A sudden commotion down the hall outside the door warned of the
approach of the arresting officers. Phyfe gave a last despairing glance
at Underwood, who was clutching the painful burn on his arm. The
archeologist turned and darted swiftly through a door at the rear of
the office, followed by Dreyer.
Almost instantly the main door was flung wide and two heavily armed
officers burst into the room. Their impulsive charge was halted as they
stared at the groaning physicist.
"Get help," Underwood said desperately. "I've got to get to the museum.
It may not be too late if Dr. Morov turned the beam off. Phyfe forced
me to order it stopped. Scientists don't want the Great One revived. He
shot me when I refused. Would have killed me if--"
Underwood sagged forward over the desk and fainted from the pain
he could no longer endure.
_CHAPTER EIGHT_
The beefy Committee Chairman regarded Underwood in the crowded hearing
room with the self-righteous, detached anger of one who represents
approximately a million voters. He told Underwood, "The reprieve
you have been granted is not given because your crime is considered
any less grievous. Because your act threatened a possession of this
government which may potentially change the entire life of Earth for
the better, your crime is deemed punishable by death.
"However, you are the only man capable of directing the project.
Therefore, your sentence is commuted and will be resolved if you
successfully conclude the project of restoring the Great One. Only by
so doing may you prove your innocence. If an accident brings failure,
three separate committees of competent scientists will bring a verdict
that will determine whether you shall live."
"And what of Dr. Illia Morov?"
"Her sentence is life imprisonment for her attempt to destroy the Great
One."
"She obeyed my orders given under duress, as I have explained. I
cannot be responsible for the successful restoration if I am to be
denied competent assistance. Her knowledge is absolutely essential to
the success of the work."
The chairman frowned. "The civil courts have exercised judgment. It
may be possible for her to be bound over to us as you were, but her
sentence cannot be commuted except by special appeal and retrial. We
will see what can be done in the matter."
Underwood choked back the blast he would like to have hurled, his
denunciation of everything that symbolized the rotten culture into
which he had been driven by accident of birth. He dared hope only that
Illia would be granted leniency, that somehow they could think of a way
to destroy the alien.
* * * * *
He had forced his mind shut against all possibilities of antagonism
between the culture of Sirenia and that of Earth. Now he was aware of
the full potentialities of a mind like Demarzule's, armed with Sirenian
super-science, loose among Earthmen, and he was motivated by an urge
to destroy that was as great as his former desire to save and restore.
Earth was in bad enough shape without a Demarzule.
For himself and for Illia he almost dared hope that they might find
escape from the wrath of the Disciples--perhaps to the Venusian
colonies--for there was nothing left for them upon Earth.
The Chairman added with deadly significance, "Just to make sure that no
risk is being taken with the Great One, you will be constantly attended
by an armed guard. You will carefully explain every move before you
make it--otherwise you may not be alive to make it."
That was all then. Underwood was led out under heavy guard between the
rows of watchers, most of whom were Disciples. He could almost feel the
doubt and hate directed toward him.
When he returned to the museum, guards of the Disciples stood
everywhere. The scientists worked with blank, expressionless faces--and
guns at their backs.
Craven, the biologist who had made detailed studies of the Disciples,
glanced up from his desk uncertainly as Underwood walked in. He had
been placed in charge temporarily during the absence of Illia and
Underwood.
"I'm sorry about--everything, Del. Especially about Dr. Morov. When I
saw her turning off the radiation I knew that something was wrong, but
when she said that word had come from you to do it, I knew it was time
for us to take over. I'm glad that they found you were not in sympathy
with the scientists who wanted the Great One destroyed."
His words refused to fall into place in Underwood's mind so that they
made sense. But after a moment it came--though there were personal
guards attached to every other scientist in the place, there was none
standing watch over Craven. So Craven was one of them, a Disciple. And
if Craven, why not others?
But the biologist had been studying the Disciples from a scientific
standpoint. Had he succumbed in spite of that or because of it?
It was a problem beyond Underwood's grasp. He evaded a reply with:
"How is everything going? Is the cell division increasing? Intensities
of radiation and nutrient solution being stepped up according to our
plans?"
Craven nodded. "As far as I can tell, the Great One is developing
properly. You'll want to make a complete check, of course. The daily
reports are ready for your inspection."
Underwood grunted and left, followed by the silent, ever-present guard.
He went out to the test board where the trio of technicians kept
constant watch on the processes. Everything was functioning according
to instructions in the repository--instructions prepared by Toshmere.
Everywhere were the guards, and up on the balcony were the unending
streams of Disciples of the Great One. It was like a nightmare to
Underwood. How had control of the project slipped away? It had happened
so rapidly and insidiously that he had not been aware. But that was
not it; the truth was that he had never had control. From the moment
that the scientists brought the protoplasm of Demarzule to Earth and
revealed the story of their find, it had been inevitable.
Inevitable, Underwood thought, and the greatest semantic blunder ever
made. It might have been a good thing if it had been Toshmere instead
of Demarzule. The world had had no leaders for a century except the
bungling, vote-buying politicians. Toshmere might have led them back to
a semblance of strength and initiative, but what would the conqueror
and destroyer, Demarzule, do?
* * * * *
The following day, Illia returned. Underwood was shocked by her
appearance. She had dreamed of a new and saner world to be brought by
the alien out of space, just as Underwood had dreamed of a new world of
science to be revealed. And now their dreams had turned into a monster.
The worst of their meeting was that there was nothing they could say
to each other. Illia came into the tiny world of nightmare under the
force shell in the custody of guards, and one remained constantly by
her side as she resumed her duties. Likewise, Underwood's own guard
never left him. Underwood had to maintain his pretense of innocence
before them.
"It was Phyfe and Dreyer," he said to Illia. "I'm glad you didn't
succeed in destroying Demarzule."
She hesitated an instant, then nodded with understanding. "I didn't
know what you were doing, but I supposed there was some reason. I
didn't suspect their evil plot."
* * * * *
And that was all. There was nothing more they could say. Nothing of her
despair at her white-faced, lusterless appearance. Nothing of her lost
dream.
The mass grew and took shape. Limbs and head and torso were distinctly
formed and losing their fearsome, embryonic cast. The creature would
be of adult form and shape, Underwood saw, and would not represent a
return to infancy. It was fully eight feet tall and was humanoid to the
extent of having four limbs and head and torso, but the X-rays showed
radical differences in bone and joint structure. One cranial and two
abdominal organs were completely unfamiliar and could be identified by
none of the biologists on the project.
For a time Underwood nursed the hope that these structural differences
might make it impossible for Demarzule to survive on Earth. But the
further the lungs developed, the more evident it became that the
Sirenian would adapt to the atmosphere. As to food, there was little
doubt that nourishment would be no problem. By the sixth month, too, it
was hopeless to assume that anything would go wrong with the process of
restoration. Toshmere had planned too well.
Underwood wondered what had become of Phyfe and Dreyer, if they had
been captured and killed, or if they still lived in the depths of the
ancient buildings beneath the city. There had been absolutely no word.
He had been kept in complete isolation since their tragic failure. He
spoke to no one except the silent guards and his fellow technicians.
He knew of none that he could trust, for he was certain that among the
scientists working beside him, there were those whose duty it was to
spy upon him. Craven, for example, had become more sullen day by day,
and now he avoided Underwood almost continually, as if ashamed of the
things that he believed in and had done, but unable to renounce them
or help himself. The symptoms of hysteria were becoming constantly more
evident.
Underwood looked for them in the other scientists, but he was not
skilled enough to detect all the signs. The only way was to play safe
and take no one into his confidence.
* * * * *
Life went on timelessly in the nightmare world. The light of day was
completely obscured by the force shell. As Underwood strolled out of
the museum building and looked up at its blackness, he recalled how it
had saved the world centuries ago, when mankind had once before been
on the verge of self-destruction in the dim beginnings of the atomic
age. Only by the discovery of the force shell, a field impenetrable
by any substance or radiation or force, had men been saved from total
annihilation.
But now man was faced by another potent force of destruction--his own
desire to submit to any leader who promised relief from independent
responsibility and action. The alien would certainly be able to fulfill
that promise where no man could, but was it worth the risk of being
saddled with a bloody dictatorship?
It was fantastic, Underwood thought, that he could find no way to elude
his guards and kill the growing monster. Variations in the strength
of the radiation might do it, but there was no possibility of varying
the radiation. The guards, whose leaders were technically trained,
had access to the records of the scientists, which not only gave the
details of previous work, but outlined each step until Demarzule was
restored. Underwood dared not attempt departures of procedure from the
written notes. The bath itself had been surrounded by a transparent
guard impervious to solid shot or radiation weapons--even if he could
have obtained any--nor could poisons be placed in the nutrient solution.
There was simply nothing that could be done while Demarzule was still
in the nutrient bath. But on the day of his arising? A desperate,
last-ditch plan formed in Underwood's mind.
He explained to his guard, "When the Great One arises, it would be
well for someone to welcome him in his own tongue. Only a few of us
scientists are able to, and of those who can, I am the only one here.
With your permission, I'll be beside him and welcome him when he rises."
The guard considered. "I'll relay your request to the First High
Prophet Hennessey. If it is deemed fitting you shall be appointed to
welcome the Great One."
Underwood wished that he had given Hennessey a warmer welcome that
first day when the fanatic prophet came to his office, but Hennessey
gave permission immediately. Underwood imagined the Prophet taking
considerable satisfaction in the irony of Underwood being the first to
welcome the Great One.
Mounted beside the narrow catwalk between the observation board and
the bath were the controls which would finally cut the radiation and
drain the nutrient solution as the process of restoration came to an
end. Here also were the water valves used to flush the bath when it had
first been constructed.
In this narrow space, Underwood could escape the watching eye of his
guard for an instant. He hoped to be able to cut the radiation and
drain the bath prematurely. If that couldn't be done, he might fill the
bath with water and drown Demarzule before the guards could intervene
or reach the shutoff valve. Underwood had managed to secrete a small
bar in his pocket with which he hoped to break the valve after it was
opened.
The massive form of Demarzule had been stirring like an embryo for days
now, and Underwood watched closely for the first attempt to rise. That
would be the earliest moment that he could hope to make an attempt to
destroy the Sirenian.
He wished he could confide in Illia, but there was no chance. He feared
she might have some desperate, dangerous plan of her own.
The color of the Sirenian's skin had turned a deep hue, like dark
redwood, and that appeared to be its natural tone. The hair upon the
head was coppery, darker than the skin. Demarzule's whole appearance
was one of might and strength even as he lay quiescent. His features
were bold, with wide-set eyes and sharp nose. The mouth was stern,
almost harsh.
* * * * *
Hysteria among the Disciples was mounting hourly. Instead of flowing
through the building along the balcony in their endless stream, they
poured in and stayed, hoping to be there for the rising of the Great
One. Some were pushed over and killed by the fall to the floor below.
They overflowed into the main hall and swarmed about the masses of
equipment. This was welcomed by Underwood, who hoped that the pressing
mob might damage some of the equipment and thus bring about the end of
Demarzule.
In any event, the hysteria was having its effects upon the guards, who
continued to watch the scientists. Their alertness and efficiency were
giving way to the same tension that filled the mobs within the hall
like a disease.
Underwood went sleepless for two days at the end, not daring to miss
his one chance. And hundreds of the faithful who jammed the hall and
thousands more who waited outside had already stood that long waiting
for the miracle.
It was in early dawn when Underwood caught the first faint motion that
indicated Demarzule was about to rise.
Underwood jerked a finger in the direction of the bath and looked
questioningly at the guard. The man nodded and Underwood raced along
the narrow catwalk.
There was no question of premature draining of the solution and cutting
the radiation. It was time for that now. Demarzule was struggling
upward, his lungs gasping in the first breath of Terrestrian atmosphere
which filled the upper part of the enclosure.
Underwood cut the radiation switch and twisted the valve on the water
line with a mighty wrench that tore the wheel from the shaft. Water
flooded into the chamber.
Demarzule struggled to a sitting position and stared as if dazed, his
countenance working fearsomely.
The Disciples saw him. A shout of ecstasy thundered through the great
hall and the empty rooms of the museum. And then, suddenly, there was a
new sound. A single voice rang out above all the rest.
"Strike now!" it shouted. "Strike down the invader. Destroy the
blasphemy of the Great One!"
* * * * *
Underwood's head twisted about. There on the balcony in the place
lately occupied by the Prophet, Hennessey, was Terry Bernard!
For an instant Underwood could not comprehend the meaning of it. The
gun in Terry's hand flashed red. Underwood's guard slumped in his
murderous rush and fell from the catwalk. He alone had seen the sudden
rise of water and realized its meaning.
The cries and curses and screams and prayers that filled the hall made
the previous commotion deathly silence by contrast. Sudden beams of
deadly fire shot through the air, and Underwood could make no sense of
it all.
Sides in the conflict began to appear. Underwood saw that some of
the technicians and scientists had weapons and had disposed of
their guards. Now they were firing carefully into the mob about the
equipment, picking off the armed leaders.
Inside the impenetrable enclosure, the giant Sirenian staggered
uncertainly as if stunned. The water was rising swiftly about his hips.
The air, rushing out the oxygen intake pipe, allowed the water to rise
in the otherwise hermetically sealed chamber.
A few minutes more and Demarzule would be cut off from the air supply.
How long it would take to drown him, Underwood did not know. It would
depend largely on his present rate of metabolism, which was a great
uncertainty. But could the mob be held off that long? They had to be!
He bent down and grabbed up the gun that his pursuing guard had dropped.
In the background of his mind he wondered what this sudden attack
meant. How strongly organized was it, and who was behind it? Apparently
Terry had given the signal for attack, and many of the scientists on
the project had been prepared for it, yet Underwood had been given not
the slightest hint that such attack would take place. He wondered why
he had been left out.
The screaming of the hysterical Disciples was deafening as those in
front tried to force their way back from the line of battle, and those
in the rear tried to press forward to glimpse Demarzule.
Underwood leaped down to the floor in the sea of confusion and found
himself unable to determine which way the conflict was moving. None of
the scientists were near him, only the maddened, unreasoning Disciples.
He decided to stay near the water valve to make certain that it was not
shut off by any of the guards.
Then two figures surged up to him and one grasped his arm. "Del! Come
on, let's get out of here!"
He turned. Terry's blood-streaked face was almost unrecognizable. His
other hand clutched Illia's arm.
"You two go on," Underwood shouted. "Get out if you can. I've got to
stay--to make sure he drowns."
* * * * *
"The water's cut off! Can't you see?"
Underwood turned in horror. The water level was falling instead of
rising. Someone had cut it off at one of the other valves farther along
the line and had opened the drain. Air was being pumped through, for
Demarzule was standing rigidly now, looking down upon the surging mass
as if contemplating their fate. The bitter animal struggle for survival
was gone now from his face, and only a mocking scorn was there as the
mob battled before him.
"We've failed!" Underwood exclaimed. "It must have been Craven who
shut the water off. We haven't a chance now."
"Not if we stay here. Come on. We can lose ourselves in this crowd
and work our way outside. There's a ship waiting to take us across to
Phyfe. The _Lavoisier_ is manned and ready to go."
"The _Lavoisier!_ Where--?"
"Who knows? Go!"
Hopelessly, Underwood allowed himself to be pushed and jammed into the
thick of the mob by the frantic Terry. Signs of armed conflict were
dying. Underwood supposed that the scientists had been subdued, for now
the hall was completely filled with the Disciples. It was impossible,
he thought, that they could ever make their way out without being
apprehended. But even as doubts came, he knew that he had to get out.
He had to live to make another stand against the Sirenian.
He looked back. Demarzule was standing erect now. Slowly his great arms
came up and his hands extended as if in blessing and welcome, and the
moaning of the ecstatic Disciples rose in wild discordance.
Then out of those alien lips, amplified a thousand fold by the audio
system installed within the chamber to catch any uttered words, there
came an alien voice that only Underwood could understand. And as the
strange words poured forth he shuddered at their implications.
"My people." Demarzule said. "My great and mighty people!"
_CHAPTER NINE_
Underwood turned as if driven back by the force of the conquering voice
of thunder that came from the throat of Demarzule.
No one was paying any attention to the three scientists now. The faces
of the Disciples were upturned toward the Great One, waiting for
further pronouncements.
Underwood, Terry and Illia shoved through the wide doors of the hall
against the crowd pressing from outside. As they fought through, the
enormous voice continued to assail their ears.
"I have triumphed over death," Demarzule exclaimed. "I have conquered
the ages, and now I come to you, my people. I have come to lead you to
the stars and to the Galaxies beyond the stars, where your very name
shall cause the creatures of distant worlds to tremble."
Each word was like a knife stabbing into Underwood, for they showed
that Demarzule had already comprehended the situation--and mastered
it. And though the people did not understand the words, the tone of
his voice carried the meaning almost equally well, and there were none
in that mass of worshipping Disciples who doubted that a new day of
greatness had dawned for Earth.
All semblance of organization under the small-time prophets and priests
such as Hennessey had vanished. There had never been much organization
because people did not trust any man sufficiently to compose a very
tight or efficient organization.
This was to the benefit of the scientists. It would take time for
Demarzule to become aware of the opposition and the identity of the
scientists. But he must surely be aware of the attempt on his life,
Underwood thought, unless full consciousness had not returned until
the water had begun to subside in the chamber, and Demarzule had not
realized the significance of it.
But Underwood did not believe that. Demarzule had exhibited such rapid
grasp of the attitude of the Disciples that he probably possessed a
semantic accuracy in his thinking which would shame the best of Earth's
scientists.
The three were making more rapid progress now as they pushed out into
the part of the mob that could not see Demarzule. Under the black dome
of the force shell, as far as they could see, the area between the
building and the outer edge of the shell was filled with struggling
humanity. The words of Demarzule could be heard only faintly.
"The north gate," Illia said. "That is the widest. Maybe the guard
system has broken down completely--"
* * * * *
Terry nodded. "It looks like it. That's the closest to our flier,
anyway. If we are challenged, let's carry Illia and explain she was
injured in the mob. That might get us through. If not, keep your gun
ready."
Underwood assented. He felt as if this were some nightmare from which
he was struggling to awaken--unsuccessfully. He wondered what had
happened to the other scientists on the project, and to those who had
attempted the storming of the building. Had they all perished in the
short and futile battle?
He had to admit to himself that at times, during those long days under
the surveillance of the Disciple guards, he had wondered if there
wouldn't have been some chance of utilizing Demarzule's science without
danger. That hope, however, had been finally and completely blasted by
Demarzule's arising. The Sirenian had not changed in half a million
years.
As they savagely thrust through, Underwood considered the course that
would probably be followed by Demarzule. He would gather about him a
puppet organization of administrators who would take on a priestly
sanctification before the people because of their nearness to the Great
One. The organization would tighten about the Earth, enfolding the
willing devotees, ruthlessly wiping out small centers of opposition
that might spring up.
At the command of the Disciples would be the world's weapons and
factories. And added to these would be the fearful science and unknown
weapons of the Sirenian.
What force could hold back this avalanche?
The answer was: _None._ There was no force that could touch him,
nothing the scientists could do to prevent the unleashed forces of
Earth from sweeping the Galaxies.
Flight. That was the only recourse for those who wished to escape the
debacle. But it must be more than flight. However hopeless it seemed,
those of Earth's scientists who could be gathered must be dedicated
to the task of Demarzule's overthrow, the saving of Earthmen from an
insane course of conquest.
* * * * *
Close to the north gate, the distorting energies of the force shell
were led around a portion of space to form an opening in the wall. Word
of the rising of the Great One had spread like a virus and thousands
were gathered beyond the shell, trying in vain to force their way in.
All semblance of attempting to guard the entrances seemed to have
vanished as the trio forced their way through the opening and out into
the sunlight that seemed utterly blinding to Illia and Underwood, who
had not seen it for so long.
For a moment Underwood wondered if they could not have remained inside
the Carlson and taken a chance on shooting Demarzule when he came out
of the protecting shield about the bath. But he knew better. Demarzule
would not come out until the room was cleared and the faithful were
standing guard with their guns ready to blast any would-be assassin.
No, they were on the only course open to them. They were committed to
it now; there was no turning back.
At last they came out into a relatively free space where they could
move rapidly. Underwood caught sight of the small three-man flier atop
a low rise, a mile from the museum.
"What about the others?" Underwood said as they ran. "Didn't any of
them get away?"
"I don't think so," Terry answered. "We didn't expect it. Our object
was to destroy Demarzule, and, failing that, to get you two."
The two running men, one with bandaged arm and the other with
bloodsmeared face, and the white-faced girl were attracting unwelcome
attention, but at last they came to the rise where the flier lay, and
climbed in. Without a lost motion, Terry worked the controls and they
whirled into the air.
From their elevation, Underwood looked back toward the museum, the
holy sanctuary of the Disciples. The roads leading to the site were
black with humanity as the faithful streamed to the building to witness
the Great One and hear his voice.
* * * * *