"We can hit them wherever they try to hide," said Underwood, "No matter
where Demarzule tries to flee, I'll find him. There's no place in the
Universe he can hide from me!"
_CHAPTER SEVENTEEN_
Underwood's physical body recovered slowly from the severe shock of
the operation. He was immune to the pain of it, however, for having
the _abasic_ senses was like possessing another body. He could close
all the normal channels of perception and exist with his consciousness
operating only through the _abasic_ senses.
While the fleet sped about the planet on its path of useless
destruction, Underwood spent his hours practising the use of his new
powers.
Gradually, he obtained an understanding of their properties and some
of their functions. The _tri-abasa_ was the sensory organ, located
at the base of his brain, which could pick up distant, focusable
sensations which any of his normal five senses could detect. They were
controllable in their subjective effects, however, as he had found when
going beyond the limits of the ship. Though he had been unaware of the
interstellar cold, it had no subjective effect upon his body or his
sensory apparatus.
The _dor-abasa_ was the organ of communication, but it worked in
combination with the _tri-abasa_ in order to transmit and receive
sensory effects. So it was that the two of them in combination could
transmit not only ordinary communication, but could convey the actual
sensations of heat, cold, light, sound.
And these same two organs were capable of dispensing swift and silent
death.
How this happened was the greatest mystery Underwood had to solve.
He experimented by hurling the powers upon an artificial nervous
system rigged up from a network of wires. A strong electric field was
definitely measured within the wires, but it had properties that were
not within the physicists' prior experience. Regardless, Underwood
continued with his practising and found that he could increase
the strength of that field more each time. If necessary, a full
understanding of how it destroyed nerve tissue could wait until they
reach their objectives upon Earth.
The third organ, the _seaa-abasa_, was the strangest of all.
Interconnected intimately with the other two through nerve channels,
it nevertheless had no obvious functions. Jandro had referred to it as
the receptacle of life. It appeared to be the belief of the Dragbora
that everything representing the individual could be drawn into the
seaa-abasa when death approached.
Eons ago, the art of artificially reconstructing new bodies into which
the organ could be placed, a process constituting literal resurrection,
had been lost, but the Dragbora lived in hope of recovering the
forgotten knowledge. This was their explanation of the preservation of
the _seaa-abasa_, each family possessing the vast collection of its
ancestral organs back to the time of the expulsion from their parent
world.
What basis in fact there was to this theory, the scientists did not
know. Apparently, such resurrection had never been accomplished, yet
with each death, the _seaa-abasa_ was religiously removed and preserved.
* * * * *
Underwood felt like some ancient gladiator training for an arena
battle, but never had any gladiator fought for such a prize. No
one knew better than he that at the moment he faced Demarzule and
challenged the Sirenian, he might face equal and perhaps superior
powers of destruction, for Demarzule was old in experience.
There was a defense against it, and to this Underwood turned his
attention, for it was difficult in function. The _dor-abasa_ had
the power to absorb and store the destructive energies. Underwood
discovered it almost by accident when Mason's technicians set up
equipment for duplicating the destructive force as nearly as possible.
It was weak and wholly ineffective, but it acted upon the _dor-abasa_,
and the organ absorbed it involuntarily.
He was absolutely confident that they had succeeded in finding the
great weapon for which they had come. The ancient Dragboran-Sirenian
culture had obviously possessed the force shell as a protection.
Toshmere's words made that plain, but they had misunderstood the
implications when he had said, "They have found a way through the
barrier. Our men are falling one by one."
* * * * *
Trained in physical ways of thinking, they had overlooked any such
possibility as the superior powers of the Dragboran _abasa_.
There was one other thing that worried Underwood, however, and that
was the possibility of producing the effects of the _abasic_ weapon by
electronic means. Though the scientists were failing almost completely
in their attempts to do that, he wondered if perhaps the Terrestrians
under Demarzule might not succeed.
In the scientists' favor, however, was the fact that though he
possessed a vast reservoir of scientific knowledge, Demarzule was still
only the dictator, the politician. He was no scientist.
On the third day following the operation, Underwood was able to be
up about the ship for a few moments, though by means of the _abasic_
senses he had been actively supervising the work in the laboratory
during the entire time.
He felt his powers growing almost hourly, and the vista of the new
world of physical and mental powers into which he was coming was almost
overwhelming. He sensed other new and untried properties of the organs,
which he dared not experiment with yet. There would be time enough when
they reached Earth.
An accurate watch had been kept on the battle fleet from Earth. Its
wanton firing of the ancient cities was completed by the time Underwood
was able to rise physically from his bed. The observer reported
the ships were turning about and returning in the direction of the
_Lavoisier_.
"We'd better get into space," said Underwood. "There's no reason for
staying here longer, and I don't want them to burn away all our probes
again if we can help it. They may try to send a surrender demand or
something of the sort, but let's be in space where we can maneuver when
they do it."
The _Lavoisier_ lifted from the surface of the planet, its course set
for Earth, more than ninety million light years away.
The force shell about it glistened in space like a new star, and
through the probes the observers aboard saw the fleet swiftly shift its
course in pursuit.
Underwood left the ship and let his senses rove through the space
about the vessel. He remained like some omnipotent observer in space,
while the shining bubble sped through the heavens. Behind it came the
twenty mighty battleships, their acceleration high enough to overtake
the _Lavoisier_. Impulsively, Underwood drifted toward the nearest and
entered through the hull.
It was the giant flagship, _Creagor_. The Disciples who formed the
fighting forces were like men reborn. There was none of the blasé,
disillusioned attitude that had been prevalent upon Earth before the
coming of Demarzule. Instead, there was a zealous, inspired attitude
that frightened Underwood. It was a fanatic, desperate, unhealthy thing.
He tried to picture the nations of the Earth filled with such men
driven by the same kind of unholy inspiration. It sickened him, for
even if Demarzule were destroyed, the Earth would be no place where a
sane man could find peace for decades to come. In death, Demarzule
might become a martyr and live more strongly than ever in the minds of
his followers.
* * * * *
As Underwood moved so strangely among his enemies, he heard occasional
remarks concerning the _Lavoisier_ and its scientists. Blasphemer and
infidel were the mildest terms applied to them.
He came to the control room, where the Admiral was in conference with
the Captain of the flagship.
"We have our orders, Captain Montrose," the Admiral was saying.
"Destruction of the ship and all its occupants is to be complete."
"That supersedes the command to take prisoners, then?"
The Admiral nodded. "Orders will be dispatched to all vessels at once.
We will make a combined attack with the new force shell disruptor."
Underwood froze at the words. Had Demarzule brought back with him some
terrible means of penetrating the force shell and rendering it useless?
That was absolutely the only defense the _Lavoisier_ had. Her own Atom
Stream projectors would be ineffective against the twenty encircling
ships.
Underwood heard the orders given. Throughout the flagship an electric
tension filled the air. It was the first time the weapon had been tried
against an enemy, Underwood supposed. The crewmen were eager with a
sickening lust to kill.
Underwood went swiftly through the ship, searching to locate the
machines that would be turned upon the helpless laboratory ship. He
still didn't quite believe that anything could break down the force
shell. But when he saw the weapons, he knew that defeat had come for a
civilization which had learned to depend upon the force shell for its
protection.
* * * * *
He watched the crewmen at the complicated boards that controlled the
input of power and the focusing of the radiators upon the distant
target.
Underwood sped away to the distant _Lavoisier_ to see what effect the
onslaught was having. The force shell about the ship glowed with the
faint, pinkish aura of the twenty beams that converged upon it.
As he came up there was no apparent effect, but all at once the
glistening shell grew red in a spot as the force field weakened.
Then Underwood comprehended the means by which the disruptor worked.
It did not penetrate the shell. That was an impossibility. But it
unbalanced the forces that held the field in a shell and caused it
to rotate. This, in turn, created a tremendous flow of energy through
the generators aboard the _Lavoisier_ and shortly would burn them out,
leaving the ship the defenseless prey of the Atom Streams.
There was no time to enter the _Lavoisier_ to warn them. Underwood
returned with bodiless velocity to the _Creagor_.
There in the depths of the ship he found the Chief Operator who was
directing those beams toward the _Lavoisier_. With all the power of his
_abasic_ organs, he hurled a devastating wave of energy into the man's
nerve channels.
The result was shocking to one unaccustomed to killing. The man jerked
upright before his panel, staggered uncertainly, and fell across the
maze of switches.
There was no time for reaction within Underwood at his merciless first
slaying. The complex machinery of the disruptor sputtered to a halt
amid the clatter of relays.
Underwood moved into the next sector of the ship where the powerful
Atom Stream projectors awaited their prey. He carefully extended the
powers of the _dor-abasa_. It was almost as if he could feel his way
along the nerve channels of the operator's mind into the depths of the
brain. There he sent forth a sudden, wild command.
The operator unquestioningly spun the wheels that shifted the
radiators. They came to rest upon the nearest ship of the fleet.
"Fire!" Underwood commanded.
The operator's fingers closed upon the switches. The Atom Stream
lashed into space, tore open the vitals of the sister ship and flung
the fragments out into space. Some crashed into other ships, battering
them, throwing them off course.
For a moment after the catastrophe, the commanders of the fleet were
stunned to inactivity, while confusion swept the ranks. The hysterical
cries of the operator who had pulled the switches filled the room.
"I didn't do it!" he screamed. "Something made me--"
Some of the ships were still attacking the _Lavoisier_. Underwood
didn't know how long they could hold out. He sped to the nearest ship
where there was milder but no less disrupting confusion as news of the
unexplained disaster filtered down to the lowest astro-man.
Underwood sought out the fire control chamber. He fingered his way
along the nerve channels of the operator and swung the projectors
around. This time the target was the mighty flagship.
The operator gasped with horror as the titanic hull came into view in
his sights, yet with unerring accuracy his hands moved the radiators to
center exactly on the target.
His fingers pressed the switches.
* * * * *
Soundlessly, the blossom of flame sprang into being where once had
been the leviathan of space. Viewplates throughout the fleet suddenly
blacked out in protection against that terrible overload. When they
came on again, they showed the drifting, helpless hulk of the rear
third of the ship.
The immediate objective had been accomplished. The disruptor beams
vanished as the eighteen ships converged upon the black hulks to take
off any possible survivors.
Underwood seized the moment and diffused his powers until he
encompassed the fleet. He spoke and his voice found hearing in every
man of those mighty ships.
"Men of Earth! You have sworn allegiance to Demarzule, the Sirenian,
because of his might. Now you will swear allegiance to might that is
great enough to wipe Demarzule from the face of civilization. I have
killed your fellows right in your midst, and destroyed two of your
mightiest ships--yet none of you have seen me. You know not how I come
into your midst, nor how it is that every man of every ship can hear
my voice at once.
"You have betrayed your kind to an alien who has destroyed worlds and
ruined Galaxies. You are guilty of the highest treason to mankind. What
is there that you can do to wipe out such infamy?
"You can join the forces that will wipe out the monster Demarzule! You
can accept the leadership of greater might--or be destroyed. Choose!"
* * * * *
There was a moment of stunned quiet within the ships, then a bedlam
that would not die for many minutes.
Underwood withdrew from the fleet and returned to the control room of
the _Lavoisier_. There he found a chaos of despair. Mason had properly
diagnosed the weapons the fleet had turned upon the ship.
Though his physical self lay in the sick bay yet, the members of the
crew were becoming accustomed to his unexpected voice in their minds.
Quickly he told them what he had done. When he finished, he said, "What
damage did you suffer, if any, Mason?"
"Only two very doubtful generators left. We couldn't stand another
blast like that. Where did they get such machines?"
"I don't know. It's possibly something Toshmere was on the edge of
developing. Perhaps some of our own men have worked it out with clues
given by Demarzule. There's no telling. The important thing now is that
we've got a bear by the tail. For a moment we have the upper hand, but
I'm not sure just what will happen when they pull themselves together
again. If they don't accept my ultimatum, we may be in a spot."
"And if they do--what are we going to do with a whole fleet of fanatics
and dupes?"
"We'll need every ally that we can get now. Undoubtedly word was
flashed back to Earth of this disaster before I talked to them.
Demarzule knows we're coming and is aware of the power I have. He'll
undoubtedly send powerful interceptors to wipe us out. If we can gain
control of these ships, we can throw them against his interceptors, and
maybe sneak through the Terrestrian defenses. It doesn't matter what
happens to every one of us--just so I can get close enough to Demarzule
to tangle with him."
At that moment, Captain Dawson approached Mason. "Message from the
fleet. They offer to surrender unconditionally."
_CHAPTER EIGHTEEN_
Auxiliary engines were removed from the hulk of the destroyed flagship.
Installed in the _Lavoisier_, they could easily bring her speed up to
that of the fastest ship in the fleet.
So with the small laboratory ship, _Lavoisier_, as flagship, the
ravaged and reorganized fleet turned once again toward Earth. As the
long days in space passed while they sped Earthward at incredible
velocities, the physicists and engineers turned the _Lavoisier_ into a
deadly warship, the equal of any in their fleet. New and more powerful
Atom Stream projectors were installed, and massive disruptor units were
built into previous areas of more peaceful uses.
And while they hurled through the vault of space, Underwood moved from
ship to ship by means of his _abasic_ senses, testing, examining and
filtering out the men of the battle crews.
If he could have afforded pity, all he possessed would have been
expended upon them, for they were a pitiable lot. He knew that their
standards of values had been scattered again by their defeat at
his hands. If their belief in the invincibility of Demarzule, and
themselves because they were the Disciples of Demarzule, had not
been so great, their defeat would have been less easy. Underwood was
thankful for the conceit that rendered them vulnerable when defeat hove
in sight.
Their allegiance to him was no stable thing, he knew. But most of them
were willing to throw their loyalties with the scientists because they
hungered for leadership with a neurotic longing, and the power that
could silently and unseen wipe out two of the Great One's warships was
surely a power to command their respect. So they reasoned in their
bewildered minds.
Underwood removed from the key places those who were doubtful and
rebellious, and he spoke to them daily throughout the long voyage,
sometimes reasoning, sometimes commanding, but always with a display
of power that they had to respect. In the end he felt he had a set of
crews as trustworthy as Earthmen could be made in this culture of doubt
and universal disregard of trust and honesty.
He practised constantly in perfecting the powers of the _abasa_, and
as his facility grew, so did his regard for the little offshoot of
Dragboran culture that had flourished upon the barren little moon.
Such powers as he possessed would have meant suicide to his own race.
Sometimes he wondered if he could himself endure their temptations
long enough to accomplish his goal. Certainly, with that completed, he
would have the organs removed. Their call to power, wealth, and the
misappropriation were almost more than any human mind in this
stage of evolution could endure.
* * * * *
Almost in Earth's own front yard, at the orbit of Mars, the first
signs of the coming struggle appeared. The lookout called his warning.
A score of fast interceptors were leaving Earth, headed in their
direction.
Underwood wished that he'd paid more attention to the military arts. He
dared trust none of the warriors who were his by conquest, for he could
not appear to be less than they in any respect. But neither he nor any
of the other scientists were competent to lead a complex military unit,
such as his fleet represented, into the vortex of battle.
Yet he must do what had to be done. He formed the fleet into a massive
tactical cylinder with the _Lavoisier_ at the center and the remainder
of the ships at the periphery. There would be no fancy maneuvering,
only blunt, smashing force, every erg of it that could be generated
within the hulls of those warships.
The entropy dissipators were already at work absorbing a fraction of
the momentum that had carried the fleet across the reaches of space,
but as it drove into the heart of the Solar System, its velocity was
still immeasurable by Solarian standards.
The interceptors were powerless to match that speed in so short a time,
but one wave approached on a near collision course, with the fury of
all its disruptors and Atom Streams bearing upon the fleet.
The effect was negligible, however, as the fleet smashed by, its own
weapons flaming.
But that passage meant nothing. If the _Lavoisier_ were to attempt
a landing, it couldn't continue to hurl by at such velocities, for
already it was passing Earth.
* * * * *
Underwood, though, was satisfied as he opened his physical eyes in the
control room and abandoned the _abasic_ senses for a return to his
normal self.
"I'm sure my useful range with these powers is at least eighty thousand
miles. Jandro ought to have been able to examine the Dragboran planet
by means of the _abasa_, but maybe he didn't realize it. I know that
my own range is increasing constantly."
"What do you intend to do?" asked Terry. "Are you going to try a
landing or attack Demarzule without going down?"
"I believe we'll be safer to remain in space. If we can maneuver into
an orbit of fifty thousand miles or so from Earth, and can hold off
the attacks long enough for me to find Demarzule, that ought to be our
greatest chance of success. If we landed we'd be sitting ducks."
There was general agreement with Underwood's estimate, though no one
aboard the ship felt very much confidence in their ability to hold off
the attacks they knew were coming. They kept reminding themselves that
it was not important to save themselves or their ships. What mattered
to give Underwood an adequate opportunity to hurl the powers of the
_abasic_ weapons at Demarzule. After that, chance would have to take
care of the rest.
The hurtling projectile turned long after it had passed Earth. The
entropy dissipators absorbed the flaming energy of the ships' flight
and dispersed it into space to recreate the infinitesimal particles
that had been broken down to obtain that energy.
So, as the fleet braked its momentum and turned into an
ever-tightening spiral, the interceptors swept down once more.
The thundering mass that was the fleet held its course now. Torrents
of energy, slashed from the hearts of incalculable numbers of atoms,
washed into space from the throats of the great radiators aboard the
battleships. Three of the interceptors went down in that barrage before
their own force shields went up.
It became a fantastic battle between almost irresistible forces. Both
the Atom Stream and the disruptor beams could be fired only through a
hiatus in the force shell, but such an opening was itself vulnerable
to the enemy fire of Atom Streams. Therefore, the technique of warfare
between similarly armed forces consisted of rapidly shifting the attack
from radiator to radiator in a given vessel, so that no single opening
would exist long enough for the enemy to concentrate fire upon that
spot.
The interceptors were too small to mount the equipment for such defense
tactics. Their only value lay in maneuverability. Slashing across the
lanes of the battleships, their beams could cross the radiator pattern
in unpredictable courses. The laws of chance were sometimes with them
and their Atom Streams struck an opening directly. Regardless of the
speed of closing the hiatus, such a coincidence was sufficient to
destroy the ship. And so Underwood and his companions, watching, saw
one of their great battleships explode in a nova of atomic fire as such
a hit was scored upon it.
* * * * *
The interceptor itself was fired an instant later by the concentrated
fire of the two adjacent battleships, but its loss was negligible to
the enemy. The interceptors were expendable, expendable for now another
score were seen leaving the rim of Earth and taking up the pursuit of
the fleet.
But it was not their approach that caused the hearts of the men aboard
the _Lavoisier_ to quail. Behind them, slowly and ponderously, rose a
terrible fleet of fifty dreadnaughts with vast firepower.
"What's our orbital radius at present?" Underwood demanded abruptly of
the navigator.
"Sixty thousand."
"Take it, Mason," Underwood said. "I'm going down."
The impact of that moment hit them all, though they had been trying to
anticipate it since they had first known that it would come. It was
not their regard and friendship for Underwood, who might presently die
before their eyes. It was not their own almost extinction before the
fire of the invincible fleet rising to do battle.
It was that this moment would decide the course of man's history.
Everything depended upon a single strange weapon snatched from the
hands of a forgotten people in a little eddy of civilization, whose
sole purpose in existence might have been to carry this weapon through
time to this moment.
And only one of them could wield that weapon, while the others stood
by, neither knowing the progress of that conflict nor able to assist.
* * * * *
Underwood sat down in the deep chair that would hold his body restfully
while his _abasic_ senses swept Earthward to envelop and crush the
anachronism that he had turned upon civilization.
It was more than just, more than ironic, he thought. It was his high
privilege to wipe out some of the guilt that he knew he could never
smother or rationalize out of his mind--the guilt of having been the
one to bring Demarzule back to life.
Of them all in that control room, only Illia uttered a sound, and hers
was a half audible cry choked back before it was fully spoken.
He lay apparently relaxed with eyes closed in the huge chair in the
control room of the _Lavoisier_, but the essence, the force that was
Delmar Underwood, was sixty thousand miles away, hovering over the
force shell dome that hid the Carlson Museum.
Simultaneously with Illia's cry there came a smashing alarm that rang
through the room with its insistent, murderous message.
"We're hit! Number three and four shell generators have gone out!"
As Underwood held to the point of view of the advancing wave-front of
perception, he had the sensation of diving headlong toward the throng
that was gathering as if by magic about the white, shining columns
of the building. As if knowing of the battle that was to be fought
between the titans, the waiting thousands had gathered when the force
shell went over the Carlson and the battle fleets took to space. They
watched, waiting for the unknown, the unexpected, somehow sensing their
destiny was being decided.
Sight of the milling thousands was lost to Underwood as he plunged deep
below the protecting shell over the building as if it did not exist.
The lightlessness inside the shell was broken by the blaze of lights
that showered their radiance everywhere upon the grounds and museum
that had become a monstrous palace.
Waiting, hesitant guards and servants moved about the grounds,
gathering in knots to ask one another what the appearance of the
battleships and the sudden use of the shell meant. It was inconceivable
that anyone should be challenging the Great One, but the very
improbability of it filled them with fearful dismay.
Underwood entered the building. The vast assemblage of instruments and
machines that had filled the main hall when he last saw it was gone
now, replaced with rich paintings and fabulous tapestries had been
ransacked from the treasuries of the Earth.
There was no one in sight. Underwood continued on until he came to the
series of large exhibition rooms toward the rear. Here, apparently,
were set up administrative offices to maintain whatever personal
contact was necessary between Demarzule and the Disciples he ruled.
* * * * *
Then Underwood came to the central room at the rear of the center
section of the building. Demarzule was there.
It was with an involuntary shock that Underwood saw again the alien
creature he had restored to life. As he sat in the throne-like chair
in the center of one wall of the room, the Great One seemed like some
sculpture of an ancient god of evil executed in weathered bronze. Only
the startling white of his eyes gave evidence of life in that enormous
bulk.
Underwood hadn't expected the twenty Earthmen who sat near Demarzule,
forming a semi-circle with the Great One in the center, as if in
council. They sat in brooding silence. Not a word seemed to be passing
between them, and Underwood watched in wonderment.
Then, slowly, Demarzule stirred. His white staring eyes moved, as
though searching the room. His words came to Underwood.
"So you have come at last," he said. "You challenge Demarzule the Great
One with your feeble powers. I know you, Delmar Underwood. They tell
me it was you who found and restored me. I owe you much, and I would
have offered you a high place in my realm which shall encompass the
Universe. Yet you set yourself against me.
"I am merciful. You may still have your place if you choose. I need one
such as you, just as I needed the brain and hands of Toshmere, who was
so foolish as to think he could be the one to conquer the eons in my
place. You know of his fate, I am sure."
Demarzule's speech was a paralyzing shock. Underwood had made no
revelation of himself, yet the alien had detected his presence. Through
the _abasa_, he sensed the might and power of Demarzule, the full
potentialities that lay in the three organs that the ancient race had
developed, potentialities that he had scarcely touched in the short
weeks of experimentation.
It made him sick for an instant with the fear of almost certain defeat.
Then he struck, furiously, and with all the power that was in him.
Never before had he hurled such a bolt of devastation. With
satisfaction he sensed Demarzule's powers sway and wither before its
blast, but the Great One absorbed it and recovered after an instant.
* * * * *
"You are a worthy opponent," said Demarzule. "You have accomplished
much in so short a time, but not enough, I fear. Once more I extend my
offer to join me. As my lieutenant, you might become governor of many
Galaxies."
Underwood remained silent, conserving his forces for another blast
which Demarzule could surely not endure. He hurled it and felt the
energies flowing from him in a life-destroying stream. Demarzule's
bronze face was only smiling sardonically as he met that attack--and
absorbed it.
"When you have exhausted yourself thoroughly," he said, "I shall
demonstrate my own powers--but slowly, so that death will not be too
quick for you."
The use of such waves of force was exhausting to Underwood, but he knew
that Demarzule's absorptive organ should soon reach maximum capacity,
if it were not allowed to drain away in the meantime.
A third time he blasted. Then sudden, terrible realization came that
Demarzule was not absorbing the energy. It was being diverted, drawn
aside before it even approached the Sirenian.
In something approaching panic, Underwood directed his senses to locate
the source of the diversion, and found it in the twenty Earthmen
sitting motionlessly about Demarzule.
Demarzule seemed to know the instant that Underwood became aware of
the fact. "Yes," he said, "we have duplicated the _abasa_. Cancer is
plentiful among you. In five thousand more years you would have stopped
fighting it and learned how to use it. There are twenty of us. You
would not have come had you known you would have that many to fight
singlehanded, would you? Now it is too late!"
With that word, a wave, of paralyzing, destroying force swept over
Underwood. How it was affecting him, what senses it was attacking, he
did not know. He only knew that a flaming agony was burning out life,
as if reluctant to give him a speedy, merciful death.
He must withdraw to the ship to recover his forces. He could never
withstand the attack of twenty-one _abasas_.
Underwood relaxed and threw his powers back toward the ship--and failed!
Abruptly, the metallic glint of Demarzule's lips parted in a roar of
laughter without merriment, but of triumph.
"No, my brave Earthling, you cannot retreat. You did not know that.
For those who would challenge the Great One there is no retreat. Your
decision is made, and you will fail and you will die--but only when I
wish, and your fellow Earthmen will find amusement in toying with you
as a cat with a mouse before I give the final blow that will destroy
your rash, impatient ego."
The flaming fire of Demarzule's attack continued while Underwood fought
savagely and vainly to retreat. How was he being held there against his
efforts to retreat? He did not know that the _abasa_ held such powers
and he would not have known how to exert them himself if he had been
aware of them.
He gave up and turned back, letting the power flow into the absorptive
cells of the _dor-abasa_, but it could not be for long, for the organ
would disrupt under such stress.
Then, as if in keeping with his promise to prolong the agony, the
attack ceased, and Demarzule allowed him to rest.
"You were brash, were you not?" he taunted. "How could you dare come
against the mightiest power of the Universe, the greatest mind ever
created, and attack with your puny powers? You blaspheme the Great One
by your presumption!"
"Once, long ago," said Underwood, "the Sirenian forces were defeated by
the Dragbora. Again it is the Dragbora you face, Demarzule. Remember
that, and defend yourself!"
* * * * *
Underwood was startled. Incredibly, it seemed that he had not spoken
those words, but rather that the dead Jandro was with him, silently
backing him, teaching, advising--.
He lashed out, but not at Demarzule. He struck swiftly at the nearest
Earthman. Almost instantly, the unfortunate shuddered and fell to the
floor, dead. In quick succession Underwood struck at the nerve cells of
the next five and they died without sound.
In snarling fury and retaliation, Demarzule retaliated. Underwood
absorbed the blow--and incredibly hurled it back.
It was as if he had suddenly become aware of techniques that he had
never dreamed of. He had not known it was possible to absorb the
nerve-destroying force with his own _dor-abasa_ and whip it back upon
the attacker, like a ball caught and thrown.
It hardly seemed as if he were acting through his own volition, yet he
acted. He felt the surprise of Demarzule, and in that moment he knew
the secret. The Earthmen apparently possessed only a single primitive
organ, hardly identifiable as one of the _abasa_, for they had the
capacity for defense, but not for attack. Four more of them toppled,
and then Underwood was forced to face the attack of Demarzule again.
Something like terror had entered the mind of the alien now. Underwood
sensed the thoughts of possible defeat that flooded Demarzule's mind.
* * * * *
"Remember that day on _Vorga_?" Underwood asked. "Remember how the
Dragboran powers pierced the great force shell you flung about the
planet? Remember how your men fell one by one, and their weapons
went cold and the force shell dropped for lack of control? Remember,
Demarzule, it was the Dragbora you fought that day, and it is the
Dragbora you fight now. I have not come to challenge as a puny
Earthman. I come as a Dragboran--to complete the unfinished task of my
ancestors!"
The Sirenian was silent and new confidence filled Underwood. He felt
that he was not fighting alone, that all of the ancient Dragboran
civilization was behind him, battling its age-old enemies to
extinction. He felt as if Jandro himself were there.
The energy he absorbed from Demarzule he turned upon the cohorts, who
sat as if frozen with fear as they watched their fellows slump and fall
to the floor in soundless death.
In near-madness, Demarzule increased his attacks. He adopted a
shifting, feinting attack that shocked Underwood's _abasa_ with each
surging wave of force. But Underwood learned how to control those
surges, to pass them on to his own attacks, which still were directed
upon the Earthmen within the chamber.
Within moments of each other, the last two on either side of Demarzule
fell. The Sirenian seemed not to have noticed, for all his energies and
concentration now were directed at Underwood.
Underwood was tiring swiftly. The energies draining out of him seemed
as if they were sapping every cell of his being, and back on board the
_Lavoisier_, every spasm of torture was reflected involuntarily on his
physical face. Those who watched suffered for him.
Illia sat in a corner of the room opposite him and her fists pressed
white spots into her cheeks. Dreyer's nervous reaction was expressed
in the incessant puffs and chewing on his normally steady cigar. The
others merely watched with taut faces and teeth sinking into their lips.
In the chamber of the great museum palace, the tempo of the battle was
slowly building up. Though he felt exhausted almost to the point of
defeat, Underwood strained for more energy and found that it was at his
command. His _dor-abasa_ fed upon the attacking force of Demarzule and
returned it with added energy potential.
In each of them, the same process was going on, and the outcome would
be determined by the final resultant flow of destroying power.
He could retreat now, Underwood realized. He doubted that Demarzule
could exert a holding force upon him, but nothing would be gained by
abandoning the battle now. He drove on with increasing surges.
Suddenly there was a faltering and Underwood exulted within himself.
Demarzule's force wavered for the barest fraction of an instant, and it
was not a feint.
"You are old and weak," said Underwood. "Half a million years ago,
civilization rejected you. _We reject you!_"
He smashed on almost without hindrance now. Demarzule's great form
writhed in pain upon the throne--and fought with one desperate surge of
energy.
Underwood caught and hurled it back mercilessly. He felt his way into
the innermost recesses of the Sirenian mind, groped along the nerve
ways of the Great One. And as he went, he burned and destroyed the
vital synapses.
Demarzule was dying--slowly, because of his resistance--and in endless
pain because there was no other way. He screamed aloud in ultimate
agony, and then the giant figure of Demarzule, the Sirenian--the Great
One--crashed to the floor.
* * * * *
The relief that came to Underwood was near agony. The wild forces of
the Dragbora tore relentlessly from him and filled the room with their
lethal energy before they died.
Then, in greater calm, he regarded what he had done. It was finished,
almost unbelievably finished.
Yet there were a few things to do. He left the building and sought
out the guards and the caretakers and whispered into their minds,
"Demarzule is dead! The Great One has died and you are men once more."
He sought out the controls of the force shell and caused the operator
to drop the shield. Then he whispered, "The Great One is dead," and
like the wind, his voice encompassed the vast thousands who had
gathered.
The message sank unspoken into their minds and each man looked at
his neighbor as if to ask how it had come. They pressed forward,
a battling, maddened mob who had for an hour lived in a childish,
primitive world where men were not required to think but only to obey.
They pushed forward and flowed into the building, battering, clawing
one another. But they managed to view the body of the fallen Sirenian,
so that the message was confirmed and spread, soon to circle the Earth.
* * * * *
Underwood studied the writhing, bewildered mass. Could Dreyer possibly
be right? Would it ever end--men's unthinking grasping for leadership,
their mindless search for kings and gods, while within them their own
powers withered? Always it had been the same; leaders arose holding
before men the illusion of vast, glorious promises while they carefully
led them into hells of lost dreams and broken promises.
Yes, it would be different, Underwood told himself. The Dragbora had
proved that it could be different. Their origin could have been no less
lowly than man's. They must have trodden the same tortuous stairway to
dreams that man was now on, and they had learned how to live with one
another.
Man was already nearer that goal--far nearer now that Demarzule was
dead. Underwood formed a silent prayer that fate would be merciful to
man and not send another like Demarzule.
And he allowed himself a moment's pride, an instant of pleasure in the
thought that he had been able to take part in the crisis.
With a final pity for the scene below, he fled back into space. What
he saw there turned him sick with fear. The great fleet was broken
and burned with atomic fires. Only two of the battleships remained
to challenge the attackers. But they were no longer challenging.
They signalled abject surrender and were fallen upon by ravenous
interceptors.
The _Lavoisier_ herself was darkened and drifting, her force shell
feeble and waning, while the flaming disruptors of a trio of
dreadnaughts concentrated upon her.
Underwood hurled himself toward the nearest of the enemy ships. In its
depths he sought out the gunners and cut off life in them before they
were aware of his bodiless presence. Swiftly he turned their beams upon
each other and watched them wallow and disappear in sudden flame.
Others rushed forward now. Still more than a score of them to defeat
the single crippled laboratory ship, more than he could hope to conquer
in time.
* * * * *
But they did not fire. Their shields remained intact; then slowly their
courses changed and they drifted away. Without comprehension, Underwood
peered into those hulls and knew the answer.
The news had come to them of Demarzule's death. Like men in pursuit
of a mirage, they could not endure the reality that came with the
vanishing of their dream. Their defeat was utter and complete.
Throughout the Earth Demarzule's defeat was the defeat of all men
who had not yet become strong enough to walk in the sun of their own
decisions, but clung to the shadow of illusory leadership.
Underwood swept back toward the darkened _Lavoisier_. He moved like
a ghost through its bleak halls and vacant corridors. Down in the
generator rooms, he found the cause of the disaster in the blasted
remains of overburdened force shell generators. Four of them must
have given way at once, ripping the ship throughout its length with
concussion and lethal waves.
The control room was dark, like the rest of the ship, and the forms of
his companions were strewn upon the floor. But there was life yet and
he dared to hope as he spoke to their minds, insistent, commanding,
forcing life and consciousness back into their nerve cells. He seemed
to become aware of unknown powers of resurrection that dwelt within his
own being.
His mission was complete. He returned to his own physical form and
abandoned the _abasic_ senses. He sat there in the huge chair in the
control room, while those about him revived and life gradually returned
to the dying ship. Of the enemy fleet there was no more, for it was
descending to an Earth shorn of the hope of Galaxy-wide conquest.
They did not know yet where they would go or where they could find
refuge, but when the wreckage was cleared and the ship lived again,
Underwood and Illia stood alone in a darkened observation pit, watching
the stars slip across the massive arc of the screens.
As Underwood watched, he thought he sensed something of the drive that
might have whipped Demarzule's brain, the goad that made vast superior
powers intolerable in the possession of even a beneficent man, for he
would no longer remain beneficent.
By the might that was in him he had vanquished the Great One! He could
stand in the place of the Great One if he chose! He did not know if his
powers were becoming greater than those of Jandro, like a strengthened
plant in new soil, but surely they were growing. The secrets of the
Universe seemed to be appearing before him, one by one.
A mere glance at a slab of inert matter, and his senses could delve
into the composition of its atoms and sort out and predict its
properties and reactions. One look into the far spaces beyond the Solar
System and he could sense himself soaring in eternity. Yes, he was
growing in power and perception, and where it might lead, he dared not
look.
But there were other things to be had, other, simpler ambitions in
which common men had found fulfillment throughout the ages.
Illia was warm against him, soft in his arms.
"I want you to operate again, as quickly as possible," he said.
* * * * *