Archman was silent. Flickering rays of light from somewhere outside bobbed at random in the cell, illuminating the girl’s almost bare form from time to time. He wanted to talk gently to her, to take her in his arms, to comfort her—
But he couldn’t. He was a trained assassin, not a smooth-talking romancer. The words wouldn’t come, and he crouched back on his heels, feeling the throbbing pain from his beating and the even sharper pain of not being able to speak.
It was the girl who broke the silence. She said, “And what of you? You’re a renegade, a traitor to your home world. How will you feel when you die tomorrow? Clean?”
“You don’t understand,” Archman said tightly. “I’m not—” He paused. He didn’t dare to reveal the true nature of his mission.
Or did he? What difference did it make? In an hour or so, he would be taken to the Interrogator—and most assuredly they would pry from his unwilling subconscious the truth. Why not tell the girl now and at least go to death without her hating him? The conflict within him was brief and searing.
“You’re not what?” she asked sarcastically.
“I’m not a renegade,” he said, his voice leaden. “You don’t understand me. You don’t know me.”
“I know that you’re a cold-blooded calculating murderer. Do I need to know anything else, Archman?”
He drew close to her and stared evenly at her. In a harsh whisper he said, “I’m an Intelligence agent. I’m here to assassinate Darrien.”
There, he thought. He’d made his confession to her. It didn’t matter if the cell were tapped, though he doubted it—the Interrogator would dredge the information from him soon enough.
She met his gaze. “Oh,” she said simply.
“That changes things, doesn’t it? I mean—you don’t hate me any more, do you?”
She laughed—a cold tinkle of a sound. “Hate you? Do you expect me to love you, simply because you’re on the same side I am? You’re still cold-blooded. You’re still a killer. And I hate killers!”
“But—” He let his voice die away, realizing it was hopeless. The girl was embittered; he’d never convince her that he was anything but a killing machine, and it didn’t matter which side he was on. He rose and walked to the far corner of the cell.
After a few moments he said, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Do you care?”
“You’re my cellmate on the last night of my life. I’d like to know.”
“Elissa. Elissa Hall.”
He wanted to say, it’s a pretty name, but his tongue was tied by shame and anger. Bitterly he stared at the blank wall of the cell, reflecting that this was an ironic situation. Here he was, locked in a cell with a practically nude girl, and—
He stiffened. “Do you hear something?”
“No.”
“I do. Listen.”
“Yes,” she said a moment later. “I hear it!”
Footsteps. The footsteps of the Interrogator.
Cautiously, the blue Mercurian touched the stud of the door-communicator outside Meryola’s suite.
“Who’s there?” The voice was languid, vibrant.
“Hendrin. The Mercurian.”
“Come in, won’t you?”
The door slid aside and Hendrin entered. Meryola’s chamber was as luxuriously-appointed a suite as he had ever seen. Clinging damasks, woven with elaborate designs and figures, draped themselves artistically over the windows; a subtle fragrance lingered in the air, and, from above, warm jampulla-rays glowed, heating and sterilizing the air, preserving Meryola’s beauty.
As for Meryola herself, she lay nude on a plush yangskin rug, bronzing herself beneath a raylamp. As Hendrin entered, she rose coyly, stretched, and without sign of embarrassment casually donned a filmy robe. She approached Hendrin, and the usually unemotional Mercurian found himself strangely moved by her beauty.
“Well?” Her tone was business-like now.
“You ask of the girl?”
“Of what else?”
Hendrin smiled. “The girl has been disposed of. She lies in the dungeon below.”
“Has anyone seen you take her there? The mistress of the wardrobe, perhaps? That one’s loyal to Darrien, and hates me; I suspect she was once Darrien’s woman, before she aged.” A shadow of anger passed over Meryola’s lovely face, as if she were contemplating a fate in store for herself.
“No one saw me, your Highness. I induced her to leave the wardrobe-room and took her there by the back stairs. I handed her over to the jailer with orders to keep her imprisoned indefinitely. I gave him a hundred credas.”
Meryola nodded approvingly. She crossed the room, moving with the grace of a Mercurian sun-tiger, and snatched a speaking-tube from the wall.
“Dungeons,” she ordered.
A moment later Hendrin heard a voice respond, and Meryola said, “Was an Earthgirl brought to you just now by a large Mercurian? Good. The girl is to die at once; these are my orders. No, fool, no written confirmation is needed. The girl’s a traitor to Darrien; what more do you need but my word? Very well.”
She broke the contact and turned back to Hendrin. “She dies at once, Mercurian. You’ve been faithful. Faithful, and shrewd—for Darrien pays you to bring the girl here, and Meryola pays you to take her away.”
She opened a drawer, took out a small leather pouch, handed it to Hendrin. Tactfully he accepted it without opening it and slipped it into his sash.
“Your servant, milady.”
Inwardly he felt mildly regretful; the girl had come in for raw treatment. But soon she’d be out of her misery. In a way, it was unfortunate; with the girl alive he might have had further power over Meryola. Still, he had gained access to the palace, which was a basic objective, and he had won the gratitude of Darrien’s mistress, which was the second step. As for the third—
“Lord Darrien will be angry when he finds the girl is missing, milady. There’s no chance he’ll accuse me—”
“Of course not. He’ll be angry for a moment or two, but I think I’ll be able to console him.” She yawned delicately, and for an instant her gown fluttered open. She did not hurry to close it. Hendrin wondered if, perhaps, she longed for some variety after five years of Darrien’s embraces.
“Our master must be pleased to have one so fair as you,” the blue Mercurian said. He moved a little closer to Meryola, and she did not seem to object. “Legend has it that he trusts you with his innermost secrets—such as the identity of his robot duplicates.”
Meryola chuckled archly. “So the galaxy knows of the orthysynthetics, eh? Darrien’s Achilles heel, so to speak. I thought it was a secret.”
“It is as widely known as your loveliness,” Hendrin said. He was nearly touching Meryola by now.
Frowning curiously, she reached out and touched his bare shoulder. She rubbed her forefinger over the Mercurian’s hard shell and commented, “You blue ones are far from thin-skinned, I see.”
“Our planet’s climate is a rigorous one, milady. The shell is needed.”
“So I would imagine. Rough-feeling stuff, isn’t it? I wonder what the feel of it against my whole body would be like…”
Smiling, Hendrin said, “If milady would know—”
She edged closer to him. He felt a quiver of triumph; through Meryola, he could learn the secret of Darrien’s robot duplicates. He extended his massive arms and gently caressed her shoulders.
She seemed to melt into him. The Mercurian started to fold her in his arms. Then his hypersensitive ears picked up the sound of relays clicking in the door.
In one quick motion he had pushed her away and bent stiffly, kneeling in an attitude of utter devotion. It was none too soon. Before she had a chance to register surprise, the door opened.
Darrien entered.
Lon Archman crouched in the far corner of the cell, listening to the talk going on outside.
A cold Martian voice was saying, “There’s an Earthman here. Dorvis Graal wants him brought to Froljak the Int
errogator for some questions.”
“Certainly.” It was the Plutonian jailer who spoke. “And how about the girl? Do you want her too?”
“Girl? What girl? My orders say only to get the Earthman. I don’t know anything about a girl.”
“Very well. I’ll give you the man only.” The Plutonian giggled thickly. “And when Froljak’s through with him, I guess you can bring the shattered shell back to me and I’ll put it out of its misery. Froljak is very thorough.”
“Yes,” the Martian said ominously. “Take me to the cell.”
Suddenly Archman was conscious of the girl’s warmth against him, of her breasts and thighs clinging to him.
“They’re going to take you away!” she said. “They’re going to leave me here alone.”
“A moment ago you said you hated me,” Archman reminded her bluntly.
She ignored him. “I don’t want to die,” she sobbed. “Don’t let them kill me.”
“You’ll be on your own now. I’m going to be Interrogated.” He shuddered slightly. The capital “I” on “Interrogated” was all too meaningful. It was an inquisition he would never survive.
“Is this the cell?” the Martian asked, outside.
“That’s right. They’re both in there.”
The cell door began to open. Elissa huddled sobbing on the floor. Archman realized he had been a fool to give up so easily, to even allow the thought of death to enter his mind while he still lived.
“When the Martian comes in,” he whispered, “throw yourself at his feet. Beg for mercy; do anything. Just distract him.”
Her sobbing stopped, and she nodded.
Archman flattened himself against the wall. The Martian, a burly, broad-shouldered, heavy-tusked specimen, entered the cell.
“Come, Earthman. Time for some questions.”
Elissa rose and leaped forward. She threw herself at the Martian, groveling before him, clasping his ankles appealingly.
“What? Who are you?”
“Don’t let them kill me! Please—I don’t want to die! I’ll do anything! Just get me out of here!”
The Martian frowned. “This must be the Earthgirl,” he muttered. To Elissa he said, “I’m not here for you. I want the Earthman. Is he here?”
“Don’t let them kill me!” Elissa wailed again, wrapping herself around the Martians legs.
Archman sprang.
He hit the Martian squarely amidships, and the evil-smelling breath left the alien in one grunted gust. At the same moment Elissa’s supplication turned into an attack; with all her strength she tugged at the surprised Martian, knocked him off balance.
The zam-gun flared and ashed a chunk of the wall. Archman drove a fist into the Martian’s corded belly, and the alien staggered. Archman hit him again, and smashed upward from the floor to shatter a tusk. A gout of Martian blood spurted.
The Martian thrashed about wildly; Archman saw a blow catch Elissa and hurl her heavily against the wall. He redoubled his own efforts and within moments had efficiently reduced the Martian to a sagging mass of semi-conscious flesh, nothing more. He seized the zam-gun.
“Elissa! Come on!”
But the girl was slumped unconscious on the floor. He took a hesitant step toward her, then whirled as a voice behind him cried, “What’s all the noise around here?”
It was the Plutonian jailer. And the door was beginning to close.
Nimbly Archman leaped through, as the micronite door clanged shut on the girl and the unconscious Martian. The Plutonian had done whatever had to be done to close the cell door. Now he was fumbling for a weapon.
The fish-man’s wide mouth bobbed in astonishment as Archman sprang toward him.
“The Earthman! How—who—”
Viciously Archman jabbed the zam-gun between the spread lips and fired. The Plutonian died without a whimper, his head incinerated instantly.
Archman turned back to the door. He heard Elissa’s faint cries within.
But there was no sign of a lever. How did the door open? He ran up and down the length of the cell block, looking for some control that would release the girl.
There was none.
“Step back from the door. I’m going to try to blast it open.”
He turned the zam-gun to full force and cut loose. The micronite door glowed briefly, but that was all. A mere zam-gun wouldn’t break through.
Angrily Archman kicked at the door, and a hollow boom resounded. Time was running short, and the girl was irretrievably locked in. The door obviously worked on some secret principle known only to the jailers, and there was no chance for him to discover the secret now.
“Elissa—can you hear me?”
“Yes.” Faintly.
“There’s no way I can get you out. I can’t stay here; there’s certain to be someone here before long.”
“Go, then. Leave me here. There’s no sense in both of us being trapped.”
He smiled. There seemed to be a warmth in her voice that had been absent before. “Good girl,” he said. “Sorry—but—”
“That’s all right. You’d better hurry!”
Archman turned, stepped over the fallen form of the Plutonian jailer, and dashed the length of the dungeon, toward the winding stairs that led upward. He had no idea where he was heading, only knew he had to escape.
The stairs were dark; visibility was poor. He ran at top speed, zam-gun holstered but ready to fly into action at an instant’s notice.
He rounded a curve in the staircase and started on the next flight. Suddenly a massive figure stepped out of the shadows on the landing, and before Archman could do anything he felt himself enmeshed in a giant’s grip.
Hendrin froze in the kneeling position, waiting for Darrien to enter the room.
The diminutive tyrant wore a loose saffron robe, and he was frowning grimly. Hendrin wondered if this were the real Darrien, or the duplicate he had seen before—or perhaps another duplicate entirely.
“You keep strange company, Meryola,” Darrien said icily. “I thought to find you alone.”
Hendrin rose and faced Darrien. “Sire—”
“Oh! The Mercurian who bought me the fair wench! I’m glad to see you here too. I have a question for the two of you.”
“Which is?” Meryola asked.
Instead of answering, Darrien paced jerkily around the chamber, peering here and there. Finally he looked up.
“The girl,” he boomed. “Elissa. What have you done with her?”
Hendrin stared blankly at Darrien, grateful for the hard mask of a Mercurian’s face that kept him from betraying his emotions. As for Meryola, she merely sneered.
“Your new plaything, Darrien? I haven’t seen her since this Mercurian unveiled her before you.”
“Hmm. Hendrin, what were you doing here, anyway?”
The Mercurian tensed. “Milady wished to speak to me,” he said, throwing the ball to her. In a situation like this it didn’t pay to be a gentleman. “I was about to receive her commands when you entered, sire.”
“Well, Meryola?”
She favored Hendrin with a black look and said, “I was about to send the Mercurian on an errand to the perfumers’ shop. My stocks are running low.”
Darrien chuckled. “Clever, but you’ve done better, I fear. There are plenty of wenches around who’ll run your errands—and your supply of perfumes was replenished but yesterday.” The little man’s eyes burnt brightly with the flame of his malevolent intelligence. “I don’t know why you try to fool me, Meryola, but I’ll be charitable and accept your word for more than it’s worth.”
He fixed both of them with a cold stare. “I suspect you two of a conspiracy against Elissa—and you, Mercurian, are particularly suspect. Meryola, you’ll pay if the girl’s been harmed. And, Hendrin—I want the girl back.”
“Sire, I—”
“No discussion! Mercurian, bring back the girl before nightfall, or you’ll die!”
Darrien scowled blackly at both of them, then turne
d sharply on his heel and stalked out. Despite his four feet of height, he seemed an awesome, commanding figure.
The door closed loudly.
“I didn’t expect that,” Meryola said. “But I should have. Darrien is almost impossible to deceive.”
“What do we do now?” Hendrin said. “The girl, milady—”
“The girl is in the dungeons, awaiting execution. She’ll be dead before Darrien discovers where she is.”
Hendrin rubbed his dome-like head. “You heard what Darrien said, though. Either I produce the girl or I die. Do you think he’ll go through with it?”
“Darrien always means what he says. Unfortunately for you, so do I.” She stared coldly at him. “The girl is in the dungeons. Leave her there. If you do produce the girl alive I’ll have you killed.”
Hendrin nodded unhappily. “Milady—”
“No more, now. Get away from me before Darrien returns. I want to take his mind off Elissa until the execution’s past. Then it will be too late for him to complain. Leave me.”
Baffled, Hendrin turned away and passed through the door into the hallway, which was dimly lit with levon-tubes. He leaned against the wall for a moment, brooding.
Events had taken a deadly turn. He had interposed himself between Darrien and Meryola, and now he was doomed either way. If he failed to restore Elissa to Darrien, the tyrant would kill him—but if he did bring back the Earthgirl, Meryola would have him executed. He was caught either way.
For once his nimble mind was snared. He shook his head moodily.
The girl was in the dungeon. The shadow of a plan began to form in his mind—a plan that might carry him on to success. He would need help, though. He would need an accomplice for this; it was too risky a maneuver to attempt to carry off himself.
The first step, he thought, would be to free the girl. That was all-important. With her dead, there was no chance for success.
Quickly he found the hall that led toward the stairs, and entered the gloomy, dark stairwell. He started downward, downward, around the winding metal staircase, heading for the dungeons where he had left the girl.
In the Beginning: Tales From the Pulp Era Page 16