II

They were chained to a wall like dumb, dangerous beasts, though such

a precaution appeared pitifully unnecessary. At frequent intervals, a

contingent of Martian sycophants entered the narrow but high corridor

and took a varied number of human slaves through a huge oval door. A

door that had once been a gateway of learning into worlds devoted to

peace and progressive research. This great structure, now in ruins from

the Solar War between Mars and the rest of the System (except the world

of the enigmatic Jovians who had remained neutral) had once been known

as World Tech. Now it was a huge torture chamber made more hideous

because of its modern scientific equipment used for such savage,

barbaric research.

There was a terrible kind of silence between these episodes of the

opening of the door, except for the half-crazed breathing of resigned

humans. But when the oval door opened, screams came out. There were

dim, quick impressions of steam and odors. And of shadows that seemed

only partly human now, writhing on a wall.

Blobs of sweat rolled down the little man's red face. A thick

two-week's beard itched. Venard brooded over the three-dim

memory-sphere of Vale, when no Guards were close enough to detect his

furtive actions.

"About two more trips and we're going to be taken in there," choked

Larson. "Karl! Look at me an' listen now." His voice lowered, trembled.

"It's against my religious principles to take my own life. I'd rather

get mine fighting fair. If we fight, maybe we can make 'em blast us

with them H-guns."

"We've tried often enough," said Venard. "They're too handy with those

whips they call arms."

Venard looked sardonically into the three-dim photo-crystal at the

beautiful blond figure floating in it, shifting among multi-colored

clouds. Red lips smiled, and deep, impassioned eyes shone up at Venard

from the incredibly realistic opening that might almost have been a

doorway into another world.

"Karl," moaned Larson, wringing his hands like a frightened girl.

"Don't waste the last mortal seconds of your life moonin' over that

faithless female."

The oval door opened. A long cry fluttered out. It bounded down the

hall and through dark shadows and hollows. It was like a long nerve of

cloth torn in two. It was a tattered, terrible sound. Larson shook, his

jowls quivered, his eyes bulged. "Gods, Karl! What do they do to people

in there? It's like hell, ain't it? Just like Dante's hell!"

"Beautiful," answered Venard softly. "Lovely as freedom. Soft as a

night in Theophilus Crater."

"Huh? Oh, you mean her? She did you dirt. Why can't you forget her? She

walked out on you. She wanted to be a scientist, not Mrs. K. Venard.

Forget her! Listen, I'm gonna make 'em blast me with their H's. You

with me, Karl? Hey, she ain't worth a man's last thoughts."

The woman's face shifted, seemed to wink at Venard. His big, dirty hand

caressed the cloudy dream stuff of the image. His ragged fingernail

looked grotesque beside the cloudy loveliness.

"Ironic, isn't it, Kewpie Doll? She still lives, free and immune, I

guess. Only traitors live and know freedom. But she loved me anyway,

Kewpie Doll, even if she was only a passing fantasy. She was okay, just

too intelligent for love. An I.Q. of 200. That's a lot of quotient. I

said to her that night under the rim of Theophilus, 'Vale--this is it.

Take your choice. Either me or your internship in Solar Science City.

You either go into that science convent on Venus to wither away the

rest of your unnatural life, or you and I take a honeymoon right here.'

And, Kewpie Doll, you know what she said to me then?"

"How could I know?" slobbered Larson, eyes bugging at the oval door. It

was opening again. "I heard it only eleven hundred and fifty-eight and

one half times. Karl! I think they'll get us this trip. They--"

* * * * *

Venard continued softly, as if unaware of the approaching Martie

guards. "She said, Karl, darling. I love science and what it means to

the System. All Venus is a wilderness, except for the odd under-sea

civilization of the Sea People, and the great domed University called

Solar Science City. Something's terribly wrong there--I don't know

what, but there's something. Solar Science City was established by the

best mentalities and resources of the entire System, for the good of

the System. But for almost a hundred years Solar Science City has been

an isolated, mysterious, incommunicative shell hiding something dark

and evil. Because of my I.Q. I've been given the privilege of going

there, if I desire. And I've decided to go. I'm going to find out why

S.S.C. has retreated into its own shell, and no longer serves mankind.

I'm going to find out what happens to all the great mentalities that go

there. When I find out, I'll be back, Karl. Back to you."

"A nice speech that, Kewpie Doll. But she never came back. No

one ever comes back if they go into S.S.C. as either a faculty or

student-member. If the war hadn't come along I was going to S.S.C. and

find out the score. I wonder what the mystery is, and what happened to

Vale. Two years, and not a word from her. She probably never even knew

the Martians attacked the System. Or, if she did, I'll bet she never

cared."

"Why worry now!" howled Larson, mopping at his head. "What can it

matter now?"

"It does matter, in a way," said Venard. "Because S.S.C. could have

saved the System. On our side, S.S.C. could have enabled us to defeat

the Martians. The fact that they never even considered helping us

proves that they are, themselves, somehow allied to decadence and evil.

And they're safe. Even the Marties don't have weapons strong enough to

break into S.S.C. And S.S.C. has weapons of science perfected in its

super laboratories that could have defeated the Martian warlords in a

few days. Wonder what is the secret of S.S.C.? The barbaric Martian

desert tribes say that it is now ruled by an alien god. Anyway, dear

Vale knows. But she won't tell."

"Alien god! Prepare," admonished Larson, "to meet your own."

"I'm ready." Venard clutched the memory-crystal tightly in his hand.

* * * * *

Dim fluorescents high in the plastic ceiling of the lofty corridor

shed faint cold night. The purplish hue of the Martian's body sacks

reflected the light like radioactive matter. Stocked eyes wavered,

yellowish pale, iridescent horrors.

Venard turned. His chain rattled gently, without malice. He looked with

studied insolence at the writhing-eyed Martian Guard who was coming

toward him. Now it was removing the chain from the galling iron band

about his waist. Another was doing the same with Larson. Guards stood

at a slight distance with H-guns waiting to be drawn. Beneath his

sour-smelling clothes, Venard grasped the memory-crystal.

The tale behind the crystals flashed quickly through his mind; because

it was rather a sorrowfully lovely tale, and the moment could use a

touch of alien beauty. In the pre-Solar Federation era, colorful

sea-women of Venus, members of that semi-human and empirically

intelligent race, were said to have carried the crystals while love

remained true, but always ready to utilize the destructive power of

the crystal for suicide when the lover whose face was captured in the

cumulus depths of the sphere proved faithless.

Long before the Solar War the Venusians, with the ancient custom

only legend, had made the memory-crystals and sold them to a few

hardy tourists for stupendous amounts of Solar credits. It had even

been said that much of the vital life stuff of the one portrayed was

imprisoned in the crystalline gadget. But horrified by the slaughter

and barbarisms of the approaching war, the opaque Venusians had

retreated to their under-sea cities and had remained hidden, far

removed from war's madness. Venard didn't blame them in a way, any

more than he blamed the Jovians who had remained neutral. The Venusian

Sea People were a timid, shy, highly aesthetic species, with a strange

kind of non-physical, non-mechanical science--more of a philosophical,

empirical mental science such as was embodied in the evolving of the

memory-crystals.

The explosive power of the spheres wasn't anything tremendous; but this

one could certainly wreck this particular part of Concentration Camp 7.

Venard watched the chains sliding through the Marto-alloy bands. He saw

the ragged, hunched shapes of broken men and women sagging in horror

and weakness as they were herded toward the oval door. And the door

was opening again, maybe for the last time. A red, roaring flame was

visible in there; a long quavering cry ripped through.

Venard stood back against the cold wall, raised the memory-crystal. He

thought fleetingly that the figure in the sphere was so life-like that

to destroy it was like murder. But Venard didn't care about murdering

now. Not even murdering Vale's memory. Even memories were born to die.

"Earthmen!" he yelled suddenly, his voice cracking sharply against

dulled minds like a whip-lash. Glazed eyes shifted. Bowed backs moved

apathetically. A few bony hands pawed the air. "We'll die like men!"

yelled Venard. He flourished the memory-crystal.

The Marties fell away. Their eye stalks writhed in abysmal fear. The

dejected mass of filthy human wrecks lifted sunken faces, stared. It

seemed that their minds were too dulled by shock and fear to even

comprehend the meaning of a quick, clean death.

"Earthmen!" Venard's voice lashed out again. How long would it take the

fanatical Marties to plunge at him in suicidal fervor? Not long. "Let's

sing," he said it suddenly, on a mad impulse. These creatures must die

as men. "The Terran Anthem hasn't been sung for a long time. Sing!"

There was magnetic driving power in his words. The Marties were

trembling with indecision. Appendages were creeping toward H-guns.

Venard made a threatening gesture with the memory-crystal. And the

appendages stopped creeping--for a little while.

"The Terran Anthem!" yelled Venard again. There was a reckless,

sardonic smile on his face that Larson had never expected to see again.

"We'll sing ourselves to sleep. These Martie scum think our courage is

gone, our spirits broken. SING!"

It was a magnificent miracle. Dull eyes slowly rose up through many

levels of fear and defeat and shock. Bent bodies straightened beneath

dirt-caked rags. Bearded faces of men and haggard faces of women glowed

with surging inner fires, newly kindled. Hands and arms raised. Voices

joined in the Terran Anthem. The song the Martians hated with all the

power of their cold minds to hate. Bony arms raised, quivering with

weakness, but not anymore with fear. And cracked voices that grew

stronger with each surging note, joined in a last outburst of defiance.

Earth, Earth is mine.

No Gods destroy its soft green wine

Of verdant hills and sun-warmed summertime.

Earthmen we! Soldiers of the azure sea!

Pioneers had sung it when colonization of bitter worlds was only

beginning. In the unending swamps of Venus, its turbulent strains had

shattered the dreary monotony of loneliness. Over the deserts of Mars

and the iceflows of Saturn the song had spelled unity of purpose,

defiance of seemingly insurmountable barriers. Many an Earthman had

died in the alien vapors of far places with its blood-stirring rhythm

on his lips.

Unashamed tears cut the grime of Larson's face as he stood there on

wide spread, stubby legs. But Venard laughed with animal joy and

flourished the memory-sphere. A beautiful woman still laughed from

its crystalline depths, smiled without care as though she were again

meeting Venard in the synthetic spring gardens of Theophilus Crater.

* * * * *

The Martians shivered with indecision. They were fanatical, though;

only a few more seconds would be needed to send them in an exulting

suicidal charge. But louder the slaves sang.

Earth! Earth we know.

Immortal world where Solar dreamers go

To sleep among ice-peaks and sunlit snow.

Earthman I! Wanderer of space and sky.

The chorus was a swelling, deafening thunder of defiance in the

towering expanse of corridor. Alarms clanged confusion in the

background. Doors opened on the many tiers above Venard and Larson.

Glaring lights swept frantically in sporadic circles. Marties appeared

in hundreds of openings with H-guns poised, nervously, uncertainly;

anxiety mucous flowed from pulsing pores.

"Sing!" laughed Venard wildly. He didn't feel quite sane, and he didn't

care. "Earth isn't dead. Not while you can still sing, you're not dead,

and your song will live forever!"

His wild laughter rang carelessly and madly up the towering heights of

the partly-repaired corridor, down the lengths of it both ways, through

the open oval door beyond which torture flames still glittered and

shadowed, dehumanized bodies curled.

A thunderous moan spread up and outward. Chains clanged as awakened

hope and honor and returning sense of dignity burned again in withered

hearts. Then a number of H-guns burst suddenly into spontaneous,

nervous slaughter.

"Sing!" Venard heard his voice echoing for the last time. He drew back

the arm which held the memory-crystal. A beam of crackling power burned

his side. Seared flesh was nausea in his face. He dodged, dancing in

his gauntness and flapping rags like a grotesque clown.

On Earth, of Earth we die!

Her sweet, enchanted winds our requiem cry.

For our lost love her gentle south winds sigh.

Earthmen we--

Suddenly, Larson leaped at the nearest Martian. He whipped to one side

as an H-gun hurtled to the plastic mesh of the floor. He dived for

it. But power rays crackled around him, glanced off walls and smoked

through trembling layers of human flesh.

Larson sank slowly to his knees. His lips, thick with awed pain,

mumbled heavily, "Give me time to pray." He was looking in startled

surprise and horror at the blackened stub where his left hand had been.

It happened so fast. A second ago he had a left hand. Now he had no

left hand. But that would be so unimportant in a little while. The

H-gun lay untouched. Screams rose from writhing forms.

"Throw the damned bomb," yelled Larson weakly. "And let me finish a

prayer."

Venard twisted, a slim and gyrating target for thirsting rays. The

entire corridor was a carnal room. A streak of flame seared his chest.

He cried out, "No time for prayers now. Go on down to hell, Kewpie

Doll. At least it's better than the one the Marties had planned for us."

Then he murmured, "Goodbye, Vale, you served a good purpose after all."

He hurled the coruscating sphere squarely against the wall beside the

oval door. With the same movement his body fell sidewise in a dive to

the floor where he was squeezing himself instinctively up against the

wall as the concussion shook his brain into smothering dusty greyness.