Nine days had passed since Kimball Trent's awakening. He was more alert
now, the flat muscles of his body swelling again because of the rich
solid food that he ate to replenish his strength. He had found razors
and cream and had shaved, and with scissors he had given his unruly
dark mane of hair a close cropping, leaving it only long enough that it
did not drop over his eyes.
The nine days had been busy; for he had spent hours at the televisor,
trying vainly to pick up any messages that might be sent by enemy or
friend. He had found clothing still good in their air-tight lockers,
had strapped on a flame gun automatically, still unable to make himself
believe that five centuries had passed in the few short moments of
eternity that he had been unconscious.
He stood now before the televisor, turning off the visual screen,
cutting in the automatic relay that would record any scene or message
that came through in his absence. He knew that none would arrive; but
there was in his heart something that would not admit total defeat.
He shrugged the small food pack into a more comfortable position on
his wide shoulders, lifted the radi-needle gun and looped it from his
right shoulder by the sling. Slowly, then with greater determination,
he began to walk to the door that led to the refrigerator room.
He entered the room, climbed through the earth fault to the outside,
carefully replacing the camouflage mat he had made to cover the
entrance. Standing straight and tall in the warm sunlight, he checked
his wrist compass, then paced lightly forward through the trees.
His strength was almost fully returned now, and he walked with the
lithe grace of an Indian, slipping through the underbrush and foliage
with but the barest of sounds to mark his passing. Light trickled
through the trees, caressed his back, brought perspiration to his
forehead. His face was hard and grim, and his eyes keen, as he searched
the woods about for the slightest of signs that would betoken a hidden
watcher.
His shadow walked before him, sliding through other shadows, then
standing out bold and deep in the sunlit places. The webbing of his
chest harness pressed against the rippling muscles of his flesh, and
the flame pistol bounced slightly on his hip with every step.
He checked his compass again, then turned due south, cutting through
the timber, finding open fields two miles further where the walking was
much easier. Rabbits sat in curious wide-eyed watchfulness as he walked
through the waving green grass that carpeted the fields, but he gave
them no heed, his eyes watching the skies for signs of a crimson ship.
He was a stranger in his native land. Land contours seemed different
now, since the timber had come up unheeded. The old roads and paths
that he had walked as a boy and man were gone, absorbed through the
passing of years. He traveled entirely by compass, swinging to the east
after two hours of hard traveling.
The smell of water came to the air, cloying it with dampness, making
it somehow fragrant. A hundred yards further, and he was on the bank,
gazing across the muddy flood. He turned to his right, and far ahead
was New York.
He swore then, cursing in the tight voice of a man who feels a hurt so
deeply that it is a physical pain. His hands clenched at his sides, and
the muscles of his chest glided upward against the straps.
There was no superb skyline now; gone were the gleaming white spheres
and golden columns and blocky marble and plastic shafts that were
famous the world over. No smoke hung high in the sky over the city;
only a few white clouds floated in graceful indifference where great
strato-liners had flashed on pinions of gushing rocket flames.
There was a skyline, yes, but it hugged the ground, and it was only
the skeleton of the greatest city on earth. Even from where he stood,
Kimball Trent could see that buildings had toppled one against the
other when the concussion guns of the Gharrians had roared their song
of death.
* * * * *
Kimball Trent began to walk with great ground-eating strides. He could
see where the supports of the great bridges were on either bank further
south; but the spans had been blown away, and he knew that to cross the
river would mean swimming or constructing some kind of raft on which to
float and paddle.
Instinctively, he unslung his rifle, held it in both hands, the
prescience of danger a cold and clammy hand that squeezed his heart and
tightened the nerves in his rangy body.
He came to a cut-back, where water had washed a deep gully to the
river. He had stepped from the bushes and poised on the edge.
Then he saw the girl.
She was trapped, huddling back against the base of the far wall,
slender hands outspread at either side, wide terrified eyes watching
the alien monstrosity stalk her with a dreadful calmness. She wore
a belted skirt of soft leather, laced sandals and a tight halter of
blue leather. Red-gold hair hung in a cloud of brilliance about her
shoulders, swirled, as she turned.
She made no outcry, all of her attention on the beast that stalked her
with heavy mincing steps.
Kimball Trent swore softly, lifted his gun, then let it sag in
futility. Only too well did he know how invulnerable these Gharrians
were to any weapon Earthmen had devised. Radi-needles could not
penetrate their steel-hard hide, and high-explosives merely bounced
them about, apparently doing no damage at all.
They were squat, almost apelike in build, except that they had a double
chest, ending in two pairs of arms. A single eye peered lidlessly from
the head-like protuberance on the shoulders that made them weirdly
humanlike in appearance. Pad feet without toes carried them on legs
that had no knee joints. And their skin was the slaty bright blue of
sea water thirty feet down.
Kimball Trent saw the Gharrian before the girl, and horror was in his
eyes. He lifted his rifle automatically again, and hell raved for a
brief second as he shot a full clip at the beast. The Gharrian did not
turn, apparently did not notice the attack.
But not the girl. She lifted her head, violet eyes widening in features
browned by the sun, and her hands make quick gestures.
"Run!" she cried.
The Gharrian plodded forward, multi-fingered hands outspread to take
the girl. He gave no heed to the cry, for his race had no speech, and
apparently no hearing.
Kimball Trent, cocked the gun to explosives, wondering if he could blow
the monster to bloody fragments, then shook his head, knowing that such
was impossible. He was held in thrall by the sheer bravery of the
golden girl, for there could be but one ending to the drama.
"Run to your left," he ordered, swung the gun up again.
The girl darted to one side like a flame-haired wraith, going
unquestioningly toward the blank end of the gully, pressing against the
rocky wall. Her eyes followed every movement of the man on the gully's
edge.
And even the Gharrian seemed to sense Trent's presence now; for it
turned with a ponderous deadly smoothness, one hand dipping for the
square box dangling on a waist cord. Its single eye was as coldly
emotionless as that of a cobra.
Kimball Trent fired five times, bracing himself against the
concussions, blowing away the center of the cliff that towered twenty
feet above the Gharrian's head. And on the fifth shot, even as the
monster from outer space began to move with sudden speed for safety,
the embankment collapsed, burying him beneath tons of earth.
[Illustration: _Trent fired three feet above the Gharrian's head._]
"_Here!_" Trent called, but the girl was already running toward him,
scrambling up the sloping bank at his side of the gully.
He reached out to give her a hand, and she caught his in a grip that
was remarkably strong. Below, noise filled the gully, and dirt blasted
upward from the slide. The Gharrian was blowing himself free with his
concussor box.
"This way," the girl said, and began to run.
She raced toward the river, scrambled down the bank, going directly
toward a large log at the bank. Trent followed, sliding and slipping,
beginning to breathe hard from the unaccustomed exertion.
"Wait," he called. "He'll see us swimming."
Then wonder came to his mind; for the girl had bent and swung back the
top of the log, showing the interior of a crudely camouflaged canoe.
She scrambled into it, beckoning for him to follow, and he stepped in,
helped close the lid over their heads.
"We're safe now," the girl breathed, touched a single lever at her
head. A slight humming came from somewhere, and motion came to the
canoe, and there was the slightest sensation of movement.
* * * * *
Kimball Trent bent his head to one side, peered through a line of tiny
holes that pierced the side of the canoe. He grinned tightly, seeing
the dirt-clotted figure of the Gharrian come slowly into sight on the
river bank. The monster searched the water for a second, then turned
and went toward the woods with an implacable slowness that was all the
more terrifying because of the utter lack of speed.
Trent looked ahead at the girl, barely making her out in the semi-gloom
of the camouflaged canoe. Her eyes were on his features, and they did
not waver at his stare.
"Who are you, Barb, that you stand against the Masters, and what manner
of weapons are those you carry?" she asked.
Trent shook his head slightly, missing some of the words because of
the queer manner she had in her syllabication and pronunciation. Then
he grinned, remembering that this was not the past, and that language
would have changed considerably during the five centuries of his
enforced entombment.
"I do not know what you mean by 'Barb,'" he said. "My name is Kimball
Trent, and the weapons are--well, weapons."
"You speak strangely," the girl said slowly. "Where are you
from--Giland, or Connet, or where?"
Trent studied the question for a moment, then understanding came to his
eyes. "You mean Long Island and Connecticut?" he asked.
The girl shrugged, brushed soft hair back from a smooth forehead. "Once
they were called that, I think," she admitted.
Trent shook his head. "I came from the woods," he said. "Who are you,
and how did you get mixed up with that Gharrian?" he finished.
"I am Lura, of the tunnels of York. I was hunting, when the Master
trapped me." She smiled, and gratitude was in her voice. "I thank you,
Barb," she finished.
"Barb?"
"Of course--Barbarian, Barbar, Barb--whatever you like."
She notched the lever more, and the canoe swayed slightly from the
increasing speed, water slapping brightly against the wooden sides.
Trent watched her graceful movements, saw the swell of her breasts, the
long clean lines of her body.
"So the world is conquered," he mused, half aloud.
Anger came to Lura's fine features, and her hand dropped to the knife
at her waist. "I do not like joking about the world," she said stiffly.
"The world is not conquered, not while any of us free people live."
Kimball Trent shifted to a more comfortable position. "I meant no
joke," he apologized, while thoughts ran with quicksilver speed in his
mind. "I do not know," he added. "I fell but a few days ago and hurt my
head. I cannot remember many things."
Contrition came to her voice. "The magician will bleed you," she said,
"and the reader will heal your mind."
"_Magician--Reader?_"
Suspicion hardened the girl's voice again, and the knife came clear of
the sheath. Her gaze locked with his, and her words came softly one
upon the other.
"You know too little and too much," she said. "I think the Elder will
talk with you."
Kimball Trent shrugged, relaxed, while the girl sent the canoe through
the water. Events were transpiring a little too fast for him, and his
mind could not assimilate the facts as fast as they were produced.
People still lived, that was obvious, even though the world had been
conquered. But they were not the kind of people he had known. If this
girl were representative of her people, then they knew nothing of
weapons, that is, the type he had; and in all probability her reference
to the magician and the reader meant that they had reverted almost to a
primitive form of social life.
He saw no particular reason to trust the slim girl, even though his
senses were stirred by her wild litheness. For seconds, he had almost
blurted out the knowledge that was his, intending to tell her of the
underground cavern. Then caution and common sense came to his mind, and
he said nothing, watching her through slitted eyes.
She was conscious of his gaze, of that he was aware. But now suspicion
lay in her eyes, and her hand was close to the slim knife at her side,
as she guided the slim canoe through the blue water toward the nearing
bank.
"Do not move, Barb," the girl said coldly, "else you shall feel my
knife in your ribs."
Kimball Trent smiled to himself. "I shall not move," he said evenly. "I
know my limitations."
* * * * *
The canoe grated against sand, and the girl threw the cover back. Trent
blinked in the sunlight, then came to his feet, watched amusedly as
the girl gestured with her knife for him to lead the way. Catching up
his rifle, he slung it over his shoulder, then stepped from the canoe,
watched as she camouflaged it again as a log.
"Through there," she ordered, pointed ahead.
They did not speak, for the time of speaking lay in the future. Behind
them, a soulless monster was searching the brush with a blind patience
that had conquered a world; and for all they knew he might have
signalled more of his kind to come and aid him in his search.
He went ahead, not absolutely certain of where he was, climbing the
sloping bank, going toward the edge of the trees ahead. He saw the
rustle in the bushes, froze at half-step, hand going to the pistol at
his hip.
"_Brok!_" Lura said softly. "Go back toward the water--slowly, and
maybe it will not attack."
But Kimball Trent had his flame gun in his hand now and was going
forward, placing each foot carefully, ready for instant action. And on
the fourth step, he gasped, felt the blood freeze in his veins.
It came through the bush with the gliding grace of a cat. And it
was feline, too, in a way, with the gaping mouth and fangs of a
saber-tooth tiger. But there the resemblance ended. Six clawed legs
carried it forward, and scales glittered like the skin of a diamondback
rattlesnake. Pupilless eyes, like polished red marbles stared
unwinkingly, and the hissing sound from the beast's throat was like the
escaping of steam.
"Brok," Lura called again. "Do not move, Barb."
But Kimball Trent's hand was already coming up, leveling the flame gun.
And even as the gun swung into position, the brok came hurtling forward
in a fluid drive of ruthless destruction.
He came squarely into the raving cone of orange flame that gushed from
the pistol, came smashing into it, and a scream of agony keened high
at the bright blue sky. For nothing alive could withstand the awful
violence of that ravening energy; only one creature, the Gharrian, had
been able to live through its devouring power.
It died in midleap, and Kimball Trent stepped aside so that its
hurtling body would not touch him. He turned the flame on the
smouldering corpse, destroyed it with the full power of the gun. Then,
grey faced, he looked at Lura.
"What manner of man are you?" she whispered. "You battle the Masters
and their stalking broks; you use weapons the like of which I have
never heard. Are you a God?"
Trent smiled, shaken a bit by the sincere simplicity of the girl's
question, then shook his head.
"I am a man," he answered gently. "Now let us go and talk with the one
you call 'the Elder.'"
Lura looked at the knife still gripped in her fingers, and a flush of
color tided upward from her throat when her gaze went to the two guns
carried by Trent. Wordlessly, she sheathed the blade.
She led the way now, going into the thickest part of the timber,
gliding through the most tangled of the thickets with a careless
familiar grace. Kimball Trent followed more clumsily, tripping despite
his natural skill, scratching himself on sharp brambles. Minutes
flicked away, grew into an hour, and he knew that he was approaching
the city. They crossed roads now, cement blocks cracked by rain and
winter ice, bright flowers and green grasses springing upward through
the cracks.
Everywhere was bleak desolation. They passed holes in the ground that
had once been basements. Walls still stood in other places, and further
on, a great stone fence wound gracefully about what had been a private
park.
Rubble came to the ground, the crushed remains of towering buildings
blasted to bits by the Gharrians' concussors. Here and there, shards of
indestructible plastic poked toward the sky to mark where vehicles had
collapsed and dusted away in the course of centuries.
They came at last to a mighty stack of ruptured stone and plastics.
Lura picked her way over the rubble, then dropped into a small hole,
beckoning for Trent to follow. He came cautiously up the pile of stone,
hand close to his gun, feeling his nerves crawl, now that he was close
to his destination. This was not the situation he had planned five
hundred--he grinned wryly--years ago.
Then he sat, dangled his feet into the hole, dropped through.
Lura steadied him, and he stood upright, his head almost even with
the ceiling of stone blocks. Light came through the interstices, and
he could see that the girl was urging him toward a blank wall of grey
plastic fifty feet away.
He walked slowly, conscious of being watched, eyes tightening when he
saw the girl give a tapping signal to the wall. Then a door pivoted
open, and three men were covering him with needle-sharp spears.
"_Kill him_," Lura cried. "_He's a Gharrian spy!_"