"We've got to get Fanton to the Place of Eternal Strength. Come!"
He took the old Martian in his arms and the cavalcade moved off down
the corridor following Maxis' lead. Guards could be heard, running in
from different directions.
To Maxis, it was but a matter of time. He did not expect to reach the
Place of Eternal Strength. He could only try; and die finally, battling
for his Emperor. But this did not sadden him. There was no better way
for a Martian to die....
* * * * *
Rex floated in a sea of pain. Sadistically beaten by the guards who
had overpowered him, he lay on the floor of the cell; aware of the
blood-pool around him and of the pain, but unable to force his body
into action. He knew the door to the cell stood open. He forced his
mind to focus on this point. It could mean only one thing.
The guards had left him for dead.
The thought cheered him. He was not dead. Therefore he was living on
borrowed time--a break men in his profession seldom got.
Another thought intruded. Maybe he wasn't lucky. Maybe he was crippled.
He had as yet not inventoried the damage. Was it worse than the pain
indicated?
He searched for numbness and found none. He moved and the pain
increased. That was good. Nothing paralyzed. But was an arm or leg
broken? Was there a spine injury?
Resolutely, he forced his muscles to respond. Arms, legs, bones okay.
He got to his feet and swayed dizzily. Pain shot through his head. He
almost blacked out, clawed at the wall, kept himself from falling.
He got hold of a bar and held himself erect while the floor spun and
the walls tilted. Then they steadied away. His stomach settled back
into place, the nausea giving ground sullenly.
After a while, he decided he was all right. As all right as he would be
for a long time. He looked around for a weapon. All the bars were in
solid rock. The legs of the bunk were riveted down.
He hunted and stood finally looking at his two fists. They were all he
had. They would have to do.
He stepped out of his cell and saw two guards approaching along the
corridor. He debated flight. He stopped. There were the two fists.
Might as well find out right now how effective they would be. He
crouched and stood waiting....
* * * * *
Jean moved in a daze. She had been taken by the Martian guard through
long corridors, into a splendid part of whatever building this was. At
one point during the trip, she lashed out suddenly, bit the hand across
her mouth and raked her nails across a hard face.
The Martians had been in no mood to tame a tigress the gentle way.
The big Martian, after snarling from the bite, swung his other fist
viciously. The blow rang against Jean's head. She fell. The Martians
growled at each other, picked her up roughly and carried her,
half-conscious, on down the corridor.
She was taken to a high room, far up in the building. The room seemed
to be some sort of a storage place for fine garments. They were
everywhere; gold surplices hanging in rows; gold and silver sandals
hanging from pegs along the wall. A rich room with windows and daylight
coming in; the first Jean had seen in a long time.
She remembered the stone hutch--so wondrous--so far away--so
unattainable. Rex. Tears welled in Jean's eyes and she tasted the dregs
of bitterness as she saw Rex--in memory--lying bloody and broken on the
floor of the cell; recalled the ferocity with which the Martians had
attacked him.
Suddenly Jean realized what was going on--what the Martians were doing
there in the high room--stripping off her clothing. With a choked cry
she found new strength and fought again.
She took them by surprise; broke from them and ran, half naked, toward
the door. Escape seemed imminent but she threw herself straight into
the arms of a tall, scowling Martian who held her like a child and
carried her back into the terrible room. As he walked toward them,
those who had brought her there fell on their knees. One of them
intoned, "Pandek--great Pandek--Lord of the North Hemisphere."
"Not quite," Pandek said, speaking in Terran. "And never if I continue
to be surrounded by bungling fools such as you, who cannot hold a slip
of a girl. Had I not come through that door she would even now be
making her escape."
"She surprised us, great Pandek. It will not happen again."
Callously, Pandek held Jean forth with one great hand and hit her
sharply on the point of her chin with a doubled fist. "I'll make
certain of that. Here--take her. Maybe you will be safer with an
unconscious sacrifice. Comb out her hair--wash her body. Put on the
golden harness--get her ready for the knife."
They took Jean from him and laid her on a marble slab and continued
their ministrations. Pandek, scowling deeply, walked to the window
and looked out. Beyond and below was a great open square filled with
people. They milled about a high, central platform upon which sat a
throne and a sacrificial block. The block was caked with the blood of a
thousand sacrifices made before the Reformation, centuries before. It
had been removed from the square, but had been carefully preserved by a
core of fanatics who had never given up hope of the Old Regime coming
again into power; the old, bloody regime that worshiped the robust
pagan gods and gave the people great spectacles.
Now the block had been returned; the minds of the people had been
inflamed and they awaited the first sacrifice of the New Age--the age
in which proud pagan Mars would again demand its rightful place in the
sun. Pandek's hand thrilled for the feel of the knife. He thrilled at
the thought of driving it home and thus ushering in the New Age.
His mind went, quite naturally, to Fanton, the weak old fool he had
dragged down. It had been a clever coup. Of course, Fanton still had
followers, but they had been misled, lied to, cleverly hoodwinked. A
little fearful of a slip in his plans, Pandek had not had Fanton slain.
He had merely thrown the old fool into a cell to die--had deprived him
of rejuvenation.
Perhaps Fanton was already dead. Pandek wondered. But perhaps not, and
with plans having gone forward so smoothly, it was safe to kill the
deposed Lord of the Northern Hemisphere.
Pandek turned swiftly and went to see about it....
* * * * *
Maxis, leading his cavalcade down the prison corridor and carrying the
even frailer body of his Emperor, traveled half the breadth of the
prison before danger confronted him; three guards loyal to Pandek the
usurper and dedicated to his treacherous cause.
Maxis laid the body of Fanton gently upon the floor. Then he stepped
over it and made his stand between his Emperor and those who had
deserted him. He paid no attention to the two Terrans. He wished them
neither harm nor good fortune, they would be of no value in this fight
so he forgot them.
The guards, sure of their advantage, moved slowly forward. They knew
Maxis and gave him a tribute by taking it for granted he would not
retreat. They drew their short, wicked swords, thus forcing Maxis, a
man of ethics, to foreswear use of any other weapon even though death
faced him.
The Martians moved in from three angles, skillful swordsmen all, and
Maxis parried three quick thrusts with a tricky maneuver that left a
scratch on the arm of one guard.
It was a gallant parry, worthy of a better reward than certain death.
The guards retreated a step, set themselves, and moved in again. Maxis
would certainly not be able to repeat the maneuver.
Then there was new, sudden, and devastating action. From the rear of
the guards, came a crazed, unarmed juggernaut of destruction; a mad
Terran; bloody, savage-eyed, lethal, he threw himself against the
flank of the advancing trio, locked an arm around his throat, and with
leverage obtained by wrapping his legs around the Martian's body,
snapped the ugly head at the base of the spine.
The Martian fell with the Terran under him. As Tommy cried, "Rex--Rex!
Where did you come from?" the Terran had disentangled himself from
the corpse and was engaging a second guard. Stunned by the suddenness
of the attacks, the guard was easy prey for the Terran's death grip.
A second spine snapped and as the Terran rose, he saw that the third
guard had fallen before Maxis' sword.