He was the man of two planets, drawn through
the blackness of space to save a nation from
ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the
Stranger of the Prophecy--and he found that
he was destined to fight both sides.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their
way or welcome. I felt first--pressure on my brow and chest, as if I
lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind,
insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt
them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my
eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me.
Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been
spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages:
"Where am I?"
And at once there was an answer:
"_You lie upon the world Dondromogon._"
I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from--above,
beneath, or indeed within me--I could not say. I lifted a hand, and
knuckled dust from my eyes.
"How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker.
"It was ordered--by the Masters of the Worlds--that you should be
brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the
star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?"
And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred
deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked
yet again:
"Who am I?"
The voice had a note of triumph. "You do not know that. It is as well,
for this will be a birth and beginning of your destined leadership on
Dondromogon."
"Destined--leadership--" I began to repeat, and fell silent. I had
need to think. The voice was telling me that I had been snatched from
worlds away, for a specified purpose here on whatever windswept planet
Dondromogon might be. "Birth and beginning--destined leadership--"
Fantastic! And yet, for all I could say to the contrary, unvarnishedly
true.
"Dondromogon?" I mumbled. "The name is strange to me."
"It is a world the size of your native one," came words of information.
"Around a star it spins, light-years away from the world of your
birth. One face of Dondromogon ever looks to the light and heat,
wherefore its metals run in glowing seas. The other face is ever away
in cold darkness, with its air freezing into solid chunks. But because
Dondromogon wavers on its axis, there are two lunes of its surface
which from time to time shift from night to day. These are habitable."
My eyes were tight shut against the dust, but they saw in imagination
such a planet--one-half incandescent, one-half pitchy black. From pole
to pole on opposite sides ran the two twilight zones, widest at the
equators like the outer rind of two slices of melon. Of course, such
areas, between the hot and cold hemispheres, would be buffeted by
mighty gales ... the voice was to be heard again:
"War is fought between the two strips of habitable ground. War,
unceasing, bitter, with no quarter asked, given or expected.
Dondromogon was found and settled long ago, by adventurers from afar.
Now come invaders, to reap the benefits of discovery and toil." A
pause. "You find that thought unpleasant? You wish to right that
wrong?"
"Anyone would wish that," I replied. "But how--"
"You are going to ask how you were brought here. That is the mystery
of the _Masters_." The voice became grand. "Suffice it that you were
needed, and that the time was ripe. There is a proper time, like a
proper place, for each thing and each happening. Now, go to your
destiny."
I rose on my knees, shielding my face from the buffeting wind by
lifting a forearm. Somewhere through the murky clouds showed a dim
blocky silhouette, a building of sorts.
The voice spoke no more. I had not the time to wonder about it. I got
to my feet, bent double to keep from being blown over, and staggered
toward the promised haven.
I reached it, groped along until I found a door. There was no latch,
handle or entry button, and I pounded heavily on the massive panels.
The door opened from within, and I was blown inside, to fall sprawling.
* * * * *
I struck my forehead upon a floor of stone or concrete, and so was
half-stunned, but still I could distinguish something like the sound
of agitated voices. Then I felt myself grasped, by both shoulders,
and drawn roughly erect. The touch restored my senses, and I wrenched
myself violently free.
What had seized me? That was my first wonder. On this strange world
called Dondromogon, what manner of intelligent life bade defiance to
heat and cold and storm, and built these stout structures, and now laid
hands--were they hands indeed?--upon me? I swung around, setting my
back to a solid wall.
My first glance showed me that my companions were creatures like
myself--two-legged, fair-skinned men, shorter and slighter than I, but
clad in metal-faced garments and wearing weapons in their girdles. I
saw that each bore a swordlike device with a curved guard, set in a
narrow sheath as long as my arm. Each also had a shorter weapon, with
a curved stock to fit the palm of the hand, borne snugly in a holster.
With such arms I had a faint sense of familiarity.
"Who are you, and where are you from?" said one of the two, a
broad-faced middle-aged fellow. "Don't lie any more than you can help."
I felt a stirring of the hair on my neck, but kept my voice mild and
level: "Why should I lie? Especially as I don't know who I am, or where
I'm from, or anything that has happened longer ago than just a moment.
I woke up out there in the dust storm, and I managed to come here for
shelter."
"He's a Newcomer spy," quoth the other. "Let's put him under arrest."
"And leave this gate unguarded?" demanded the other. "Sound the
signal," and he jerked his head toward a system of levers and gauges on
the wall beside the door-jamb.
"There's a bigger reward for capture than for warning," objected
his friend in turn, "and whoever comes to take this man will claim
'capture.' I'll guard here, and you take him in, then we'll divide--"
"No. Yours is the idea. I'll guard and you take him in." The second man
studied me apprehensively. "He's big, and looks strong, even without
weapons."
"Don't be afraid," I urged. "I'll make no resistance, if you'll only
conduct me to your commander. I can show him that I'm no spy or enemy."
Both stared narrowly. "No spy? No enemy?" asked the broad-faced one who
had first spoken. Then, to his comrade: "No reward, then."
"I think there'll be a reward," was the rejoinder, and the second man's
hand stole to the sword-weapon. With a whispering rasp it cleared from
its scabbard. "If he's dead, we get pay for both warning and capture--"
His thumb touched a button at the pommel of the hilt. The dull blade
suddenly glowed like heated iron, and from it crackled and pulsed
little rainbow rays.
There was no time to think or plan or ponder. I moved in, with a
knowing speed that surprised me as much as the two guards. Catching the
fellow's weapon wrist, I clamped it firmly and bent it back and around.
He whimpered and swore, and his glowing sword dropped. Its radiant
blade almost fell on my naked foot. Before the clang of its fall was
through echoing, I had caught it up, and set the point within inches of
its owner's unprotected face.
"Quiet, or I'll roast you," I told him.
The other had drawn a weapon of his own, a pistol-form arrangement.
I turned on him, but too late. He pressed the trigger, and from the
muzzle came--not a projectile but a flying, spouting filament of cord
that seemed to spring on me like a long thin snake and to fasten coil
after coil around my body. The stuff that gushed from the gun-muzzle
seemed plastic in form, but hardened so quickly upon contact with the
air, it bound me like wire. Half a dozen adroit motions of the fellow's
gun hand, and my arms were caught to my body. I dropped my sword to
prevent it burning me, and tried to break away, but my bonds were too
much for me.
"Let me out of this," I growled, and kicked at the man with my still
unbound foot. He snapped a half-hitch on my ankle, and threw me
heavily. Triumphant laughter came from both adversaries. Then:
"What's this?"
* * * * *
The challenge was clear, rich, authoritative. Someone else had come,
from a rearward door into the stone-walled vestibule where the
encounter was taking place.
A woman this time, not of great height, and robust but not heavy. She
was dressed for vigorous action in dark slacks with buskins to make
them snug around ankles and calves, a jerkin of stout material that was
faced with metal armor plates and left bare her round, strong arms. A
gold-worked fillet bound her tawny hair back from a rosy, bold-featured
face--a nose that was positively regal, a mouth short and firm but not
hard, and blue eyes that just now burned and questioned. She wore a
holstered pistol, and a cross-belt supported several instruments of a
kind I could not remember seeing before. A crimson cloak gave color and
dignity to her costume, and plainly she was someone of position, for
both the men stiffened to attention.
"A spy," one ventured. "He pushed in, claimed he was no enemy, then
tried to attack--"
"They lie," I broke in, very conscious of my naked helplessness before
her regard. "They wanted to kill me and be rewarded for a false story
of vigilance. I only defended myself."
"Get him on his feet," the young woman said, and the two guards
obeyed. Then her eyes studied me again. "Gods! What a mountain of a
man!" she exclaimed. "Can you walk, stranger?"
"Barely, with these bonds."
"Then manage to do so." She flung off her cloak and draped it over my
nakedness. "Walk along beside me. No tricks, and I promise you fair
hearing."
We went through the door by which she had entered, into a corridor
beyond. It was lighted by small, brilliant bulbs at regular intervals.
Beyond, it gave into several passages. She chose one of them and
conducted me along. "You are surely not of us," she commented. "Men I
have seen who are heavier than you, but none taller. Whence came you?"
I remembered the strange voice that had instructed me. "I am from a
far world," I replied. "It is called--yes, Earth. Beyond that, I know
nothing. Memory left me."
"The story is a strange one," she commented. "And your name?"
"I do not know that, either. Who are you?"
"Doriza--a gentlewoman of the guard. My inspection tour brought me by
chance to where you fought my outposts. But it is not for you to ask
questions. Enter here."
We passed through another door, and I found myself in an office. A man
in richly-embossed armor platings sat there. He had a fringe of pale
beard, and his eyes were bluer than the gentlewoman Doriza's.
She made a gesture of salute, hand at shoulder height, and reported the
matter. He nodded for her to fall back to a corner.
"Stranger," he said to me, "can you think of no better tale to tell
than you now offer?"
"I tell the truth," was my reply, not very gracious.
"You will have to prove that," he admonished me.
"What proof have I?" I demanded. "On this world of yours--Dondromogon,
isn't it called?--I'm no more than an hour old. Accident or shock
has taken my memory. Let me have a medical examination. A scientist
probably can tell what happened to put me in such a condition."
"I am a scientist," offered Doriza, and came forward. Her eyes met
mine, suddenly flickered and lowered. "His gaze," she muttered.
The officer at the table was touching a button. An attendant appeared,
received an order, and vanished again. In a few moments two other
men came--one a heavily armed officer of rank, the other an elderly,
bearded fellow in a voluminous robe that enfolded him in most dignified
manner.
This latter man opened wide his clear old eyes at sight of me.
"The stranger of the prophecy!" he cried, in a voice that made us all
jump.
* * * * *
The officer rose from behind the table. "Are you totally mad, Sporr?
You mystic doctors are too apt to become fuddled--"
"But it is, it is!" The graybeard flourished a thin hand at me. "Look
at him, you of little faith! Your mind dwells so much on material
strength that you lose touch with the spiritual--"
He broke off, and wheeled on the attendant who had led him in. "To my
study," he commanded. "On the shelf behind my desk, bring the great
gold-bound book that is third from the right." Then he turned back,
and bowed toward me. "Surely you are Yandro, the Conquering Stranger,"
he said, intoning as if in formal prayer. "Pardon these short-sighted
ones--deign to save us from our enemies--"
The girl Doriza spoke to the officer: "If Sporr speaks truth, and he
generally does, you have committed a blasphemy."
The other made a little grimace. "This may be Yandro, though I'm a
plain soldier and follow the classics very little. The First Comers are
souls to worship, not to study. If indeed he is Yandro," and he was
most respectful, "he will appreciate, like a good military mind, my
caution against possible impostors."
"Who might Yandro be?" I demanded, very uncomfortable in my bonds and
loose draperies.
Old Sporr almost crowed. "You see? If he was a true imposter, he would
come equipped with all plausible knowledge. As it is--"
"As it is, he may remember that the Conquering Stranger is foretold
to come with no memory of anything," supplied the officer. "Score one
against you, Sporr. You should have been able to instruct me, not I
you."
The attendant reentered, with a big book in his hands. It looked
old and well-thumbed, with dim gold traceries on its binding. Sporr
snatched it, and turned to a brightly colored picture. He looked once,
his beard gaped, and he dropped to his knees.
"Happy, happy the day," he jabbered, "that I was spared to see our
great champion come among us in the flesh, as was foretold of ancient
time by the First Comers!"
Doriza and the officer crossed to his side, snatching the book. Their
bright heads bent above it. Doriza was first to speak. "It is very
like," she half-stammered.
The officer faced me, with a sort of baffled respect.
"I still say you will understand my caution," he addressed me, with
real respect and shyness this time. "If you are Yandro himself, you can
prove it. The prophecy even sketches a thumb-print--" And he held the
book toward me.
It contained a full-page likeness, in color, of myself wrapped in a
scarlet robe. Under this was considerable printed description, and to
one side a thumb-print, or a drawing of one, in black.
"Behold," Doriza was saying, "matters which even expert identification
men take into thought. The ears in the picture are like the ears of the
real man--"
"That could be plastic surgery," rejoined the officer. "Such things are
artfully done by the Newcomers, and the red mantle he wears more easily
assumed."
Doriza shook her head. "That happens to be my cloak. I gave it to him
because he was naked, and not for any treasonable masquerade. But the
thumb-print--"
"Oh, yes, the thumb-print," I repeated wearily. "By all means, study my
thumbs, if you'll first take these bonds off of me."
"Bonds," mumbled old Sporr. He got creakily up from his knees and
bustled to me. From under his robe he produced a pouch, and took out a
pencil-sized rod. Gingerly opening the red mantle, he touched my tether
in several places with the glowing end of the rod. The coils dropped
away from my grateful body and limbs. I thrust out my hands.
"Thumb-prints?" I offered.
Sporr had produced something else, a little vial of dark pigment. He
carefully anointed one of my thumbs, and pressed it to the page. All
three gazed.
"The same," said Doriza.
And they were all on their knees before me.
"Forgive me, great Yandro," said the officer thickly. "I did not know."
"Get up," I bade them. "I want to hear why I was first bound, and now
worshipped."