Two Thousand Miles Below

by Charles Willard Diffin

  CHAPTER XX

  _Taloned Hands_

  Simple, pastoral folk, the People of the Light! In their inner world,a vanishing world, where nearly all of what once had been a vastcountry was now covered by the steadily encroaching sea, they hadresisted the degeneration which might easily have followed thedestruction of a complex civilization. Living simply, and clean ofmind, they had clung to the culture of the past as it was taught themby their Wise Ones. And now the People of the Light had found a newgod.

  Not that Dean Rawson had asked for that exalted position; on thecontrary he had tried his best to make them understand that he wasonly one of many millions, some better, some worse, but all of themmerely humans.

  His speaking the language of the holy mountain had convinced themfirst. But when old Rotan, oldest and grayest of the mountain'sservants, went into a trance, then Rawson could no longer escape thehonors being thrust upon him.

  "The time of deliverance is at hand," old Rotan said when he awoke.His voice that so long had been cracked and feeble was suddenlystrong, vibrant with belief in the visions that had come to him.

  They were in the inner chamber of the white mountain, where DeanRawson, heartsick, lonely and hopeless, had spent most of his timelistening to the voice from the outer world. Gor was there, and Loah;and the writers had left their desks to gather around old Rotan, wherenow the old servant of the mountain stood erect, his glistening eyesfixed unwaveringly upon Rawson.

  "Listen," he commanded. "Rotan speaks the truth. Never shall thePeople of the Light return to the outer world; it is here we stay. Fornow our world which is lost shall be returned to us." His eyes,unnaturally bright, met the wondering gaze of his own people gatheredaround, then came back to rest again upon Rawson.

  * * * * *

  "Dean--Rah--Sun!" he said. "'Rah'--do you not see? It is our own word,Rah--the Messenger! Dean--Messenger of the Sun! The sun-god has senthim--he will set us free. He will restore our lost cities. The Peopleof the Light will spread out to fill the new land; they will multiply,and once more will be a mighty nation, living happily as of old intheir own lost world.

  "Dean!" he called. "Dean--Messenger of the Sun!" He was drawn to hisfull frail height, his arms outstretched. But Rawson saw the old eyesclose, sensed the first slackening of that tense body; it was he whosprang and caught the sagging figure in his arms, then lowered thelifeless body to the floor of crystal white.

  Even happiness can kill. A feeble heart can cease to beat under thestress of emotions too beautiful to be borne. And Rotan, wisest of thewise, had passed on to serve his sun-god in another world.

  And thereafter, Rawson, Dean-Rah-Sun, was undeniably a god. But hewondered, even then, while the others dropped to their knees in humbleworship, why Loah, her eyes brimming over with tears, had brokensuddenly into uncontrollable sobs and had rushed blindly, swiftly,from the room.

  * * * * *

  To Rawson the unwavering, simple faith of the White Ones was only anadded misery. Rotan's vision was accepted by them unquestioningly;their adoring eyes followed Rawson wherever he went, while thechildren carpeted his path to the holy mountain with golden flowers.

  And there Rawson would sit, cursing silently his own helplessness,while the voice of the mountain told of further devastation up above.His plans for leading a force against the mole-men were abandoned. Onthe island, all that was left of this inner world, were only some twothousand persons, men, women and children. And the children were few;the population had been rigorously kept down. Their present number wasall that the island would support, though every possible foot ofground was tilled.

  "Only a handful of them," Rawson admitted despondently, "and not aweapon of any sort. They've kept by themselves. Only Loah and a fewof the others had enough curiosity and nerve to scout around where themole-men live. She even understands their talk! Lord, what I'd givefor a thousand like her, a thousand men with her nerve! Then, withweapons, and means of transportation...." But at that he stopped,aware of the futility of all such thoughts.

  He had tried to talk to Gor, tried to tell him of his own limitations.And Gor had only smiled pleasantly and repeated "Rotan has spoken. Itwill come to pass!"

  Ceaselessly his thoughts revolved about the hopelessness of hissituation. He was alone. Whatever was to be done he must dosingle-handed--and there was nothing he could do! But he would notadmit to himself that the aching loneliness came to a focus in thememory of a girl's smiling eyes, the touch of her soft hand.

  "They're fighting up there," he argued, "fighting for their lives, andI can't help. What right have I to think of Loah or myself?" In spiteof which he sprang abruptly to his feet, left the mountain and thevoice of the mountain behind him, and went in search of the girl.

  "I've got to make her understand," he exclaimed. "I've got to havesomeone to talk to. But I can't make her out. She's so confoundedlyrespectful--acts as if I were a little tin god. And yet--she wasn'talways that way!"

  * * * * *

  At the home of Gor he found Loah, slim and beautiful as always. Shehad just come from the bath. The creamy texture of her skin hadflushed to rosiness in the cold fountain. Her jeweled breast-platessparkled. A cloth that shone like silk enwrapped her hips in softfolds of pale rose and hung in an absurd little skirt. She might havebeen the spirit of youth itself, a vision of loveliness; yet Rawsonfelt an almost uncontrollable desire to take her in his two hands andshake her when she bowed humbly and treated his request as if it werea royal command.

  "To walk with Dean-Rah-Sun! But certainly, if that is his wish!"

  In silence they left the village and walked toward the island's endwhere Rawson had emerged from the under-world.

  The island was not large. On either side were low hills, mere knolls,of white crystal, where, in every hollow, men and women wereharvesting strange grain. Between the two ranges of hills were flatfields of green, reaching out toward the point some three milesdistant.

  Rawson made no attempt to talk as he led Loah along the roadway thatcleft the green expanse in half. Other workers were there, and Deanacknowledged their smiling, worshipful salutations. He did not want totalk now; he wanted to find some place where he and Loah could be bythemselves. There was so much he must tell her. He must try to makeher understand. And after that, perhaps, with her help, he could findsome way to be of aid to his own beleaguered people--something hecould do even single-handed.

  * * * * *

  Where the fields ended, and from there on toward the point, had beenan expanse of glistening white. Rawson remembered it plainly. So now,when he found it a place of flaming crimson, he stared in amazement.Across the full width of the valley a brilliant carpet had spreaditself, a covering of flowers. A blossoming vine had sprung up in thefew days since his arrival and had woven a thick mat of vegetation.

  He wanted to go on out to the extreme end of the point. There theywould be alone. But Loah objected when he started to enter the redexpanse.

  "No!" she said in quick alarm. "We must not cross. It is the Place ofDeath. We will go around it, following the hills."

  "We crossed it the other day when it was a plain of white salt,"argued Rawson.

  "But now the flowers have come. Even now it might be safe--but whenthey die then nothing can cross here and live."

  Loah could not give the reason. Dean gathered from what she could tellthat a gas of some sort was formed, perhaps by the decomposingvegetation. Perhaps it combined with the sparkling white shale. Butall this was of no consequence compared with his own problems. He didnot argue the matter but followed where Loah led.

  "Where is the shell?" he asked, when they stood at last near the openmouth of the great shaft into which the air was rushing. "Where is themachine that we came here in? I wanted to see it--thought perhaps Icould use it later on.

  "The jana--the shell, as you call it--is safely locked in a great roomof Gor's house. Not all underst
and its use; it must be kept away fromcareless hands."

  * * * * *

  Then Rawson put that thought aside. He took Loah's hand and led hersome distance away toward the shore. Beyond a rocky, crystalline mass,where fragments had been heaped, the sound of the rushing air waslost; only the flashing emerald waves whispered softly on the shorebeyond. And there in that quiet place, under the brilliance of thecentral sun, Rawson told her of himself and of the great outer world.He told her of his work, of everything that had happened, of how hewas only one of many millions of men and women like, and yet unlike,the People of the Light. And at last he knew that she understood.

  He had spoken softly, though he knew there were no other listeningears. Loah had been seated before him on one of the white blocks. Sherose to her feet. Her eyes were troubled. Vaguely he sensed behindthem a conflict of emotions.

  "I must think," she said. "I will walk by myself for a time; then Iwill return."

  Rawson reached for her hand. "You're a good sport," he said huskily.Then he felt the trembling of that hand in his; and, as if it had beenan electric current, his own body responded.

  Shaken in every nerve, his poise deserted him. He could not thinkclearly. He knew only that that horrible loneliness was somehow gone.By force of will alone he kept his arms from reaching out toward thatradiant figure. Instead, he raised her hand toward his lips.

  She withdrew it sharply. "No," she said, "our Wise Ones were mistaken.For years they have listened to the mountain; they have written downits words. Slowly they have learned their meaning. A kiss, they said,was a symbol of love in your world. They were mistaken--as was I. NowI will walk alone for a time."

  * * * * *

  Rawson let her go. She seemed hardly looking where she went; her eyeswere downcast. She moved slowly around the sheltering rock and ontoward the level ground and the rushing winds of the shaft.

  His own thoughts were in a whirl, too confused with emotion for clearthinking. "A symbol of love!" And back there in that cave world shehad pressed her lips to his hand. Then they had come here, and he hadbeen transformed to a god, a being who could never have more than animpersonal affection for one as humble as she.

  The rising flood of happiness within him was abruptly frozen, changedto something which filled his veins with ice. For, from beyond thecrystal barrier that hid Loah from his view, her voice had come in onesingle cry of terror. Then, "Dean!" she called. "Dean San!" But bythen, Rawson was throwing himself madly around the barricade of rocks.

  Like a sensitized plate when the camera's shutter is opened a merestfraction of a second, Rawson's brain took the imprint of every detailthat was there. The black mouth of the shaft, and, on the rock besideit, something metallic, brilliantly gleaming--a flame-thrower! Beyondthe pit was Loah, half crouching, her slim body tense as if checked inmid-flight. She had been running toward him, coming to warn him. Andbetween her and the shaft, his back turned squarely toward Rawson, wasthe hideous figure of a mole-man, one of the Reds! His grotesque,pointed head was bent forward toward the girl; his arms were reaching,the long fingers like talons.

  * * * * *

  Rawson did not know when he called the girl's name. But he knew theinstant that he had done it and he knew it was a mistake. He shouldhave crept quietly, seized the weapon--and now his feet tore madly onthe white rock floor as he raced toward the shining implement ofdeath. From beyond, the red figure, whirling at his call, leapedwildly for the same prize.

  The taloned hands were on the flame-thrower first. Rawson saw the redbody straighten, saw the weapon swing, glistening in air, swingingover and down. From its tip green fire made a straight line of light.

  He leaped in under the descending flame, felt the nozzle of theprojector as it crashed upon his right shoulder and the green firespat harmlessly beyond his back. That last spring had thrown himbodily against the red monster. They were both knocked off balance fora moment, then Rawson caught himself and swung with his left. He sethimself in that fraction of a second, felt the first movement of thatshining, crook-necked tube that meant the green flame was being drawnback where it could reach him; then his fist crashed into a yieldingjaw.

  Not five feet from the brink of that nearly bottomless shaft he stoodwavering in the rush of air. He knew that the ugly red figure hadtoppled sideways, that the weapon had fallen with him, the blastswinging upward in a vertical, hissing arc--then man and weapon haddropped silently into the pit.

  He was alone, save for the girl, who, her eyes wide with horror, threwherself upon him and clung trembling, while she murmuredincomprehensible endearments in her own tongue wherein his own namewas mingled: "Dean, dear! My own Dean-San!"

  But the mole-men! Dean Rawson's mind was aghast with the horror of it:the mole-men had now found the way.