Time Travel Omnibus, page 270
For I found that I was now traveling back against the magnetic current that previously had borne me helplessly along. I was nearing the man whose brain was broadcasting those faint electric pulsations.
I groped my way closer to that throbbing brain. I intended to dominate and use the brain and body of this man. There was something ghastly about the plan, almost diabolical. But I had no other way.
“You’ve got to do it!” I told myself desperately, conquering my shrinking revulsion. “It’s your only chance of finding Kay.”
I entered that pulsing brain. It sounds uncanny, I know. But it seemed even more uncanny to me at the time. My photon-bodied mind, being immaterial in the true sense, could pass through any kind of matter. It passed now through the skull of that man and into his brain.
MY MIND now inhabited that other’s brain—and dominated it. The man had been sleeping. It was the vague vibrations of his dreams I had received. But now, as I entered his brain, he started to awake in a spasm of startled horror.
There was a quick struggle between our minds for possession of his body! He must have thought he was assailed by madness.
“You will sleep!” I willed with all my mental power. “Your conscious mind will sleep!”
His resistance weakened rapidly. Then it gave way altogether. His conscious mind slept, dominated and crushed into stupor by the amplified electric power of my mind, as Doctor Madison had predicted.
Now I could feel physical sensations. The electric pattern of my mind, installed in his brain, completely “possessed” his body.
I sat up in my new body and looked wildly around me.
“Good God!” I whispered to myself. “I am back in that far past.”
It was night. I was sitting at the edge of a camp of sleeping men. Shadowy sentries tramped to and fro in the soft darkness nearby. A campfire had smoldered to red embers.
Not far away loomed the black hill upon which Doctor Madison’s laboratory had stood. But there were no lights of haciendas on it now. Neither was there a single spark to westward, where the lights of Iztapalapa village should have gleamed. Everything was utterly changed.
“I, Nick Clark, back here in the year 1519,” I muttered in awe. “In another man’s body—”
That reminded me. For the first time I looked down at this new body of which I had taken possession.
I had expected that I should find my self now inhabiting the body of one of the Aztecs whose barbaric empire was supreme in this remote time. But my body was that of a white man.
I was apparently a swarthy, stocky man of middle age, I wore a steel breastplate over a leather jerkin and baggy black breeches. A battered steel helmet lay nearby, and so did a heavy sword and dagger. The men sleeping in camp around me were all similarly attired.
“My God!” I choked. “It was in this year 1519 that Cortez led his Spaniards to conquer Mexico—”
But the most stunning aspect of my unprecedented situation was this: I knew who I was in this new existence!
I KNEW somehow that my name was Don Pedro Lopez, captain in the army of Don Hernando Cortez. I knew that I was thirty-two years old, and that I had left a run-down plantation over in Cuba to enlist in this adventurous quest for the fabled riches of Mexico.
I, Nick Clark, could remember every day of the hardship and battles through which Cortez had led us in the past weeks. I remembered how we had landed on the savage jungle coast, how we had marched up into the Tlascalan country and crushed that hostile people in bloody battle, making them agree to become our allies. And how we had marched ever on toward Tenochtitlan, fabled capital of Montezuma’s rich, vast empire.
Only yesterday, I remembered, we Spaniards and our Tlascalans had reached this place called Iztapalapa. We had disregarded the repeated requests of Montezuma’s ambassadors not to come further. And we had camped here for the night, feverishly eager at being so close to our golden goal.
“But how can I remember all this?” I wondered wildly. “It’s my mind, Nick Clark’s mind, that dominates this body now—not Lopez’ mind.”
An explanation suggested itself, from some things that Doctor Madison had told me. I was subconsciously drawing from the memories engraved by Lopez’ former experiences upon the brain which my mind now inhabited. It was that subconscious memory that made me know all these things.
I stood up, looking wildly at the slumbering Spaniards around me. The camp was in a grove of tall cypresses at the foot of the hill. My hardy comrades-in-arms were sleeping on the bare ground in their armor.
What was I to do? I had never counted on finding myself one of these conquistadors. I knew that Burke Ullman, eager to learn the secret place of Montezuma’s treasure, had planned to seize the body of one of the Aztec royal household. And Kay had planned the same thing.
Both Kay and Ullman must at this very moment be living as two of Montezuma’s household. And I, who had come back to find and help them, had by hell-born chance stumbled into the body of one of the daring Spanish adventurers who had come to loot Montezuma’s empire!
Stunned, I looked up at the dark hill looming nearby. My straining eyes could just make out an almost invisible vertical glimmer of white light against the stars. I knew it was the Beam, that Doctor Madison was keeping continuously projected back along the time-dimension.
“If I went up and stepped into that Beam,” I thought rapidly, “my mind would be jerked out of Lopez’ body and back to my own body in my own time. But I can’t do that! I can’t return without finding Kay!”
As I stood thus, overwhelmed by the situation in which I found myself, a man’s voice spoke in the darkness behind me.
“Hola, Don Pedro—you’re up betimes this morning! You must be as impatient as I am to see the gold of Tenochtitlan.”
I SPUN around. The handsome, frank-faced young Spaniard who confronted me was garbed like myself in helmet, breastplate, jerkin, breeches and boots.
I knew from that same queer subconscious memory who this was. It was one of my closest comrades in the expedition, Gonzalo de Sandoval.
He did not suspect, of course, that I was any other than his comrade Pedro Lopez. How could he, when I wore Lopez’ body? I gathered my whirling thoughts, and answered him unsteadily.
“I couldn’t sleep for excitement, Sandoval. We really enter the Aztec capital today?”
I spoke in Spanish—a Spanish far more fluent than my own. It came, I knew, from the same subconscious source.
“Aye, this is the great day,” laughed the young captain. “I wonder if it’s true that Montezuma’s temples are built of solid silver? We didn’t find any such in Cholula, so I doubt it. But Don Hernando says there’ll be wealth for us all here, God willing.”
At that moment a bugle rang out nearby. Dawn was paling over the hill eastward. The camp was waking, the Spanish soldiers yawning and swearing as they stretched stiffened limbs.
They were a tough, hardy-looking lot, deeply bronzed by the tropical sun, scarred by half-healed wounds. Oaths rose from them as they quarreled over the breakfast cooked over the campfires. These men were a compound of avarice, fanaticism, and dauntless bravery.
Sergeant Bernal Diaz, a bluff, keen-eyed veteran, came up to Sandoval and me.
“Don Hernando has called council of his captains before we begin the march,” he told us. He added gruffly, “God send you good counsel, for we shall need it this day.”
“What, sergeant?” said Sandoval, laughing. “You’re not getting nervous now that we’ve reached the very gates of the golden city?”
“A golden city can be a golden trap,” growled the veteran. “I don’t trust these Aztecs and their sudden friendship.”
I walked with Sandoval through the camp toward the tent of our commander. It was all still like a strange dream to me. I, Nick Clark, of the twentieth century, one of these conquistadors of Spain!
The sun was rising. The whole camp was now bustling with preparations, the veterans furbishing up their helmets, swords and shields in order “to impress the heathen.” Nearby waited the Tlascalan allies, some two thousand brown Indian warriors wearing quilted cotton armor and armed with bows and maquahuitls, or flint-edged swords.
Popocatapetl and Ixtlicihuatl bulked their snow-clad masses against the rising sun, a black plume of smoke rising from the former volcano. Toward the north, beyond the grove of cypresses in which we had camped, gleamed the vast blue sheet of Lake Tezcuco.
WHEN Sandoval and I reached the leader’s tent, we found the other captains gathered outside it. I recognized them all, subconsciously. Pedro de Alvarado, the second in command, was the most striking figure—a blue-eyed, yellow-haired, florid young giant. But I knew the others too—de Montejo, the cheerful; de Oli, the ferocious and reckless; red-bearded young de Leon; Diego de Ordas, one of our best soldiers; and a half-dozen others.
With them was Father Bartolome de Olmedo, the chaplain, a grave, kindly man. Dressed as always in his black gown, bareheaded and without weapons, he was earnestly polishing the cross he meant to carry.
“That’s right, padre,” Alvarado was chaffing him. “You take care of the heathen’s souls and we’ll take care of their gold and jewels.”
“And their women—or at least the good-looking ones,” added Montejo with a laugh.
De Oli squinted at me in his scowling way. “What’s the matter with you this morning, Lopez?” he demanded of me. “You stare at us as though you’d never seen us before.”
Startled, I realized that I had betrayed the dazed sensation that gripped me at being one of these half-legendary conquerors.
What if I told them that I was not really Pedro Lopez, that I was really a man from more than four centuries ahead of this time? They’d simply think that I had gone crazy, of course.
“I am wondering why we don’t get started,” I answered. “The men are ready to march.”
“Here comes Don Hernando now,” put in Sandoval.
Cortez was coming out of the tent. With him was a handsome Indian woman with expressive, intelligent black eyes. I knew she was Marina, Cortez’ mistress and interpreter for him with the Aztecs.
With intense interest I, Nick Clark, stared at the leader whose name had gone down in history as the greatest adventurer. He was an impressive figure, wearing a polished breastplate over a fine black doublet and breeches that were embroidered with gold.
Of middle age, he had a hard, strong face whose pallor was accentuated by his thin black beard. His grave eyes had hints of subtle craftiness in them. He looked like a man at the same time iron-willed, fearless and wily.
He spoke to us in soldierly fashion, his eyes sweeping our faces.
“Gentlemen, we come today to the most perilous part of our enterprise. We are about to march into a city whose people number in the hundreds of thousands, the capital of an empire numbering millions. And there are less than four hundred and fifty of us, for we cannot rely upon our Tlascalan allies should we ourselves meet defeat.
“It is possible that these Aztecs meditate treachery. You will remember that Montezuma repeatedly sent word forbidding us to come to his capital, and only when we insisted on marching forward against all obstacles did he change his stand and invite us to enter Tecnochtitlan. We may very likely be entering dangers that make all our struggles and hardships so far as nothing.
“But if the dangers are great, the rewards are great also. These Aztec lords have fabulous wealth of gold and precious gems. It is the will of God that we take these riches from them, since they are heathen dogs who make bloody sacrifices to their accursed idols. Therefore be vigilant, fearless and quick to obey my orders, and we shall all win our fortunes.”
“And also we shall win the souls of these people for Christ,” Father Olmedo put in earnestly.
“Of course—of course, padre,” Cortez assented quickly. “The cross shall replace their horrid idols. For that reason, God is with us!”
AN EXCITED shout of agreement went up from all the captains around me. They were stirred equally by gold-lust, the fever of adventure and religious sentiment.
I, Nick Clark, had been trying to collect my seething thoughts while Cortez spoke. And I had quickly come to the only decision possible.
I must remain with the conquistadors. For they were going into Tenochtitlan, and somewhere there in Montezuma’s household were Kay and Ullman. Somehow, once in the city, I must find those two.
Now two Aztec princes approached us, followed by a short retinue of warriors. They were fierce-eyed, red-brown men, with gorgeous plumes in their black hair. The two princes wore white cotton mantles, whereas the warriors were garbed in heavy quilted armor, and carried maquahuitls.
Marina, the handsome Indian mistress of our leader, exchanged a few words with the haughty Aztecs and then spoke to Cortez in Spanish.
“They are the envoys whom Montezuma has sent to lead us into the city.” Cortez bowed politely to the proud Aztec lords. “Tell them that we are ready to march, Marina. Gentlemen, to horse!”
Within a short time, our whole force was moving northward in regular order along a road leading from Iztapalapa to the lake.
First stalked the Aztec envoys. Behind them, Cortez and we captains rode upon our horses. I found that at my saddle hung a heavy battle-axe, and there was a socket-like rest that held a short lance. I had put on my helmet, like Alvarado and Sandoval who rode beside me.
Behind us mounted captains came Mesa, the gunner, with our little wheeled cannon and falconets. These were followed by our crossbowmen and arquebusiers, and they in turn by our savage Tlascalans.
Our cavalcade reached the edge of Lake Tezcuco. A causeway of stone eight yards wide ran straight north across the blue waters of the lake for several miles. In the dim distance at its end, we described the outlines of a fantastic city that rose from the middle of the lake.
I made out a great mass of buildings of pink stone, out of which towered shining white teocalli—temples built in the shape of terraced pyramids. One colossal temple loomed at the center of the city, dominating everything. Thin smoke rose from its truncated summit.
“Dios!” swore Alvarado, staring incredulously. “This Tenochtitlan is a city bigger than any in Spain itself!”
“Aye, and we are but four hundred,” muttered Sandoval doubtfully, turning in the saddle to look back at our little company.
Even the hardy Spaniards behind us had fallen silent, hushed by growing awe and apprehension as they took in the immensity of the Aztec metropolis.
My own heart was beating rapidly. Somewhere in that barbaric, weird city ahead, Kay was dwelling in a stranger’s body! Somehow I’d find her, get her back to our own time, against all odds.
So I, Nick Clark of the Twentieth Century, rode straight on with my fellow-conquistadors, down the long causeway toward the legended city of Montezuma.
Chapter IV
In Monetzuma’s Palace
TAUT suspense gripped all in our little company as we marched down the wide causeway in the brilliant sunshine. My comrades in arms, gazing awe-strickenly toward the fantastic city we were approaching, seemed wondering what was to happen to us there.
I, Nick Clark, shared their suspense. For I knew no more than they just what would befall us in the Aztec metropolis. As I have said, I knew no more history than does the average man. I knew only that the Spanish had finally conquered this land, but of the immediate events to come I was as ignorant as my comrades.
We came now to a gap in the stone causeway, twenty feet long. It was spanned by a removable wooden bridge over which we marched with the horses’ hooves clattering loudly. And as we advanced, we passed over two more such bridges flung across similar gaps in the causeway.
“Diablo!” muttered Alvarado, his blue eyes frowning. “I don’t like these cursed bridges. If the heathen should remove them, we’d be trapped in yon city like woodcock in a snare.”
De Montejo, spurring beside us, laughed cheerfully. “We’ll teach the dogs new lessons if they try such tricks on us. Eh, Lopez?”
He looked at me, but I shrugged doubtfully. “I don’t know. There seem to be thousands of them for every one of us. Look at that!”
Hundreds upon hundreds of canoes were darting from the city ahead toward us. They were long craft of dug-out design, each holding several Aztec men or women. The men wore leather sandals, a knee-length white tunic belted by a blue or red sash, and over it a cotton mantle. The dress of the women was very similar, except for a short white skirt.
Their canoes came swarming over the blue waters of the lake, and their copper-skinned occupants watched our passing company with wide black eyes. To them, we were as fantastic as their city seemed to us. Especially, our horses stirred their profoundest excitement, for they had never seen such animals before.
Tenochtitlan loomed before us now not a quarter-mile down the causeway. This great city in the lake was like an ancient Venice. Its great mass of pink stone buildings and green gardens was intersected by scores of canals through which canoes glided rapidly. Above the gardens and lowlier structures rose the pyramidal white teocalli, looking like foothills of the mountainous main temple whose colossal bulk dominated all.
Temples, rooftops, streets, canals, even the causeway ahead of us, were all thronged by multitudes of men, women and children watching our advance. There was something appalling in the sheer numbers of the Aztec population who had gathered to witness our entry into Tenochtitlan.
“Dios, they’ll never believe this in Spain when we tell it!” gasped Sandoval.
Cortez drew rein ahead of us, and turned quickly to order a halt. “The heathen emperor is coming out to meet us, gentlemen. Let none of you offer any rudeness now under pain of death.”
A WILD blaring of barbaric horns came from ahead. A solid mass of Aztec warriors was coming down the causeway in rapid, swinging march.
They were fierce-looking fighting-men, wearing heavy quilted armor, with brilliant bird-plumes in their hair. They had padded wooden shields on their left arms, and each carried a barbed javelin in his free hand. Over each man’s back was slung a bow and a keen maquahuitl.
