Collected Short Fiction, page 393
Gripping the sword, Theseus crouched and turned. There was only darkness between the rows of columns. He moved the torch, and silent, monstrous shadows leaped among them. But there was no gleam of brass, nor any tread of metal feet. Swiftly, he turned again.
Snish was gone. Where he had been, stood—Talos!
THE BRAZEN GIANT was bending. The torchlight shone on his bright, flexing skin, and his flaming eyes were huge yellow lamps. Splendid muscles bulged his colossal body, and tendons thrummed like lyre strings. The fist of Talos, knotted into a huge brazen mace, was descending in a swift and deadly blow.
Theseus ducked. He swung the Falling Star, putting all his strength into a swift, instinctive thrust. The mighty fist slipped past his shoulder. And the steel nicked the mighty beam of the giant’s forearm.
Theseus leaped back. “You—” he whispered. “Talos!”
His prompt defense had been all automatic. Now belated terror toppled upon him like a falling wall. Cold sweat covered him, and his quivering hand loosened on the Falling Star.
Talos crouched lower, uttering a tremendous brazen cry of pain and rage. It was like the bellow of some monstrous beast. Slow drops of liquid flame dripped from the slashed wrist. They spattered into little blazing pools on the stone floor.
“Well, Captain Firebrand!” The sudden laughter of Talos was deafening thunder in the long hall, and his yellow-flaming eyes were brighter than the torch. “If you could see the look on your face!”
Both gleaming fists balled, he stalked upon Theseus.
“Talos, you see, was no fool, after all!” boomed that terrible voice. “For he was also the little Babylonian cobbler, who was always aiding you, captain—to reach this moment of your destined death.”
The numbed brain of Theseus was groping back. The fearful little wizard, he realized, had always contrived to slip away just before Talos appeared.
The giant laughed again. “Snish came to aid you,” rolled the voice of Talos, “because it was written in the screed of time that a red-haired Greek should win in the games, and vanquish the Dark One, and slay Minos—and written also that then the wizardry of Knossos should prevail again!”
Talos crouched lower.
“With the aid of Snish, all the destined events took place with the minimum of harm. When they had taken place, we had hoped for you to leave Crete, with the daughter of Minos—who offered to give herself up to you, for her father’s sake. But you refused to go, and now your time has come to die!”
He brandished a mighty metal fist, and a drop of flame from his bleeding arm splashed the thigh of Theseus. He flinched, and the brass giant laughed again.
“Now, do you think that Talos was the fool?” The great voice rolled and reverberated among the massive black columns. “Or were you? Snish guided you past the wooden wall, and past the wall of brass. But, mortal, there is still the wall of wizardry. While it stands, Knossos cannot fall. Think of that—and die!” Bellowing like a brazen bull, Talos lumbered forward.
Theseus still shuddered from the shock of fear. The treachery of Snish had not completely surprised him, for he had clung to a resolve to trust no wizard. Yet it seemed to him now that he had let himself be guided to the door of final defeat.
He had accomplished nothing real. All his seeming victories had been no more than the moves of a toy man, in a game of the gods of Knossos. He was certain, now, that the old woman had not been Minos. Talos, he thought, would surely kill him now. And the reign of wizardry would continue, as if he had never striven to end it.
Theseus leaped aside from the ponderous rush of Talos, and his eyes flashed down at the little black seal cylinder, hung by the thin silver chain at his throat. If Ariadne had promised him that wizardry could not prevail against the holder of the talisman, she had warned him, too, not to trust its efficacy.
Talos saw his glance, paused to laugh and roar a mocking question: “Mortal, was Talos the fool?”
No, Theseus thought, he himself had been, for Ariadne was a goddess of Crete. Her kisses must have been just one more move in the game. So must have been her gift of the black seal cylinder—and her lie that it was the wall of wizardry. Even her action in giving him the Falling Star when he went into the Labyrinth, he saw now, had only served to bring him here, face to face with Talos and death.
Ariadne, he bitterly perceived, had proved herself false. Mistress of wizardry herself, she had surely known that Snish was also Talos—yet had let him follow the little magician here, unwarned. Anyhow, Theseus told himself, woman or witch, her kisses had been sweet!
Talos rushed again, and Theseus struck with the Falling Star. The steel blade slashed a mighty fist; drops of liquid fire oozed from bright metal. The furious bellow of Talos shook the columns and dislodged a shower of plaster fragments. lie charged again.
Again Theseus leaped aside, beneath the flashing sword. The great fist just grazed his shoulder. But still the force of it staggered him, its heat blistered his skin. He stumbled back, wiping sweat out of his eyes.
The battle, he saw, could have only one ending.
His thrusts were merely painful. They inspired a certain brief caution in Talos, and won him a few more breaths of life. But he could hope to inflict no mortal wound. Already he was tiring, staggering. And mounting rage was swiftly overwhelming the brass man’s caution.
Once his eyes flicked about, in desperate hope of aid or escape. But there was small possibility that his men could find him here—or aid him if they did. And Talos, huge yellow eyes blazing cunningly, kept between him and the entrance. He was helplessly trapped.
Theseus tried to side-step the next flailing blow. But, drugged with weariness and dread, he moved too slowly. The searing edge of the tremendous fist just touched his temple—and sent him spinning, to fall against the base of a square black column.
Red pain obscured his vision. His breath was gone. Struggling to drag himself upright, he found that the Falling Star was lost. He blinked his dimming eyes and saw the great foot of Talos come down upon the sword.
Hot brass hands reached down for the body of Theseus. He looked into the flaming eyes beyond them, and saw fearful, unexpected depths of rage and hate, and knew that those hands would twist his body like a rag, wringing out viscera and blood. But still he couldn’t rise.
“Captain Firebrand!”
His ringing ears heard that urgent golden voice, and his clearing eyes saw Ariadne. She stood at the black hall’s entrance, behind the brazen giant. The torch she carried flamed “red against her hair, and green in her eyes, and white on her heaving breast.
“Captain—I lied to you!” Agony choked her. “Break the wall of wizardry!”
The bellow of Talos was raucously deafening. Frightful rage twisted the metal face, and hate flamed hideous in the yellow eyes. The giant dropped on his knees, and both gigantic fists came crushing down.
Theseus knew that he must obey Ariadne—if he had time! He snatched the little black cylinder, snapped the silver chain. Frantically his eyes searched for anything he could use for a hammer, to shatter it. But Talos knelt upon the sword, and there was nothing he could reach.
“Break it!” Ariadne was sobbing. “Now!”
Desperately, Theseus twisted at the talisman with his fingers. The hard black stone abruptly crumbled, as if it had been turned to friable clay, and crushed into dust.
Talos stiffened, and the great fists paused.
Theseus heard a tremendous rumbling—it was like the bellow of some unimaginably monstrous bull, he thought, lost in some deep cavern. And the floor pitched sharply.
“My daughter”—the great voice of Talos was muted, stricken—“why—”
The brass giant was flung back across the rocking floor. Staggering, he struck a great square column. It buckled, and huge black stones came toppling down. The squared capital, that must have weighed many tons, caught Talos on the shoulders.
Theseus snatched up his torch and the Falling Star. He came swaying to his feet. The floor still heaved like a deck in a storm. Dust was thick in the air. Walls were crashing everywhere, and beneath was still that monstrous bellow.
Gripping the sword, he swayed toward the brass man. But Talos, pinned under the fallen capital, was already dead. Already—changing!
THE HEAD that protruded from great black stone became human again. But it was riot the head of Snish. The face was round and pink and dimpled, crowned with fine white hair. Even in death, the small blue eyes seemed to twinkle against the torchlight, in ghastly mockery of merriment.
“Minos!”
Theseus stumbled back, and the torch shook in his hand. “Then, the other—the old, old woman?”
Ariadne had come swaying through the raining debris to his side. Her cool green eyes were dry, but stifled sobs shook her tall body. She clung to Theseus. The rumble of the earth seemed to pause a little, and he could hear her thin, choked voice.
“She was my mother.” She quivered against him. “And this—my father.”
Theseus kissed her, tried to soothe her grief. Broken plaster and stone were falling about them, and he led her away. Presently they came out of the toppling ruin, into the long central court. A lurid, roaring pillar rose against the night above it, for the west wing was already burning. Shuddering, Ariadne clung to him.
“What is it?” whispered Theseus. “What has happened?”
“The wall of wizardry was a strong spell,” came her dry, sobbing gasps, “that had guarded Knossos and my father from all harm, for many hundred years. Strains had grown up in the rocks, against the power of the spell, and the suspended laws of chance were waiting for revenge. The wall was like a dam. Its breaking released a flood of power—against my father’s throne!”
But her warm arms clung to him. She dried her eyes, and lifted her face for his kiss, and it was white and beautiful beneath the flame of burning Knossos.
“I did it for you, Captain Firebrand,” breathed her husky golden voice. “I should do it again. Because loving you has taught me that there is something in the human spirit that is more splendid than all wizardry. I renounce it all, for you.” Her serpent girdle was under the hand of Theseus. He felt it abruptly stiffen, and looking down he saw that the malific glitter had gone from the ruby eyes. He caught the dead metal, and straightened it, and drew it away from her waist.
Then, laying aside the Falling Star, he kissed her.
The Sun Maker
Earth’s solar orb suddenly vanishes and man attempts the impossible—to build a brand-new, science-made sun, challenging the void!
The Author of the “Sun Maker”
“IT is fourteen years since a rather lonely, dreamy farm I boy stumbled across his first stray copy of a science I fiction magazine—which had a glorious cover by Paul—and was instantly gripped by the breathtaking wonder of this new world of science and imagination.
“At once I knew that I wanted to write science fiction, and soon forgot a planned career in chemistry to do it. The first story appeared within two years, and more than a million of my words have seen print since. But I still find that every science fiction story is a new and thrilling adventure.”
So Jack Williamson, the author of THE SUN MAKER, has explained his introduction to fantasy literature. Long a favorite with fantasy followers, he is the author of many famous s-f hits—The Fortress of Utopia, Passage to Saturn, The Legion of Time, The Cometeers, and numerous other masterpieces.
A resident of New Mexico, the author of “The Sun Maker” is an amateur astronomer, and an ardent admirer of A. Merritt. He does all his own writing in a shack on his ranch, finds time for relaxation in the saddle. —THE EDITOR
CHAPTER I
Flaw in the Ether
JEREMY CORD rubbed stinging sweat out of his eyes, and started the excavator. The cutting wheel of the huge mechanical mole began screaming against the barriers of rock and shattered durite in the caved-in tunnel.
“Full thrust!” he yelled to his grimy wheel-man. “We must reach the Station!”
The cramping metal-walled cab was hot with the reek of the atomic furnace. Yet Jeremy’s straight, lean body kept tensing with shuddery apprehension. He had already suspected how the last men at the Station died.
For the Station was mankind’s perilous last outpost against the frozen endless night of the Outside. Thirty years before, the freezing darkness of the overwhelming Blot smothered Earth. Retreating from the new ice age, men frenziedly migrated underground.
Jeremy Cord had never seen the Sun. He did not believe he ever would. The Outside Station had been built to watch for the passing of the Blot, and in the wistful hope of being able to announce the Sun’s return. But catastrophe had battered it from the very beginning.
A giant meteor plunged through the Station’s armored dome. After it was rebuilt, a series of disastrous quakes annihilated the permanent sentinels and three repair crews. Jeremy Cord—tow-haired and boyish looking, but already a veteran mole-man—had volunteered to lead a fourth attempt. For the Station, Jeremy knew, simply had to be repaired. Eventually the Blot must pass. That hope was all that sustained the remnants of Man. The precious store of the power isotope—atomic fuel for the ME-converters—was near exhaustion. If the Sun did not return, Jeremy realized, civilization would perish in the deeply-buried refuge cities. Cold, hunger and asphyxiation would exterminate them ruthlessly, while, for all they could know without the Station, the Blot might have passed outside.
In the mole’s smoky, vibrating cab, Jeremy stood at the controls. His grim mind, conditioned to hardship, still fought the conflict of hope and apprehension. His generation had never seen the Sun or the Outside, except in terrifying darkness and cold. They seemed so everlasting! Could the Blot really pass? Despite the confidence of his elders, he found it hard to believe. . . .
* * * * *
PAUL FERRAND, in October, 1945, came back from Cape Town with astronomical exposures that showed a tiny, ominous blotch of darkness spreading across the faint stars of Octans.
The young astronomer carried his weird cosmic riddle to Leland Drake, who had just won the Nobel physics award with his matter-energy tensors. The dynamic engineer checked Ferrand’s appalling observations.
“This is something the public must know,” snapped Drake.
“Get Morley Cord,” urged Ferrand. “A mild, blue-eyed little chap, with a lisp. He lost a foot in a bathysphere accident. He drinks too much, and never saved a nickel. But he’s the best darn newshawk on Earth.” When they summoned Cord and explained, he lisped a bewildered question.
“What ith thith Blot?”
“Ordinary space transmits forces that we recognize as light, heat, radio waves, and gravity,” Leland Drake replied as simply as possible. “Men have postulated something to carry those forces. A medium of transmission is necessary, so science invented the purely hypothetical ether.”
“So what?” asked Morley Cord. “I’ve got that part straight. What about it?”
“The Blot,” continued the gaunt, hawk-eyed engineer, “is simply an area where those forces are not transmitted normally. It is an inexplicable flaw in the ether. And that flaw is rapidly overtaking the Earth.”
“What if It does?” pursued Morley Cord, apparently searching for a lead sentence.
“Plenty!” Drake shot back grimly. “The light of the Sun will be completely shut off! The result will make all Earth’s past ice ages look like heat waves. There will be at least thirty years of close to absolute zero before Earth emerges.”
“That’s plenty,” agreed Morley Cord.”
“What’re we supposed to do?”
Jeremy Cord, Morley Cord’s son, knew the answer to that. He had been told, over and over since childhood, how mankind had burrowed into the Earth to escape the incredibly frigid grip of the Blot. His whole life had been spent in the refuge tunnels. He knew that the black, cold death which ruled the Outside would soon stalk even the underground cities—
Unless the Blot passed.
But the predicted thirty years had gone. It was months since any man had seen the savagely hostile Outside.
Eager hope quickened Jeremy’s pulse. Trembling, he listened to the mole’s ME-powered wheel grinding through the debris that barricaded the tunnel. Perhaps the Blot was passing, and they didn’t know!
Mark Drake had warned Jeremy that repairing the Outside Station would be no easy task. Old Leland Drake was now First Regent of the refuges, almost a dictator. Mark, Leland Drake’s son, was the Power Regent, actually more powerful than his father.
* * * * *
HE remembered waiting for Mark’s attention, in the luxurious office on the topmost level of New Chicago. A full mile beneath the silent, ice-shrouded skeleton of old Chicago, Jeremy tried to unclench his knotted fists. He had never been angrier in all his grim young life.
He had come up to Mark’s office, through the dismal lower levels. His eyes still saw lean, ragged men hastening to their labor through icy, eternally dripping tunnels. Women, blue-faced with cold, waited as always in endless queues with their “crow” ration cards. CRO stood for Chemical Research Organization, and also all those desperately synthesized substitutes for everything that life requires.
But Mark Drake’s office was warm and dry, with golden light spilling luxuriously over the rich “crow-leather” furnishings. To Jeremy, it made even more appalling the misery that haunted the damp, grudgingly illuminated tunnels below. Mark Drake’s incredible comfort was an absolute outrage to him. At last the Power Regent looked up, with a ready, handsome smile.
“Well, Jerry, I have your application for the Station job.” His piercing, gray dynamic eyes somehow failed to smile along with his mouth. “It’s about the toughest thing you could ask for. You know the quakes buried all three repair crews we sent out.”
“I know,” Jeremy said. “But I want the job.”
Mark Drake smiled again. “Ambitious, aren’t you, Jerry?”
