"No. He probably went after something that looked familiar to him. I
guess he can't get lost. The ship is obvious enough out there in the
center of the field. Shall we see what's down here?"
Dreyer pointed toward a track leading from the depths. "It's possible
this is an underground hangar for their vessels, perhaps an embarkation
station, from which the ships were towed to the takeoff area."
* * * * *
Underwood touched the controls of his scooter and led the way down the
decline, a scant few feet above its surface. In the field illuminated
by the spotlight of the scooter, he could see that the opening at the
bottom was close to a hundred and fifty feet in diameter.
The others followed cautiously down the long slope. At the bottom
they paused, glancing back, estimating their distance under the great
building above. Then Underwood led the way slowly forward into the
darkness of the ancient terminal.
Suddenly, in the glare of his light, distant metallic facets reflected
the gleam. He went forward swiftly, swinging the light about. Then he
realized they were already in the center of a double row of metallic
walls.
He focused the light more sharply.
"Ships!" he exclaimed. "You were right, Dreyer. They couldn't be
anything else."
The hangar was filled with row on row of the monstrous vessels,
towering ellipsoidal shapes whose crowns were lost in the gloom that
was more desolate than the absolute darkness. But the long shining
hulls looked as if ready for flight on an instant's notice.
The Earthmen dismounted from the scooters and headed for the nearest
ship, eyes searching for a port.
"These are wonderful finds from an archeological standpoint," said
Terry, "but they're not likely to contain our weapon because they seem
to be strictly commercial vessels rather than warships."
"We can't know," said Underwood. "If there was such a state of
Galactic unrest as the conflict between the Sirenians and the Dragbora
indicates, it might have been that all commercial ships were armed."
"Is that a hatchway?" said Phyfe, pointing suddenly upward.
Underwood stared in the direction of the beam from the archeologist's
flashlight. As he did so, a score of beams flashed upon them from all
parts of the terminal. Running figures could be seen dimly in the side
reflections.
The Earthmen whirled about in astonishment and sudden fear. They
started for the scooters on a run, then stopped short.
A voice rang harshly in their ears. "Halt and disarm in the name of
Demarzule, the Great One!"
The enormity of their blunder broke upon them simultaneously with
all its mind-crushing force. They had imagined every possible
contingency--except that of a garrison left upon the planet by the
Terrestrian fleet.
Once again they had underestimated Demarzule!
Underwood called suddenly into his microphone, turning up the power
to reach the other groups of explorers and those yet at the ship.
"Underwood calling. We're attacked by Demarzule's garrison. Defend--"
A laugh cut him off. "They would like to defend, no doubt, but the
rest of them are as helpless as you are. Do you suppose that you could
outwit the all-knowing mind of the Great One? He will be pleased to see
those who dared match wits with him. He will be even more pleased with
his servants for returning you."
Underwood could not see the speaker because the ring of lights blinded
them, but now one of the spacesuited figures stepped forward into the
light of the other lamps and gestured imperiously.
"Back to your ship!" he commanded. "We will return to Earth at once, as
soon as all of you are rounded up. Don't think of escape. We outnumber
you ten to one in this city, and those of us who stood guard in other
places will join us. Our fleet has been notified already of our
success and they will return immediately to escort us back."
There was no identifying the voice of the speaker as other than
Terrestrian, but there was something in it that none of their
semantically trained minds had ever heard before, something that
chilled and terrified the sensitive Dreyer.
Underwood sensed it, and his mind struggled to evaluate its
implications. The voice was that of one who has seen a great and
mighty destiny for himself and his race, all the more shining
because unrestricted by reality. And in that great and illusory
dream, all creatures other than himself and his chosen god sank into
insignificance.
* * * * *
It was the voice and the dream of a madman.
None of the others spoke, but they remained like diligent herdsmen as
the scientists were forced to walk back up the long incline, leaving
the scooters behind.
Out on the surface again, they saw that there were at least two
dozen of the Great One's Disciples, indistinguishable in space garb.
They had planned with obvious care, doubtless with maps provided by
Demarzule, placing units of their garrison at strategic points where
the scientists would be most likely to explore first.
Underwood hoped that perhaps some of the other groups had had better
luck than his, but it was unlikely, for the scientists had been totally
unprepared for attack. When the fleet had been seen retreating into
space, they had assumed that threat from that quarter had vanished with
it.
They marched slowly between the black and shining planes of the city's
walls toward the _Lavoisier_, and as they moved they saw other groups
of the scientists being led back from the opposite side of the landing
area.
The ship had already been taken over. That hadn't been difficult,
Underwood supposed. Any approaching figures would have been taken for
some of the scientists returning. Inside the ship, when the invaders
burst from the airlocks, weapons ready, the scientists would have had
little chance.
Underwood and his group were led into the lock and followed by four of
their captors with readied weapons. The scientists were ordered out
of the spacesuits. When the lock was opened, they were turned over
to others who were waiting for them inside the ship. Their original
captors returned to the outside.
Underwood's eyes searched the faces of those who had taken over the
ship, as if for some sign of the superiority by which the scientists
had been trapped, but there was nothing in those faces, only the light
of fanaticism shining dimly in the eyes.
Underwood felt sick as he watched Illia led away to be imprisoned in
her own stateroom. The men were herded together into another room, and
the sound of the locking door was like the final blow to all their
hopes.
* * * * *
For moments they looked at each other in silence. At last Terry grinned
bleakly. "It looks as if we missed the boat this time, doesn't it?
Even if we could find the way out of this rat trap, there are the
battleships of the fleet on their way here."
Sound came dimly from other parts of the ship, but the men could
identify none of them. They supposed that the other groups were being
rounded up and imprisoned. The whole thing had been worked out as if
with foreknowledge of their movements. Underwood wondered if Demarzule
didn't almost possess such powers.
He crossed to a chair in the corner of the room and sat down to try
to think. His thoughts only went around in circles that seemed to
grow smaller and smaller until he could concentrate on only the one
inescapable fact of their imprisonment.
He wondered what was passing through the minds of the others. Phyfe,
slumped upon a bunk, seemed to have been abandoned by the fierce,
bright spirit that had carried him along this far in the face of their
obstacles. Terry was squirming restlessly. Dreyer sat heavily in the
opposite corner from Underwood, a cloud from his cigar almost obscuring
him from view.
* * * * *
But there were deep lines in Dreyer's forehead and his face bore a
fierce desolation that Underwood had never seen there before--as though
all Dreyer's own personal gods had fled at once.
Underwood knew that Dreyer's mind must be wrestling more with the
problem of responsibility for their failure rather than with the
problem of escape. To the semanticist it would be important to
determine whether the men or their science had failed. He had probably
eliminated the problem of their escape by evaluating it as impossible.
While his thoughts revolved in endless procession, Underwood's senses
became more acutely aware of the scores of sounds carried by the
metallic walls and framework of the ship. He found himself straining to
identify and separate the sounds.
There was one that persisted above all the others, but it was not the
scrape of feet against steel floors, nor the bumping of closing and
opening ports. Rather, it was the sound of a voice, so distant as to be
scarcely audible.
It tapped at the threshold of his consciousness for minutes before he
admitted it was more than imagination. He turned his eyes toward one
after the other of his companions, wondering if they had heard it. Then
for the first time he distinguished words.
"Men of Earth," the faint voice called.
Underwood stood up suddenly. Terry jerked his head about. "You heard
it, too?" he asked.
Underwood nodded. "I could have sworn someone was in this room talking.
Listen, now--it's getting louder."
While they stared at each other questioningly, there came a sudden
wavering of light in the center of the room. They glanced at the
illumination panel, but nothing was wrong there. Still the distortion
of light in their midst took on vague shape. It wavered and writhed,
as if it were an image on a sheet being tossed in the wind. Then it
assumed questionable solidity.
It was human in form, taller than a man and copper-skinned.
"Jandro!" Underwood exclaimed.
The image faded and wavered again.
"How can it be?" murmured Phyfe.
The image was not a thing of reality, Underwood knew. It was no more
than conjuration within their own brains, yet the experience appeared
identical to all of them. That Jandro was in some strange manner
communicating with them, Underwood had no doubt, but the means were
utterly beyond comprehension.
"I do not know whether you can hear me or not," the voice of Jandro
spoke in their minds. "Listen to me if you can. I see and hear you, and
your actions indicate you are aware of my presence. I am communicating
by means of the _abasic_ senses. I know now that you neither possess
nor understand the _abasic_ organs. It had puzzled me that you did not
use them.
"What you are or who you are, I cannot guess. You are not men, of
course, for men cannot live without the _abasa_. Proof that you did not
possess it was provided when you allowed yourselves to be trapped and
captured. I could not understand it, for I perceived your enemies the
instant your ship touched the surface of the planet.
"Our ancient myths and legends speak of creatures such as you, animals
who could survive without the _abasa_, but never were they spoken of as
having the intelligence you display. Whatever you have done, you have
dispelled our one great legend--not only is metal not reserved for the
non-existent gods, it is also permitted to such creatures as you.
"Therefore, I will bargain with you. I will teach my people to know and
value the ancient science and the metal culture that they have been
denied. You will help me in exchange for my help in overpowering your
enemies. Are you willing to do that?"
"Where are you? How can you do this?" Underwood demanded.
* * * * *
"You can understand the thoughts that I speak, but I cannot understand
your language." Jandro said.
"There's only one answer," Dreyer said to his companions. "Is it
agreeable to all of us?"
The others nodded, and Dreyer spoke quickly in Jandro's tongue. "We
will do whatever is in our power."
"I feel that you are sufficiently intelligent to keep your word,"
said Jandro. "When one of your enemies next enters the room, I will
overpower him and you will be free to seize his weapon and to leave.
I will be with you later, though you do not see me. I will visit the
others now."
The image and the voice were suddenly gone, and the four men looked at
each other as if awakening from a dream that they had miraculously
shared.
"So the organs they graft in give them telepathic powers," said Terry.
"It's funny he didn't get wise to us from the very first when we used
spoken language all the time. Or was he reading our minds?"
"No, he wasn't, and can't," said Phyfe. "Recall his words that he
had to have us speak in his own language in order for him to receive
communication from us here. It would suggest that one faculty was
used in impressing our minds with his message, and another was used
in detecting our speech. As for our using spoken language at first,
he probably allowed for it because we were strangers and gave us the
prerogative of selecting our own medium of communication. Do you agree,
Dreyer?"
* * * * *
The semanticist nodded. "I think we have witnessed at least two
separate functions of the organs grafted into Jandro. And I would
suggest that we are about to witness still another if he is able to
keep his promise of overpowering the next Disciple to enter our room.
Also, do not forget the semantic implications of the _abasa_ to Jandro.
He is a man and we are lower animals to his way of thinking. It may not
ever be possible to alter that view. We should act accordingly."
There was a moment of silence, then they grew tense with expectancy
as the sound of the door lock clicked in the silence and one of the
Disciples entered the room.
He stood in the doorway surveying them, a middle-aged man, erect of
bearing, obviously a professional militarist. He said stiffly, "In the
name of the Great One you are ordered to appear before the Commander
for questioning. You will come at--."
A sudden glassy stare crept into his eyes, and a look of intolerable
agony flashed across his face. His stiffened, arrogant form stood in
utter lifelessness. Then, slowly, it crashed to the floor.
_CHAPTER FOURTEEN_
Underwood swept up the gun that fell from the loosened fingers before
it hit the floor. He jerked it into firing position and approached the
open iris of the doorway cautiously. The corridor was clear for the
moment.
"You and Dreyer remain here," he said to Phyfe. "Terry and I will try
to make it to the control room or wherever this so-called Commander is
keeping headquarters. If we can capture him and gain control of the
ship, you should hear from us within an hour. If not, you'll know we
have failed, and then it will be up to you to make a try."
The older men nodded. Silently, he and Terry slipped through the
doorway.
The rest of the iris doors on the corridor were all closed. Underwood
pressed the release lock on the one adjacent to his own recent prison.
The opening flared wide, revealing Roberts, one of the surgeons, and
the three men who had formed his party.
"Underwood!" Roberts exclaimed. "What happened?"
Underwood cautioned him to quiet and explained briefly. "Locate some
weapons if you can. There should be some in the corridor lockers. Make
your way down, and release them. Try to hold the locks against the
entry of any more of the Disciples until we can gain control inside the
ship. We have no idea how many are here."
The men nodded, exuberant at the opportunity for action against the
enemy. There should be weapons in a corridor compartment only a
short distance toward the rear, Underwood knew. Ahead, there was an
additional compartment from which he and Terry could reinforce their
own armament.
The next room they tried was empty. They thought at first that the one
adjacent to it was also empty, but as they started to move away, Terry
exclaimed, "Look! There on the floor!"
One of their men was lying sprawled, the back of his shirt covered with
blood and burned tissue.
Underwood and Terry stepped in and shut the iris door. The man looked
up and smiled feebly as they looked down at him.
"Hi, Doc," he said.
It was Armstrong, one of the ship's engineers.
"What happened?" asked Terry. "Did you try to buck them?"
The engineer answered painfully. "No. It was a sort of object lesson.
I think. The Commander--Rennies, they call him--gave me his personal
attention. But have you got the ship back?"
Underwood shook his head. "We've just broken out and managed to free a
few of the others. Can you hang on a while until we can get help?"
"Yeah, sure. Don't worry about me."
* * * * *
"Do you know how many of them there are aboard?"
"About twenty took us over in the beginning. We were puzzled when we
thought so many of you were coming back at once. Sessions and Treadwell
down in the engine room were killed outright and a couple more of the
boys pretty badly shot up when they tried to resist. They're the only
ones I know of, besides me. Rennies and his gang took up headquarters
in the control room the last I heard. That's about all the dope I can
give you."
"It helps," said Underwood. "We can take care of twenty of them, if we
can get organized. Take it easy, old man, and we'll be back with help."
The engineer smiled and his eyes closed.
Underwood and Terry hurried out, closing the iris door behind them.
They came to the storage closets and found to their relief that the
invaders had not removed the weapons stored there. Underwood selected
another gun; Terry took a pair.
"I wish we'd hear again from Jandro," said Terry.
"He may be helping the group down at the locks. We're on our own here,
it appears."
They came to the end of the corridor and the passage split, forming a
U around the control room because the navigational machinery had to be
located on the axis of the ship.
"Let's separate," Underwood said. "It'll give us a chance to attack
from two directions. They may not have a guard that's too alert, since
we couldn't be expected to need much guarding."
"Good idea," said Terry. He checked his watch with Underwood's. "Begin
firing in exactly sixty seconds!"
They separated and went swiftly in opposite directions.
As Underwood came to the abrupt turn that would put him in a direct
line with the door to the control room, he halted and listened for
sounds from beyond. Footsteps were moving carelessly and hurriedly.
Only one person, Underwood thought; therefore, it must be one of the
Disciples. There was the unlikely possibility that one of his own men
had escaped independently and had already been to the control room.
He'd have to risk that.
He stepped around the corner and fired.
The shot caught the man--a Disciple, luckily--full in the chest. An
instant's surprised agony did not prevent a wild cry from issuing from
his throat. Underwood leaped over the fallen body before the Disciple
ceased struggling.
From inside the control room there were sudden confused shouts and
orders. Underwood saw two figures running toward the iris. He fired
twice, then dropped to the floor. The first man collapsed in the path
of the second, but the latter was only slightly wounded. He raised his
weapon toward Underwood even as he fell.
* * * * *
From his prone position, Underwood fired again. The blast missed and
reddened the metal of the far wall of the room for a moment.
Underwood did not dare move. He could find little shelter in the small
corner where the circled doorway did not fully meet the rectangular
corridor, but there was no other to be had.
Shots from within the control room were coming close now. He could
feel the heat they generated in the metal floor. While he tried to
edge closer into the corner, somebody else came into his view. It was
an impressive, militaristic figure, undoubtedly Commander Rennies,
for his harsh, arrogant voice was ordering one of the men to call for
assistance from the other end of the ship.
Then, suddenly, the Commander stiffened. Even Underwood could glimpse
the stare that glazed his eyes like polished glass. Jandro?
The others in the room saw it also, and heard the crash as the heavy
body fell to the floor.
The disaster to the Disciples disrupted their attack for an instant. It
was long enough for Underwood to get his gun up and fire straight at
his opponent. The man started and whirled with a look of surprise on
his face for an instant before he died.
And then another shot came from the opposite side of the room and
caught one of the remaining defenders unaware. Terry was there at last!
* * * * *
Underwood breathed heavily in relief. He had been afraid Terry had been
caught. Apparently the archeologist had met opposition of his own and
had eventually succeeded in overcoming it.
Terry and Underwood rushed the control room simultaneously. Only a
single member of the Disciples was able to offer resistance. Beams
from the two guns crossed the room and caught him in a lethal blaze.
Cautiously, Underwood advanced not quite inside the doorway.
"Terry, you there?" he called.
"Check. I ran into one of them in the corridor."
"Keep out of the way. I'm going to come in blasting in your direction
in case any more of these fanatics are hiding."
"Right. If I don't get your okay in five or so, I'll come in the same
way."
Underwood set the beam to a low but deadly intensity and fanned it up
and down, bringing the plane of motion ever nearer the wall that could
be hiding an attacker. Without exposing himself, he extended his hand
and brought the gun about until he knew the room was cleared or that
any one hiding there had been hit.
He entered then and called to Terry. The redhead entered grinning, but
a smear of blood covered his left arm from the shoulder down.
"Terry! You're hurt!"
"I didn't get him good enough with my first shot. I'll be all right.
What do we do now?"
"We can clear the ship by throwing some chloryl triptanate into the
air system. But even after that, we can't even go back to the moon to
return Jandro to his own people--that would bring the whole fleet down
on them."
"We'll figure something out," said Terry optimistically. "We didn't
expect to get this far. I wonder what happened to that guy Jandro. Have
you found out where he actually is yet?"
"No. He apparently killed Rennies, but I've heard nothing from him."
"I'll get the triptanate, and some mesarpin for antidote. If I'm not
back in half an hour, it'll be your baby."
"You guard here," said Underwood, "You'd better take it easy with that
arm of yours."
"You're more important around here than I am. I'll be back in five
minutes." Terry disappeared in the direction of surgery.
Underwood sat down wearily--and suddenly became aware of the fixed dead
stare of the eyes of Commander Rennies, who lay on the floor.
His name had been vaguely familiar to Underwood and now he knew
why. Rennies had attained considerable renown in the interstellar
military field. He had been an able leader, highly trained, widely
read, intelligent, and a clever tactician--yet his mind had been as
vulnerable to Demarzule as the most illiterate of the Disciples.
Then Underwood became aware of a slow stirring upon the floor. The last
Disciple he had shot was not dead. The lips twisted in a snarl of hate.
"Fools!" The Disciple spat out. Blood poured from between his lips.
"Do you suppose you can block the Great One? The human race waited ten
thousand years for this savior. Man shall become the greatest in all
the Universe with him as leader. Pay homage to the Great One as all the
Galaxies shall pay homage to us!"