Collected Short Fiction, page 208
“Build a glider, you mean?”
“It could be done—I believe it could. Those wings are long enough. Strong. The thing’s body was larger than mine. And the wind is blowing across the river, toward the jungle and the walls. There would be rising currents.”
“Here are the wings. But the rest would——”
“Not much would be needed. The wings are already ribbed. Just posts to brace them together. We could cut canes in the jungle. Twist fiber cords to lash it together.”
“There’s not much time.”
“No. It will soon be too cold to work. Not many hours. But we’ve no shelter, no weapons. We couldn’t live through the night, if we waited. It seems the only thing.”
“Yes!” He spoke suddenly, accepting the idea. “Yes, we shall try. But it’s a fearful undertaking, John. You realize that. An uncertain craft—if we can build one that will fly at all. The danger you will be discovered. The difficulty of getting on board, getting the better of Adam Ulnar, with only a thorn dagger. Even if you get safely to the controls, there’s the black flier on guard.”
“I know,” John Star said soberly. “But it seems the only thing.”
SO THEY set out, in the face of every conceivable obstacle and danger, to do the impossible, first searching for tools, for sharp-edged shells, for rocks that would serve as knives and hammers, for the keen-bladed, iron-hard jungle thorns.
Measuring the bright wings, John Star drew on all his old knowledge for a design into which they would fit, sketched it with charcoal on a slab of bark.
Then, in increasing cold and darkness, with the glistening wings, with struts and braces shaped from jungle cane, with strong, twisted fibers and members shaped from the tough thorn wood, he labored hour after hour to construct the glider, while the four others roved the beach and the jungle fringe for materials.
They did not rest until it was finished, a simple thing, frail, slight. Merely the four bright wings, braced together, with fiber thongs to fasten them to John Star’s body. They bound it on him, and he ran with it a few times down the sand bar, into the wind, the others hauling him with a rope of twisted bark, to try its balance.
He thrust two thorn daggers into his belt, then fastened a long black spear to the frame beside him. He ran down the sand, the others running with the rope. He rose, cast it off.
His strange craft came up unsteadily, swerved and dived toward the sand. He righted it with a desperate twist of his body—its only control was by shifting his weight—and soared up in the strong current that rose over the jungle.
He looked down, once, at the tiny group on the bar of black sand—three men and a girl whose hopes had sent him up. Tiny, ragged, weary figures, alone in the bitter wind. He waved a hand, they waved in return.
Heart aching queerly, he soared on. He could not fail them, for they would surely die unless he took the ship. Jay and Hal and Giles—and Aladoree! He could not let them die, even if their safety had not meant the safety of all humanity. Over the menacing roof of the black jungle of thorns, now. Sheer disaster if he fell, here! When he found time to look again, the four were lost in the shadow of the jungle.
His former knowledge of gliding came back swiftly. He found his old pleasure returning, in the sweeping, soaring flight, found a lifting exhilaration even in the difficulty of managing his tricky craft, even in the grave peril of a plunging descent into the jungle of thorns.
Keeping within the rising currents above the jungle’s edge, he worked steadily upriver, toward the walls of the city—vague, now, in the increasing red gloom, the Purple Dream no longer visible. At first he had been doubtful of the frail machine, but he flew with increasing confidence, presently fearing only that the wind should change, or the Medusae see him. Then unexpected danger came.
Up from the black forest came gliding another creature, like the one that had supplied his wings. It circled him, arched above him, dived at him again and again, sting and talons ready, until he knew that it meant to attack.
He shouted at it, waved his arms. At first it seemed alarmed; but it returned, dived again, whistling past nearer than ever.
He unbound the black spear, then, set it before him. The thing dived a last time, slender sting curved, yellow, fearful talons stiffened. It came straight at him. He met it squarely, spear aimed at its single black eye.
The point went home. But the rushing body struck his frail craft, with a force that made its braces crack. Flung off balance, John Star slipped toward the jungle, after the body of his attacker.
Equilibrium recovered, just clear of the thorns, he rose again. But the fiber-bound frame had been weakened, warped, by the impact. It creaked alarmingly as he soared; its flight was more startling and unstable than ever.
But at last he reached the stronger, gusty current that rose above the black walls. Up he was carried, up, fearing that each moment would see his bright wings folding, his body spinning down toward the yellow river.
So he came at last level with the tower, made out the Purple Dream, tiny spindle of silver, lying on the huge black platform, in the shadow of the colossal black flier that guarded her. The unearthly ebon city stretched away beyond, an eldritch army of black giants, crouching ominously in lowering crimson gloom.
Over the platform he swept, and down.
The gust carried him too fast, almost he was swept over into the city; the glider creaked alarmingly.
But his feet touched black metal in the shadow of the Purple Dream. He slipped free of the binding thongs, discarded his wings, ran silently toward the air lock, thorn dagger in hand, alert for the unknown obstacles ahead.
XXVII.
THE AIR LOCK, to John Star’s relief, was open, accommodation ladder touching the metal platform. He was up the steps in an instant, across the lowered valve, and on the long, narrow deck inside, beneath the curve of the hull, where he came face to face with Adam Ulnar.
At their parting, months before, on the bottom of the yellow sea, Adam Ulnar had seemed a beaten man, shattered, crushed with the discovery that he and his cause had been betrayed by the Medusae. A vast change had come in him since.
Always tall, impressive of figure, he was once more erect, confident, determined. Freshly shaven, ruddy, neatly groomed in legion uniform, he met John Star with a hearty smile of surprised welcome on his handsome face.
“Why—why, John! You surprised me. Though I had hoped——”
He started forward, extending a well-kept hand in greeting. And John Star leaped to meet him, menacing his throat with drawn thorn dagger.
“Keep still!” he whispered harshly. “Not a cry!”
He was acutely conscious of the difference between them. A strange figure, he presented, he knew; grimy, exposure-blackened, haggard from fatigue, half naked; appearing, with shaggy head and many months’ growth of beard, more beast than man. An uncouth animal, facing a polished, confident, powerful man.
“Adam Ulnar,” he breathed again fiercely. “I’m going to kill you. Twice false, you deserve it. Have you anything to say?”
He waited, trembling, fearful that he could not strike this serene, smiling man, whose personality roused instinctive admiration, quick pride in their kinship—for all his black treason.
“John!” protested the other, his voice urgent, yet smooth, persuasive. “You misunderstand. I’m really delighted that you came. My unfortunate nephew told me, a little while ago, that you had been here, that you had been drowned in the sewers. Knowing you and your companions, I could not believe you had perished. I was still hoping to be of some assistance to you.”
“Assistance!” echoed John Star harshly, still threatening his throat with the dagger. “Assistance! When you are responsible for the whole frightful situation?”
“I wanted all the more, my boy, to help you, because I realize my responsibility for what has happened. It’s true that you and I have differing political views. But I never had any desire to betray humanity to the doom the Medusae plan. I have no other purpose, now, than to help undo what I’ve been the cause of.”
“How’s that?” demanded John Star, with a sick fear that this smooth, compelling voice would win his confidence and betray it again.
Adam Ulnar made a gesture to include the ship about them.
“I’ve already done something. You must admit that. I’ve had the cruiser raised, repaired, in the hope that it might carry AKKA back to the system in time to save it.”
“But the Medusae raised it.”
“Of course! They tricked me; it was only fair for me to trick them, in return—if I could. I got back in communication with them, agreed to join them. I agreed to aid them, with my military skill, in the conquest of the system. And I asked them to raise the Purple Dream, fit it up for my maintenance.
“They raised the cruiser, and repaired her, well enough. But they don’t trust me so far as we Purples trusted them. The black flier outside has been standing guard over me, day and night, with its weapons that hurl those flaming suns.”
“You’ve seen Eric?” demanded John Star suspiciously. “He’s with you?”
“No, John. He isn’t with me. He told me how the Medusae had made him try to force the girl to reveal her secret. About your arrival, and escape. And how he had run to the Medusae, to warn them, because he was afraid of them.”
“The cowardly beast!” muttered John Star. “Where is he?”
Adam Ulnar nodded, a shadow of pain on his handsome face.
“That’s what he was, John—a coward. Even though his name was Ulnar. A coward! He made the first, foolish alliance with the Medusae, because he was a coward, because he was afraid to carry out my own plans for the revolution.
“I knew, then, John, that I’d made a mistake. I knew it was you who should have been emperor, not Eric. Even then, it might not have been too late—if you had been willing.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“No, you weren’t. And perhaps you were right, John. I’m losing my faith in aristrocracy. Our family is old, John; our blood is the best in the system. Yet Eric was a craven fool. And the three men with you—common soldiers of the legion—have shown fine metal.
“It hasn’t been easy for me to change, John. But I have. From now on, I shall support the Green Hall.”
“Yes?” John Star’s voice was hard with skepticism. “But answer my question! Where is Eric? Both of you——”
“Eric will never betray mankind again, John.” The voice was edged with pain. “When I found how he had sent the Medusae after you, when you were escaping—I killed him.” He winced. “My own blood as he was—I killed him. I broke his neck with my own hands.”
“You—killed—Eric?”
John Star whispered the words very slowly, his haggard eyes anxiously scanning Adam Ulnar’s face, now stern with its pain.
“Yes, John. And killed part of myself with him, for I loved him. Loved him! You’re the heir, now, to the Purple Hall, John.”
“Wait!” snapped John Star savagely, pressing the dagger closer, while he searched the handsome, pain-shadowed face.
“Very well, John.”
With a curious little smile, Adam Ulnar folded his arms, backed to the wall, stood watching him.
“You don’t trust me, John. You couldn’t, after all that has happened. Go ahead, then, and drive your weapon home, if you feel that you must. I shan’t defend myself. And as I die I shall be proud that your name is Ulnar.”
JOHN STAR came toward him, weapon lifted. He gazed into the fine, clear eyes. They did not waver. They seemed sincere. He could not kill this man! Though doubt still lurked in his heart, he lowered the blade.
“I’m glad you aren’t striking, John,” Adam Ulnar said, smiling again. “Because I think you will need me. Even since we have the cruiser repaired, there are terrific obstacles ahead of us, yet.
“The black flier, here, is guarding us. And even if we’re able to slip away from it, they will send a fleet after us. And the Belt of Peril is above—it is weaker, I’ve learned, above the poles of the planet, but even there a fearful barrier.
“Even if some succession of miracles let us get to the system, humanity is already crushed, disorganized. We would receive no aid; we might be attacked, even, by the miserable wretches insane from the red gas. And the great fleet that went ahead is guarding the system; the hordes of the Medusae are safe in their great fortified outpost on the Moon, from which their immense guns are shelling all the planets with the red gas.
“If we lose much time, John, we’ll be too late. We’ll be the sole survivors, with no chance of surviving very long, ourselves. Already humanity is going mad, dying of the green leprosy, on every planet. It can’t be long, until—the end——”
“I’ll trust you, Adam,” said John Star, striving to. put down his mistrust that remained. Added, swiftly: “We must pick up Aladoree and the others. They’re down by the river, without shelter or any real weapons. They’d soon die, in this night!”
“To move, now, with the black flier on guard,” protested Adam Ulnar, “would be—suicide! We must wait some opportunity——”
“We can’t wait!” He was harsh with desperation. “We’ve the proton gun. If we took them by surprise——”
Adam Ulnar shook his head. “They dismantled the proton-blast needle, John. Removed it. The cruiser is unarmed. They took even the racks of hand weapons. Your thorn is the only weapon we have. Against the suns they throw!”
John Star set his jaw. “There’s one way!” he muttered grimly. “A way to move so fast they’d have no time to strike at us, even with them.”
“How’s that?”
“We can take off with the geodynes.”
“The geodynes!” It was a startled cry. “They can’t be used to take off with, John. You know that. We’d fuse the hull with friction heat! Or crash into the ground like a meteor!”
“We’ll use the geodynes,” said John Star harshly. “I’m a pilot. Can you run the generators?”
Adam Ulnar looked at him for a moment, strangely; then he smiled, took John Star’s hand, squeezed it with a quick strong pressure.
“Very good, John! I can operate the generators. We shall take off with the geodynes. I wish you had been my nephew.”
John Star felt a responding emotion, checked by his little doubt that refused to die. So many had trusted this man; his treason had been so appalling!
They parted. In the little bridge room, John Star inspected the array of familiar instruments, tested them swiftly, one by one. All the iron, he saw, had been replaced by some other metal. But everything seemed to function as it should. He peered through a tele-periscope.
The Medusae’s guarding flier lay beside them, one vast strange vane extending overhead. Against the now darkly scarlet sky it loomed portentously gigantic, like some monstrous hybrid insect swollen to Cyclopean dimensions.
The low, clear music of the geodyne generators became audible, rose to a keening whine. Adam Ulner spoke through the telephone:
“Generators ready, sir, at full power.” With a brief, grim smile at the “sir,” checked, again, by mistrust, John Star was swiftly estimating the position of the bar on the river, planning the thing he meant to do. The danger of it, he realized coldly, was terrific; the slightest error meant instant, flaming annihilation.
Fingers on the keys, he peered back into the tele-periscope.
He remembered the air lock, then, touched the button that closed it. That might, he knew, betray them. But if he left it open the terrific air resistance would fuse the valve, or wrench it away.
Tensely he waited, one second, two, and three. A long, slender black cone projected abruptly from the huge black moon of the flier’s body, swung toward them. A weapon!
Four! Five! He heard the clang of the closing valve and touched a key.
The tower platform, the black flier, vanished instantaneously. Though, since its terrific force was applied equally to the entire ship, there had been no perceptible shock; the geodynes had flung them away with a rapidity incalculable—and perilous!
Scarlet darkness spun about them. A black shadow flung at them.
Driven with lightning speed to meet this desperate emergency, John Star’s fingers leaped across the keys. Years of training now found their test. He had often imagined, in the days at the academy, that this thing might be done, half longing for a chance to try it, half fearful that opportunity would some day come.
After the merest instant of acceleration, he reversed the geodynes for another split second, to check an inconceivable velocity.
And the Purple Dream, a moment before upon the black wall, was plunging down toward the river, still at a frightful speed, her hull incandescent from friction with the air. Desperately, he flung down the rocket firing keys, to check the momentum before they struck.
A desperate game, this playing with the curvature of space itself, in the very atmosphere of a planet! Human daring and human skill, pitted against titanic forces. Savage elation filled him. He was winning—if the rockets stopped them in time.
Down on a dark sand bar hurtled the incandescent ship. Down to the bank of a freezing river. Rockets thundering at full power to the last moment, she struck the sand heavily, plowed into it, steam mantling her red-hot hull.
By the narrowest margin—safe!
Safe, at any rate, until the Medusae had time to strike.
Hot valves flung open; four persons came hastily aboard. Half-naked, haggard persons, dead-weary, numb with cold. The air lock clanged behind them; the Purple Dream thundered away again, blue blasts scorching the sand.
Geodynes cut in at once, she plowed with inconceivable velocity upward through the planet’s sullenly crimson atmosphere. John Star felt a moment of wild triumph, before he recalled the unearthly terrors of the Belt of Peril, ahead; recalled the myriad dangers of frozen, boundless space, beyond—six light-years of it; remembered the fleets of the Medusae, guarding the system, ahead, and the hordes of them waiting in the fortress on the Moon.
