He decided that he was dying and that as he died he dreamed. He felt
no pain. Only triumphant gladness. They had died like men. What did it
matter that the story of the Zharkon's double-brain injury was only a
glorious dream? What was the difference if the Martians continued to
rule the system for a million years?
It made no difference. The song these ragged, filthy slaves had sung
in a Concentration camp would be a symphonic background for the final
chaotic death-pangs of the Martian culture. The songs of Earth,
somehow, had always possessed a kind of deathless quality.
But what an odd dream for a dying mind! He was floating down a dark,
dripping hall. Strange lights glowed. Something moved under him,
something very solid and real for a dream or for death.
A far-away voice said very softly against his ear, "Sleep, my friend.
Rest. Sleep deeply and build up your strength. Get ready for a
desperate journey."
And then, dropping into a velvet abyss, he really did sleep. Sometime
later, Karl Venard awoke. And really knew he still suffered among the
living when he heard a familiarly whining voice shouting: "I been
cheated! I prayed--but them stalagmites look awful suspicious to me.
You ain't foolin' me, La Crue! I'm in hell!" Larson was evidently very
much alive.
Another familiar, but almost forgotten voice answered, "You're raising
plenty of it, that's certain."
Venard could hardly believe it. La Crue, alive! The name snapped
Venard's consciousness on full like a sudden bright flame. He sat
up on a narrow bed. He was in a dry, comfortable spot surrounded by
the mores of civilization, though in a chaotic rapidly constructed
state. But some distance along a rough, natural underground cavern of
vaulted proportions, calcareous water dripped monotonously. From the
phosphorescent rock strata he realized he was deeply underground. A
deeply buried natural cavern with damp recesses that justified Larson's
violent waking reaction.
And La Crue, alive. La Crue had been the physician aboard the war
ship _Valeron_, an old friend from pre-war Academy days. How many
others of the Terran Guards were alive who, logically, should be dead?
Venard raised up onto his elbows, watched La Crue leave Larson's side
and come toward him. He looked ghost-like. Pallid from months spent
underground. But his lean body was healthy and vital enough otherwise.
His square jaw was smoothly shaven. He grinned broadly at Venard.
"How you feeling, Karl?" He sat down on a flat rock. Below them,
Venard could hear an underground river churning. He answered, "La
Crue--you're--all three of us are supposed to be dead."
La Crue smiled wryly. "Not every Guardsman who fought that last battle
over the Polar Palaces of Mars was killed. I'd say about a thousand
escaped to the Martian Underground. Some of them, including myself,
were transferred here by Underground space ships."
"That many?" Venard sat up, shutting his eyes a moment against
dizziness. "Must have a bigger Underground than I thought."
"Comparatively few, but it allows us greater freedom of movement,
greater capacity for cooperative effort. Most of the Martian commoners
fell for the Zharkonistic program though." La Crue, who had been a
psycho-medic in the guards, knew what he was talking about. "They
were ripe for a crackpot philosophy like Zharkon provided. Too much
specialization and not enough varied interests for individuals.
Resultant mass hysteria. The old Zharkonian Royalists were just waiting
in exile for such a break to move in. They've always resented the
Martian revolution which established representative government on Mars.
Anyway, there's another strong subversive Underground right here on
Earth now, as well as on Mars and several other planets. We have cooked
up a rather mad plan, or rather an old friend of yours has cooked it
up. He won't even trust me with the details. He says only you and
Kewpie Doll can carry it through."
"Let's get to that later," said Venard impatiently. "I want to know how
Larson and I got out of that Concentration Camp explosion alive? Or did
we?"
"The explosion itself wasn't sufficiently powerful to kill everyone,
though it did a lot of damage. Partly luck, of course, that you
survived. You would have been crushed when the structure crumbled after
the explosion, if it hadn't been for this old friend of yours who
dragged you two not only to safety, but to an escape tunnel and here
to the Underground; with help of course. There were some of us there to
meet him."
"Who is this old friend?" said Venard dutifully.
"This old friend, Karl, was one of the Martie Guards. He didn't know
you had the memory-crystal and you darn near blew him to pieces, too."
"One of the Martie Guards!" exclaimed Venard. "That's madness. You
mean--?"
"That's right, Karl. You see this Underground of ours--this particular
post, that is--is located pretty close to Concentration Camp 7. We've
been digging an escape tunnel into Camp 7. This Martie was supposed to
work with us. At a specified time, he was supposed to lead as many of
the hostages as possible into this escape tunnel. But you beat us to it
with the memory-sphere. The chaos helped the escape."
"But this old friend," persisted Venard. "Are you sure he's my old
friend?"
"Yeah," grinned La Crue, "this old friend claims you're the only man
living, Karl, who ever beat him ten consecutive games of sun-spot draw
and--"
"Jhongan!" cried Venard. "Jhongan, that leathery monstrosity. That
animated sponge. That--_he_ was one of those lousy guards? Why--"
* * * * *
Venard turned, and there was the Martian, his skin iridescent in the
cold light. "Hello, you old space-eater," he said in that peculiar,
slurred accent.
An entanglement of arms and tentacles to which Larson added his own
scrawny arms. For a moment of joyous reunion it might have been the
good old days when Jhongan and other Marties had been attending Terran
Academy of Interplanetary Law. That had been a cultural policy, to
exchange students in the various world academies.
"You were one of those Guards, and you got us out of that torture
chamber?"
The Martie inclined his body sac in a nod. Few could converse with a
Martie; it required a special skill. "I was planning it differently,
as La Crue said. But it worked out just as well. La Crue has kept your
consciousness submerged for three days. To build up strength. La Crue
has also mentioned a plan. Not because I know you love flattery, I
tell you that you and Larson are the only ones for this job." Jhongan
leaned forward and added: "It is possible, Karl, almost overnight, to
save the Solar System and return to a peaceful, progressive Federation."
* * * * *
Venard stared and Larson's little eyes became bright beads. Then Venard
decided to take it easy, get the whole thing gradually. He was still in
an unstable physical condition and too much of Jhongan's abruptness all
at once might tip the scale back.
He rubbed his jaw. His eyes went again round the depressing reaches of
the big Underground living quarters, or that particular part of it. Two
women and a small ragged boy entered carrying crude cooking equipment.
They smiled, and went through a small opening.
Larson mumbled, "I'd swear that girl was Glora Karstedt who just went
through there." He hobbled across the shadowed cavern and disappeared
after the woman, yelling "Hey! Hey, Glora. It's me, Kewpie Doll Larson.
Remember--"