Kimball Trent was already moving, swinging to one side, the flame gun
fitting snugly into the palm of his hand. There was no laughter in his
eyes now, nor no friendliness in his heart. He felt a sympathy for the
girl; but the die had been cast, and he must play out the role.
"Don't make me kill you," he said briefly.
The leader of the trio laughed aloud, the sound rocking from wall to
wall of the weird hole in the fallen masonry. He came lightly forward,
blond hair gleaming, great muscles rippling over his superb body. He
carried himself with the grace of a dancer, the spear held crosswise in
his hands, ready for instant action at any angle.
"Ho!" he said. "The traitor is mine."
Flame roared from Kimball Trent's gun, and the iron shaft of the blond
giant's spear melted and dripped in splattering white-hot globules
where the energy touched.
Low cries of fear whirled from the other two men, and the blond stared
stupidly at his useless spear, dropped it as the heat crept along the
haft. He stared at Trent, and no fear was in his eyes; only a growing
respect and hate.
"Traitor!" he snarled, came driving in.
Trent went spinning to one side, slipping in the way that all army men
were trained, then chopped with a cool calculating skill at the base of
the giant's neck with the pistol butt. The giant dropped inertly, and
Kimball Trent faced Lura and the spearmen again.
"One!" he said grimly. "The next to attack me dies. Now take me to the
Elder."
There was a shadow in the doorway that materialized into the figure of
a man. "I am the Elder, Barb," he said. "Who are you?"
He was tall, the loose robe hanging straight from lean shoulders, his
thin features stern as he gazed at the scene. His hands were empty,
yet they gave a sense of power to him, for the fingers were long and
tapering, the palms broad. He watched Trent quietly through eyes that
gave the uncanny impression of seeing much and retaining all.
He stepped from the doorway, stood waiting quietly, pale eyes
appraising the man from the past, features tightening in puzzled
memory, as though he was trying to recall someone he had seen before.
"He is a spy, Elder," Lura cried. "He appeared from nowhere, _overcame
a Master_, and slew a brok. He carries weapons such as only the Masters
have--and he has a double name."
"My name is Trent, Kimball Trent," Trent said evenly. "I was searching
for anyone alive--"
The blond giant stirred at his feet, moaned, then came groggily to
his feet. He blinked dazed eyes, saw Trent, instantly fell to a
half-crouch, hands knotting into blocky fists.
"Enough, Korm," the Elder snapped, and the giant relaxed.
The tension was easing now, dispersed by the calmness of the Elder.
Quietly, Trent holstered his flame gun, then crossed his arms, stood
quietly waiting for the old man to speak.
"I have seen you somewhere before," the Elder said, "and your double
name is familiar in the depths of my mind." His voice changed subtly,
grew desperately grim. "What do you here?" he finished.
"Let us talk somewhere else," Trent said. "I shall be glad to tell my
story then."
The Elder nodded, turned and stepped through the door. Kimball Trent
followed, the remaining four coming directly after. The blond giant
touched a stud on the wall, and the door came softly closed, mantling
all with sable darkness.
Light swelled in a pale nimbus from a wall lamp, and they began walking
down a narrow tunnel. Sweat dripped from the walls, and the air was
coldly damp. Their feet made rasping noises, and the sound of their
breathing was abnormally loud. They did not speak, but Kimball Trent
was aware of their coldly appraising looks, and the skin of his back
crawled when he remembered the razor-sharp spears couched in capable
hands.
The lights flickered out of being behind, new ones coming on, as they
walked, leaving them in a perpetual cocoon of brilliance, making the
darkness a velvet wall eternally pressing in. Close at hand light
speared suddenly from a side tunnel, and the Elder led the way into
it, halted at the side of a low mono-wheel car that rested on a single
plastic track.
He waited until all had seated themselves in the car, then stepped into
the front, touched a series of studs. Vibration came from a concealed
motor, and the mono-wheel car slipped into whining speed almost
instantly.
* * * * *
The walls whirred by, and the air was a solid blast against their
faces. Kimball Trent turned slightly as the car sped along, watching
the faces, nerves tightening at the suspicion and distrust that held
all in thrall.
He gave his attention to the machine in which they rode, saw that it
was a model but slightly better than the ones to which he had been
accustomed. The plastic air-shield had been removed for some reason,
otherwise the passengers could have carried on a conversation in normal
tones.
The tunnel wound through the ground like the home of a worm, slipping
through mazes of interlocking tracks, automatic relays making certain
that the car was not shunted into the path of an approaching vehicle.
But they met no other cars; there was a sense of death and desolation
in the tunnels and depots.
The car began to slow, the walls firming at either side, and came at
last to a stop at a single platform on which stood three men armed
with knives and spears. They were dressed as were his captors, in
loose robes, which they apparently wore against the chill of their
underground retreat.
They saluted as the car came to a stop, stepped forward, weapons
levelled, when they saw Trent.
"A prisoner, Elder," the first said respectfully.
The Elder shook his head. "A friend," he said gently.
Kimball Trent stepped to the platform, stretched his hand to help Lura,
flushed when she ignored his hand and came from the vehicle without
aid. The others ranged themselves at his back; and the tension was in
the group again.
"This way," the Elder said. "We shall talk in my room."
"Elder, his weapons!" Korm said briefly.
Kimball Trent shrugged, lifted his guns free, handed them to the giant
who took them with gingerly respect.
"Do not experiment with them," Trent advised.
Korm grinned wryly, laid them on the platform. "I want _nothing_ to do
with them," he said grimly.
Then the Elder and Kimball Trent were going through the open door, the
others remaining behind. They followed a short lighted tunnel carved
through living rock, turned aside into a single room.
"I make you welcome," the Elder said.
Kimball Trent gazed curiously about, seeing the crudeness of the
furnishings; the room was furnished like that of an ascetic, not like
the home of the leader of some group. It had a spartan simplicity in
the plastic furniture, the bare walls white and unmarked.
Kimball Trent chose a chair at the side of a table, waited until the
Elder had seated himself and pushed what appeared to be some sort of
signal button.
A young man, brown-haired and athletic, came through the door, nodded
in greeting, stared curiously at Trent. He walked slowly to the table,
bent his head in tribute.
"Valur, this is Kimball Trent, a newcomer," the Elder said. "We shall
listen to his story." He turned to Trent. "Valur is the Reader; it is
he who knows the past and who is the keeper of the books."
"I make you welcome," Valur said quietly, eyes wise beyond his years
calmly studying the well-knit body of Trent.
"Your story?" the Elder prompted gently.
Kimball Trent began to speak. He told of his awakening, of his rescue
of Lura, of his being brought to the tunnels. He saw the skepticism
in the Elder's eyes, was conscious of the probing of his statements by
Valur. He told nothing of the fortress that had stayed untenanted for
five centuries, told only that he had been buried in a cave, and had
come miraculously alive.
Finished, he relaxed against the chair back, waited for the questions.
He could feel the perspiration on his forehead, for he sensed the
mettle of the men, knew that he would not leave the underground alive
if they believed him to be a spy of the Gharrians.
"What think you?" the Elder asked Valur.
Valur seated himself directly before Trent. "You claim to be a Kimball
Trent?" he asked.
"Yes," Trent said.
"There was once a Kimball Trent who fought the Masters when first they
came. He was the friend of a man called Doctor Boyliss, and one of the
first leaders of the fight against the Masters."
"I'm the one," Kimball Trent said grimly.
"You will submit to a neuro test?"
"Gladly."
* * * * *
Valur strode to a side door, entered, returned with a small neurograph
machine. He clamped cables to the arms, legs and head of Trent,
adjusted dials, then began his questioning. For minutes he talked, both
he and the Elder studying the dials. Slowly, amazement came to their
faces, excitement flickering in their eyes. At last, they freed the
cables, and Trent relaxed.
"Satisfied?" he asked.
"One more test," Valur said, left the room.
Kimball Trent smiled at the Elder. "My story must sound utterly
insane," he said.
"It does," the Elder said noncommittally.
Then Valur was back, gently carrying a plasti-book, opening it as he
came. He spread the book on the table, opening it to a group picture,
indicating one man. He took a small box from a pocket in his robe, made
prints of Trent's fingerprints.
"It is he," he said at last, pushing the book and prints aside.
There was silence then, the Elder and Valur studying the man before
them with awe-filled eyes. Trent shifted uncomfortably.
"Now, suppose you tell me your story?" he asked.
The Elder nodded. "There are about three thousand of us Barbs beneath
the city. Our ancestors fought the Masters, hiding like beasts beneath
the ground, never finding the weapons that would rid the Earth of the
Gharrians. We do nothing now but live and hope, sometimes making raids
on the breeding stations, trying to free those who would escape."
Weariness came to his voice. "The breeders lack spirit now, after
centuries of slavery; usually they will not run, even when their
devil-wires are broken."
"Devil-wires?" Trent asked.
Valur explained. "They slay at a touch, and when broken, they snap and
spit yellow flames."
"Electricity?"