Chick had been grievously hurt in the contest with the Senestro, but
thanks to the Rhamdas he came round rapidly. It was a matter of less
than a week.
Things were coming to a climax; Chick needed no lynx's eye to see
that the die had been cast between the Bars and the Rhamdas. Soon the
Senestro must make a bold move, or else release the professor.
Chick had not long to wait. It came one evening. Once again he found
himself in the June Bug, accompanied by the Geos, the Jan Lucar,
and--the little Aradna herself. Their departure was swift and secret.
This time Watson was not worried over height, or any other sensation of
flight. The doctor's safety alone was of moment. He said to the Rhamda:
“Are we alone? Where is the Bar MacPherson?”
“He is somewhere near; we are not alone, my lord. Several other machines
are flying nearby also; they carry many of the Rhamdas and the crimson
guard of the queen. The MacPherson will arrive first. We are going
straight to the Palace of Light, my lord.”
“Are we to storm the place?” thinking of the fight MacPherson had
predicted.
“Yes, my lord. Many shall die; but it cannot be helped. We must free the
Jarados, although we commit sacrilege.”
“But--the Senestro?”
“That depends, my lord. We know not just what may be done.” He gave no
explanation.
They had climbed to a tremendous height. The indicator showed that they
were bearing east. The darkness was modified only by the faint glow from
that star-dusted sky. Looking down, Chick could see nothing whatever.
His companions kept silence; only the Aradna, sitting forward by the
side of Jan Lucar showed any perturbation. They climbed higher and
higher still, until it seemed that they must leave the Thomahlia
altogether. Always the course was eastward. At last the Jan said to the
Geos:
“We are now over the Region of Carbon, sir. Shall I risk the light? His
lordship might like to see.”
“Follow your own judgment.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the Aradna; “do it by all means! There is nothing so
wonderful as that!”
The Jan touched a small lever. Instantly a shaft of light cut down
through the blackness. Far, far below it ended in a patch on the ground.
Watson eagerly followed its movements as it searched from side to side,
seeking he knew not what. And then--
There was a flash of inverted lightning, a flame of white fire, a
blinding, stabbing scintillation of a million coruscations. Watson
clapped a hand to his eyes, to cut off the sight. It was stunning.
“What is it?” he cried.
“Carbon,” answered the Geos, calmly.
“Carbon! You mean--diamond?”
“Yes, my lord. So it interests you? I did not know. Later you shall see
it under more favourable conditions.” Then, to the Jan: “Enough.”
Once again they were in darkness. For some minutes silence was again the
rule. Watson watched the red dot moving across the indicator, noting its
approach to a three cornered figure on one edge. Suddenly there appeared
another dot; then another, and another. Some came from below, others
from above; presently there were a score moving in close formation.
“They are all here,” said the Jan to the Geos.
The other nodded, and explained to Chick: “It's the Rhamdas and the
Crimson guards. The MacPherson is just ahead. We shall arrive in three
minutes.”
And after a pause he stated that the ensuing combat would mark the
first spilling of blood between the Bars and the Rhamdas. At a pinch the
Senestro might even kill the Jarados, to gain his ends. “His wish is his
only law, my lord.”
The red dots began to descend toward the three-cornered figure. One
minute passed, and another; then one more, and the June Bug landed.
With scarcely a sound the Lucar brought the craft to a full stop. In a
moment he was assisting the Aradna to alight. As for the Geos, he took
from the machine two objects, which he held out to the Aradna and to
Chick.
“Put these on. The rest of us fight as we are.”
They were cloaks, made of a soft, light, malleable glass, or something
like it. Watson asked what they were for.
“For a purpose known only to the Jarados, my lord. There are only two of
these robes. With them he left directions which indicated plainly they
are for your lordship and the Aradna.”
Wondering, Chick helped the Aradna don her garment and then slipped
into his own. Nevertheless, he pinned more faith in the automatic in his
pocket. He did not make use of the hood which was intended to cover his
head.
“Pardon me,” spoke the queen. She reached over and extended the hood
till it protected his skull. “Please wear it that way, for my sake.
Nothing must happen to you now!”
Chick obeyed with only an inward demur. What puzzled him most was the
isolation. Seemingly they were quite alone; there was nothing, no one,
to oppose them.
But he had merely taken something for granted. He, being from the earth,
had assumed that strife meant noise. It was only when the Aradna caught
him by the arm, and whispered for him to listen, that he understood.
It was like a breeze, that sound. To be more precise, it was like the
heavy passage of breath, almost uninterrupted, coming from all about
them. And presently Chick caught a queer odour.
“What is it?” he breathed in the Aradna's ear.
“It is death,” she answered. “Cannot you hear them--the deherers?”
She did not explain; but Watson knew that he was in the midst of
a battle which was fought with noiseless and terribly efficient
weapons--so efficient that there were no wounded to give voice to pain.
Before he could ask a question a familiar voice sounded out of the
darkness at his side.
“Where is the Geos?”
“Here, Bar MacPherson,” answered the Rhamda.
“Good! It is well you came, sir. We were discovered a few minutes ago;
already we have lost many men. Just give us the lights, so that we
can get at them! It is a waste of men, with the advantage all on their
side.”
Then, lapsing into English for Chick's benefit: “'Tis welcome ye are!
Ivery mon helps, how.”
“What are these sounds? You say they are fighting?”
“'Tis the deherers ye hear, lad. They fight with silent guns. Don't let
'em hit ye, or ye'll be a pink pool in the twinklin' of yer eyelid. 'Tis
no joke.
“Are they more powerful than firearms?”
“I dinna say, lad. But they're th' devil's own weapon for fightin'.”
Chick did not answer--he had heard a low command from the Geos. Next
instant the space before them was illuminated by clear white light, in
the form of a circle--bright as day. In the centre shimmered an object
like a mist of blue flame, a nimbus of dazzling, actinic lightning.
There was no sign of man or life, no suggestion of sound--nothing but
the nimbus, and the brilliant space about it. The whole phenomenon
measured perhaps three hundred feet across.
They were in darkness. Chick took a step forward, but he was held back
by MacPherson.
“Nay, lad; would ye be dyin' so soon? 'Tis fearful quick. See--”
He did not finish. A red line of soldiers had rushed straight out of the
blackness into the circle of light. It seemed that they were charging
the nimbus. They were stooping now, discharging their queer weapons;
about three hundred of them--an inspiring sight. They charged in
determined silence.
Then--Watson blinked. The line disappeared; the thing was like a
miracle. It took time for Chick to realise that he was looking upon
the “pink death” MacPherson had warned him against--the work of the
deherers, whatever the word meant. For where had been a column of
gallant guards there was now only a broad stream of pink liquid
trickling over the ground. It was annihilation itself--too quick to
be horrible--inexorable and instantaneous. Chick involuntarily placed
himself in front of the Aradna.
“The blue thing in the middle,” observed the Irishman, coolly, “is th'
Palace av Light; 'tis held by th' Senestro jest now. An' all we got to
do is get th' ould doc out.”
“But I see no building!”
“'Tis there jest the same. Ye'll see it whin th' doctor gits time off
his rainbows. 'Tis absent-minded he gets when he's on a problem, which
same is mostly always, sor. We stay roight here till he gets ready to
drop on th' Senestro.”
Watson waited. He knew enough now to cling to the shadow, there with
MacPherson, the Geos, and the Aradna. In the centre of the great
light-circle the nimbus of blue stood out like a vibrating haze, while
all about, in the darkness, could be heard the weird sound made by the
passage of life.
“When will the Jarados act?” inquired the Geos of the Irishman. But he
got no reply. MacPherson spoke to Watson: “Get yer gun ready, lad; get
yer gun ready! Look--'tis th' ould boy himself, now! I wonder what the
Senestro thinks of that?”
For the nimbus had suddenly dissolved, and in its place there appeared
one of the quaintest, yet most beautiful buildings that Watson had ever
seen. It was a three-cornered structure, low-set, and of unspeakably
dazzling magnificence; a building carved and chiselled from solid
carbon. Chick momentarily forgot the doctor.
In front of it stood a line of Blue Guards, headed by the Senestro.
Their confusion showed that something altogether unexpected had
happened. They were ducking here and there, seemingly bewildered by the
sudden vanishing of that protecting blue dazzle. The Senestro was trying
to restore order; and in a moment he succeeded. He led the way toward a
low, triangular platform, at the entrance--a single white door--to the
palace.
Pat MacPherson's automatic flashed and barked. Next instant Watson
was in action. The Bar next to the Senestro staggered, then collapsed
against his chieftain. Another rolled against his feet, causing him
to stumble; an act that probably saved his life, for the platform in a
second was covered with writhing, bleeding, dying Bars.
The Senestro managed to reach the doorway. MacPherson cursed.
“Come on!” he yelled to Watson. “Well git him alive!” Watson remembered
little of that rush. There stood the great Bar at the doorway,
surrounded by his dying and panic-stricken men. The cloak given Chick by
the Geos impeded his progress; with a quick movement he threw it off and
ran unprotected alongside the Irishman. The Blue guards saw them coming;
they levelled their weapons. But before they could discharge them they
met the same fate as had the Reds. A tremor in the air, and they were
gone, leaving only a pink pool on the ground.
Senestro alone remained untouched. He was about to open the white door;
for a second he posed, defiant and handsome. Then the great Bar ducked
swiftly and almost with the same motion dodged into the building. Chick
and Pat were right after him.
Inside was darkness. Chick ran head on against the side wall; turning,
he bumped into another. The sudden transition from brilliance
to blackness was overwhelming. He stopped and felt about
carefully--momentarily blind. What if the Senestro found him now?
He called MacPherson's name. There was no reply. He tried to feel his
way along, finding the wall irregular, jagged, sharp cornered. But the
way must lead somewhere. He reached a turn in the passage; it was
still too dark for him to see anything. He proceeded more cautiously,
wondering at those craggy walls. And then--
Chick slapped his hands to his eyes. It was as if he had been shot into
the core of the sun--the obsidian darkness flashed into light--a light
beyond all enduring. Chick staggered, and cried in pain. And yet, reason
told him just what it was, just what had happened. It was the carbon; he
was in the heart of the diamond; the Senestro had led him on and on, and
then--had flashed some intense light upon the vast jewel. Watson knew
the terrible helplessness of the blind. His end had come!
And so it seemed. Next instant someone came up to him--someone he could
hear if he could not see. It was the Senestro.
“Hail, Sir Phantom! Pardon my abrupt manner of welcome. I suppose you
have come for the Jarados?” And he laughed, a laugh full of mockery and
triumph. “Perhaps you think I intend to kill you?”
Watson said no word. He had been outwitted. He awaited the end. But the
Senestro saw fit to say, with an irony that told how sure he was:
“However, I am opposed to killing in cold blood. Open your eyes, Sir
Phantom! I will give you time--a fair chance. What do you say--shall we
match weapon against weapon?”
Watson slowly opened his eyes. The blinding light had dimmed to a soft
glow. They were in a sort of gallery whose length was uncertain;
between him and the outlet, about ten feet away, stood the confident,
ever-smiling Bar.
“You or I,” said he, jauntily. “Are you ready to try it? I have given
you a fair chance!”
He raised his dagger-like weapon, as though aiming it. At the same
instant Chick pulled the trigger from the hip, snap aim.
The gun was empty.
Another second, and Watson would have been like those spots of colour
on the ground outside. He breathed a prayer to his Maker. The Senestro's
weapon was in line with his throat.
But it was not to be. There came a flash and a stunning report; the
deherer clattered against the wall, and the Senestro clutched a stinging
hand. He was staring in surprise at something behind Chick--something
that made him turn and dart out of sight.
Chick wheeled.
Right behind him stood the familiar form of the Jan Lucar; and a few
feet beyond, a figure from which came a clear, cool, nonchalant voice;
“I would have killed that fellow, Chick, but he's too damned handsome.
I'm going to save him for a specimen.”
Watson peered closer. He gave a gasp, half of amazement, half of
delight. For the words were in English, and the voice--
It was Harry Wendel.