward, eyeing him from under shaggy yellow brows. His garb differed little from that of the man at the door, or the archer, except that it seemed richer, better woven, and a belt of gold discs was clasped loosely about his middle. On his fingers were three rings, massy and of gold, set with red jewels. His big muscular hands rested on the braided hilt of a sword in a red leather and bronze scabbard.
While Rhyddoan remained seated, the man with him had leaped to his feet. He wore the tattered remnants of what had once been an Empire uniform, white with gold braid and gold buttons, with gold slashings down the sides of the trousers. Craig made out the circled star of the rank of navigator on his jacket collar. He was in his middle years but his hair was very gray. His name, he announced, was Waldon Grenvil.
Craig advanced with his hand out, to forestall the salute that was his due. "Navigator, well met,” he said, catching the older man by the hand.
The eyes that fastened on him so hopefully glanced beyond his shoulder. “You came alone? There are no —others?”
"I came alone. We sent two fleets into the Enigma. Nobody
"Two?” the navigator blurted. He sighed and his shoulders rounded, "We were the first, then. It's been along time.”
three Empire years, nodded Craig, and turned to Rhyddoan.
Fiona had been explaining how and where she had found the major, and the fact that he had killed a Toparr. Rhyddoan seemed impressed, beckoning Craig to sit on a bench at his right hand. Fiona remained standing before him.
He spoke slowly, in a resonant voice; Fiona translated for him, "I have not the gift of many tongues, being chief of the Rhydd and somewhat set in my ways. It takes a younger head, like that of Fiona, to learn these things.
"It was I, Rhyddoan, who first welcomed the men of the Empire to the walls of my dwelling. They were too many to live here, and so they built a village some distance from ours. When the Toparrs came, they fought valiantly but uselessly, nor did they betray the fact that we had helped them. For this, we of the Rhydd are grateful.”
The chief drew a deep breath, and nodded at the navigator.
Grenvil took up the story. "I was one of those captured by the Toparrs but I was so badly wounded, they left me behind to die. I lay in the underbrush until a passing hunter found me and carried me here to the hall of Rhyddoan. His wife nursed me back to health. I have been here over three years now, as close as I can reckon time.
Craig waited until Fiona was done translating Grenvil's words to Rhyddoan. Then he asked, “Who are the Toparrs? Do you know any more about them than Fiona? And—what are their weapons? The light thrower I saw used: have they many of those?”
"Very many, Grenvil said heavily, "but to my knowledge, it is their only weapon. Since I have been among the people of Rhydd, however—I have learned a curious thing. The legends of the people tell of weapons such as these. That-which-throws-bright-flame-that-eats-everything, is their name for it. It was used—according to the folktales—long ago and by the ancestors of these same Rhydd.
"How did the Toparrs get hold of it?” Grenvil shook his head. "Nobody knows. Nobody even knows how their ancestors who lived in the city of Uphor—where Fiona found you, and who operated the underground monorail cars, —came to lose their power and their knowledge.”
He went on slowly. "Nor does anyone know who or what the Toparrs are, or where they come from. Oh, they come from beyond—whatever that is—crossing over into the now.
"Time fields?" wondered Craig. The navigator nodded, "It may be. I have thought it might be that myself, but—not even the Empire scientists can create a Time field or a warp. Could the Rhydd—or their ancestors?”
“We'll probably never know.” Craig thought a moment. "These legends you mention: what are they?” Fiona stirred and Grenvil laughed. “The girl can tell you. She has made a study of them, first to please me because I wanted to hear them myself, and then because she became interested.”
Craig muttered, "Quite often, racial memory reveals itself in the form of legends. The Trojan War was thought to be a fairy tale until Heinrich Schliemann came along to find Troy itself. So too with Malloral on Mars, and Phthisthon on Centauri-5. Maybe these people can tell us something of their own history, once we hear their folktales.”
Fiona was wriggling excitedly, nodding her head until her thick black hair swirled about her cheeks. “So says old Fiachra, who is our harper.”
Craig felt a hand on his shoulder. He swung about to find the old man standing at his elbow, his lyre beneath his arm. His white head moved as he agreed, It is so. Our oldest legend says we are descended from heaven, that we came on shafts of light down from the sky, to land on this world and live here. A part of that legend says we were born and nurtured in the heart of Rhythane.”
Craig held up his hand, and Fiona, who had been translating for the harper, paused to take a deep breath. He asked, "Heart of Rhythane?”
"It is the name of our god. Rhythane. We were born with him and grew to manhood under his care. When we were old enough and grown wise, he sent us to this world on shafts of light, to build here our cities, to prosper and grow numerous.”
The Rhydd had come from another planet, then. This must have been before the Enigma had gathered this little star system in its black folds. He asked Fiona about the Enigma, if once her legends told of many stars shining in the night. She stared at him, puzzled. Grenvil chuckled. "The Rhydd have no words for stars. Maybe that's your answer, Commander. They wouldn't have a name for something they'd never seen, now would they?"
Craig grew aware that women were moving back and forth in the great hall, carrying torches to set in the bronze brackets on the walls, and that beyond the opened doors of the great hall, it was dusk. Men were bringing benches and tables out from where they were stacked, setting them up for the evening meal. The commander realized he was ravenously hungry. Rhyddoan said something to the girl. Fiona looked at Craig and pointed to The Imp. "The chief would see how your weapon works, John. Can you test it on something not—alive?”
When the commander nodded, Fiona clapped her hands and gave an order. Two men came running, carrying a wooden bench between them. They set it down a dozen feet from Craig. The commander saw that all activity had ceased in the great hall, that men and women were crowding its walls and entering through the great doorway.
“What does it do?” Grenvil wondered as Craig unslung the disced rod to hold it loosely in his hands.
"It implodes the atoms of anything it hits.”
The navigator whistled softly. "It's a new one, then.”
"Made to take into the Enigma. I have two more weapons in the sack just as powerful—in their own way. Now watch.”
The gleaming rod lifted. Craig aimed and focused it, touched the activator. A thin red flame ran from The Imp all around the bench. The muffled thunder of implosive power was loud in the great hall. A couple of the women screamed. Behind him, Craig could hear the navigator cursing under his breath.
Fiona was staring at him as if he were her god Rhythane descended to her world. The chief had thrust his shoulders back against his hide-covered chair and there he held them while his wide eyes went from where the chair had been to The Imp and then up to Craig's face. Awe and fright and a grim determination played in waves across his features. His tongue touched the corner of his lips as he made a little gesture with his left hand.
Fiona translated for him. "Can you make a lot of those things? I would arm my warriors with them instead of with bows and arrows and—carry our war to the Toparrs.”
Craig shook his head. "The Imp was made for me, for the express purpose of carrying it into the Enigma, to use it against whatever dangers I would find in it.” He found himself explaining the Enigma to a puzzled chief. In turn, Fiona told him that the Enigma had always been. Even their oldest legends made no mention of its coming. When the commander protested, pointing out that their own folk tales claimed they had come do
wn out of the sky—and this they could have done only by traveling through the Enigma, since the other planets of this system were uninhabitable—Fiona and the chief insisted.
The blackness beyond their sun always had been. To them, there were no other stars, no other planets. Theirs was an outcast planet, cut off by fate from others of its kind. Even old Fiachra the harper joined in the discussion, for he knew all the legends and the folk tales. He sat brooding, aged chin on fist, as the talk swirled about his white head and as the serving maids came with steaming soups and meats and freshly baked breads.
From time to time he would rouse himself and agree with a remark of his chiefs, or protest against a statement made by Commander Craig or the navigator.
“We have no recollection of any such journey through the blackness,” he growled softly, eyes staring into some realm which the others could not see. "If it be as you describe, there would have been some mention of it in the ancient tales.
Grenvil said, "Maybe they are old wives tales, these legends.”
Fiachra turned slowly, his face set in proud, deep lines. An errant wind touched his long white hair, made it wave about his head. So might Moses have looked, long ago, thought Craig. This old man was as majestic, as he waved a big hand.
“Out there, beyond these forests, stand the monuments to the memory of our people: The cities of the Rhydd, fallen now into ruin, and the rail cars that go here and there under the surface of the land! Giants built those things, men with the minds of gods.
“We latter—day Rhydd have fallen into bad times. We have forgotten many things. Partly because of the who long ago drove us from the cities and took away many of our people, partly because we have no chance to think in peace since it takes so much of our time merely to—stay alive.”
Gravely the harpist bent to scratch with a fingernail in the hard packed dirt on the floor. "This too, we have forgotten—the art and magic of the written word.”
Craig followed the moving finger, watched the oddly Arabic words that Fiachra set down in the dirt. His heart was thumping excitedly; if he could learn this language, go back into the ruins of Uphor and see what had been written there so long ago, he might answer some of the riddle of the Rhydd. "Rhythane,” breathed old Fiachra. The name of your god," nodded Craig. "My father's father taught the way of the writing to me when I was young. I have put away his teachings in old leaves. Once I intended to pass them on to my son but—my wife died giving birth and—I had no heart to wed another. I have no son, no one to whom to leave the old writings that they may be kept and understood and—passed on.”
Craig slid to his knees on the dirt floor. His hand went out and his finger traced those curlicues once more; as it did, he said, "Show me those leaves and what they say, Fiachra. Teach me the way you might have taught a son.”
"It shall be as you say. I will teach you.” Craig went back to his place at table. Though he was no further to discovering the secret of the Enigma and what had happened to the lost crew of the United World's space fleets, he felt that he had made a beginning. By solving the riddle of the Rhydd, he might well solve all his other puzzles, too.
For the moment, he would forget all problems but his own hunger. The stews and the meats served up by the women were extremely palatable. He did not know how much of his enjoyment was due to good cooking or his own ravenous appetite, but he ate Ythout stopping, until the platters before him were Clean
Then he was tired. It seemed outward from his warm middle into his legs and arms until he almost dozed at the table. His head dipped with heaviness and his eyelids seemed weighted down. It seemed he dreamed a little then, that he saw two wise eyes regarding him, the eyes of a god, surely, those of Rhythane himself. There was nobody, no voice, just the eyes, watching and studying him, as if judging how best to meet the threat he offered. It was gone in a moment, as a hand on his wrist roused him to wakefulness.
Fiona was smiling gently. "Come, John Craig. There is a couch prepared in the king's own quarters for you, near that of your friend Grenvil.”
Gratefully he stumbled to his feet, gratefully he followed the girl between the benches where the men and women of the Rhydd sat and watched him go. But he remembered to take The Imp with him, and the sack that held the time-warping black box and The Halo.
He wondered if the god-eyes were still watching him.
Chapter Four
The city of Uphor had been built long, long ago, Craig decided, moving along its dusty avenues, studying the cyclopean blocks of stone that formed its buildings. The stone was worn smooth by the rains and winds of this planet, and even the carved facades and friezes that decorated the largest buildings were rounded over and obliterated.
Fiona made the city look even older by her youth and laughter. She would run ahead of him and go rummaging in and out of hallways, pushing open doors and losing herself for minutes, exploring and examining.
"I have never before dared to go looking in those big caves,” she laughed up at him. "None of the Rhyddoan ever have. Now with you, I would dare anything.”
“Well, don't get too far away. A Toparr might find you when I'm not around.”
His plan was to examine Uphor outward from its center, where so many of the large buildings were grouped. Anything worth examining, anything which might contain some clue as to the god Rhythane the arrival of the people of the planet Rhyllan should be inside one of the important edifices.
It was good theory, but poor practice. Most of the huge rooms were cold and empty, layered by dust untouched for centuries. Fiona choked and he coughed whenever they moved too quickly in these old ruins. It was dull, unrewarding work, and while the commander kept at it with a doggedness which merited better results, there were none to be had.
"Someone must have cleaned out the place with a fine-tooth comb, ages ago,” he complained to Waldon Grenvil one night at the dinner meal.
"The Toparrs?" wondered the old navigator. "Could be. Fiona, did your people ever take anything out of the old buildings?”
Fiona sat beside him at mealtimes so closely that her thigh and shoulder were forever nudging against his own. She flirted shamelessly with him, Craig noted with amusement; apparently she had staked her claim on him in some female manner, for the other Rhyddoan women stayed away.
She nodded eagerly, "Oh, yes. Lengths of metal, some cloth, anything that would make our life easier. But that was long ago. The cloth is all gone now, the metal has been melted down and hammered into arrowheads or daggers.”
“Then who cleaned out the place?”
"The Toparrs, of course. They still come and walk in the city as if searching for something. From hiding places, we have seen them.” d w what would they be after?” Grenvil wondered.
"Probably nothing special. Maybe they're under orders to scan the place every so often, to make sure the people don't go back there to live. A thought touched Craig and he asked the “Why don't your people go there to live? It would be easier than living in these woods.”
"They did, at first, but when they did they died.
There was a curse on the place which killed all who went there. After a time my people did not go any more.”
Grenvil looked at Craig. "A curse? Or maybe something else like an atomic reactor out of control? They'd have had to heat the city during the cold months, maybe even cool it during the hot.
"It could be radioactive poisoning. Fiona, what were the symptoms of this sickness your people acquired in the city?”
"Nausea and fatigue at first, then they grew black blisters and their hands swelled. Their blood was affected, and the flesh began to rot. It was very painful, I am told.”
Grenvil made a wry face, nodding. Craig said, "After all these years, the fall-out would have dissipated itself, so that it's safe now. But this brings up another question: where are those abandoned old reactors?”
He found one of them next day, in a subterranean vault that was sealed off except for a huge metal door barred and bolted against leakage
. It took him three hours to draw out the rusty bars. With a counter he checked for radioactivity. There was none. He swung the doors wide and stepped down onto a platform that looked out over a vast nuclear motor.
It lay silent now. Once it had given life to Uphor, heart to its inhabitants. Its tasks were long since over with, and it bulked in shadowy metallic death.
On the catwalks, Craig moved all around it, carrying the sack that held his weapons, from which he was never parted. It reminded him of something, long since forgotten. He stood there scowling, trying to remember. Something about the motor, this vault in which it lay, touched a memory chord—but not strongly enough. He shook his head and walked out of the massive engine room.
They found nothing new that day.
When they returned to the village, they found a group of men and women gathered about the fallen body of a child. The little boy had ventured to far from the village pathways and an alokan—a big, tawny cat the size of a panther, as near as Craig could make out from Fiona’s sobbed description—had upon it. A hunter had hurled a spear, the alokan had fled, but the boy was dead.
In silence, the commander watched as the boy was placed in a blanket for burial. With him were placed a pottery mug which had been his own, a toy wooden sword, a small bow, some arrows, a cloak of spotted fur. Craig stiffened as he watched, drawing so sharp a breath that Grenvil glanced at him.
"Something hit you?”
"It could be! In the reactor room today, I tried to think of what the motor reminded me in that big vault. It was—a dead body in a tomb. And where people die, their most precious things are buried with them. Whether or not for them to use in an after life makes no difference. It's the object that's buried and not the purpose of the burial that's important right now.”
Beyond the Black Enigma Page 5