"_Terra glances--Men bend low--
As Death dances, on tip-toe!_"
Io--_27th Century_.
Like a shallow bowl hooded in starlight, the secret Ganymedean landing
fields came rushing upward as Julian coasted the muted spacer,
descending in a great rush of wind.
It seemed deserted and bleak, coldly uninviting. There was a brief jar
as Julian made contact and brought the small but almost invulnerable
semi-cruiser to a partial stop. His fingers were still over the
banked keys when it came with mind-shattering suddenness--a burst of
intolerable light! The spacer trembled, shuddered like a living thing.
Instantly the hidden depression was alive with shadow-shapes as the
first shot struck home. Again the livid-orange flare blotted out the
starlight with a macabre radiance, and Julian reeled against the panel.
He had time for but one thought: "Hidden! Secret, eh!"
* * * * *
He pressed the stud and drove the "Drive" forward one quarter. The
spacer reared like a mammoth stallion and plunged vertiginously into
the mass of men and projectors, scattering rocks and limbs in a welter
of crushed metal and torn flesh. The pandemonium of screams and
explosions was drowned in the roar of the hurtling ship. The warm blood
spurted out of Julian's ears and its acrid scent was in his nostrils.
The momentum had carried the spacer across the entire field before
Julian could bring it to a stop. Reeling with the effects of concussion
he drove himself out of the wounded vessel and into the darkness of
the tumbled terrain. The city was very near, he knew, even if no
garish brilliance heralded it. He had to get to it.... _He had to!_
The "plan" was complete, and even if only one small phase of the plan
were defeated, the whole pattern would have to be reconstructed and the
element of surprise would be lost.
And then he realized grayly that an _awareness_ of the Plan existed.
Else how explain such a reception? Violence was out in the open now.
And, the _Dekka_ had not been the one to force the issue. Still, the
pressure of the thought in his mind--the overwhelming responsibility
of his task--was so great, that it drove him with cyclonic power. It
lent wings to his strength as he covered the distance in great leaps,
and was profoundly grateful for his Jovian training. The tumult behind
him receded into the distance, became indistinct. But Julian knew that
transmitters would be crackling with warning. His instinctive ruse with
the spacer had worked like a miracle, but he knew he could not hope to
have disposed of all his attackers. They would be on his trail like
bloodhounds in short order!
The darkness now was but faintly suffused with the shimmer of
starlight, and great sections of the sky were blotted out. He came up
against a solid barrier and realized he was in the city. Ahead loomed a
vast shadow whose upthrust towers caught glimmers of faint luminescence.
"The Temple!" he breathed, and darted like a hunted animal into the
silent sanctuary. He didn't deceive himself that he would be inviolate,
although that was the law; but it was a respite. Time to get his
bearings in the damnable city of darkness and tortuous ways.
Once within the lofty nave of the temple, Julian took swift stock of
his surroundings. It was illuminated with surpassing skill, soothing,
caressing almost. But it suddenly struck him that the perfection of
the workmanship had a double purpose--it served primarily to mask the
impregnability of the place. It was a veritable fortress instantly
convertible if the need arose. It had been built to withstand a siege!
Ahead of him was a lofty, jewel-encrusted altar. But no idol was
enthroned there. No inscription even. Only the raging inferno of a
miniature atomic-vortex held under control by some unknown means and
enclosed in a transparent substance which he rightly judged to be an
illusion, and was a field of force, in reality. There seemed to be no
exit anywhere, except the entrance through which he had come. Julian
had suddenly come to the end.
He searched like a trapped creature, his whole being convulsed by the
urgency of his will, while the tumult of the chase drew nearer and
nearer with desperate urgency he explored the altar. "_Surely_," he
reasoned, "_there must be some way the priests of the temple reach the
nave!_" With frantic fingers he explored the gemmed surfaces, driving
his mind to intuit the logical means of ingress not to speak _egress_.
The chromatic shimmer of the gems blurred and merged together, formed
curiously fantastic patterns, as his senses reeled through the
after-effects of concussion. Imperceptibly almost, his probing fingers
felt a slight projection on a flat surface. With a swift, jabbing
motion he pushed in, and a circular section the size of a small coin
slid to one side. There was a thin metallic ring beneath. He twisted
it, and the whole section large enough for a stooping man to enter
swung silently inward. He hesitated briefly gazing into the dark
aperture. He could already hear clearly the shouted commands of his
pursuers, as the troops deployed into the branching streets. He entered
and the aperture closed.
* * * * *
When the golden _Felirene_ sprawled on the fabulous rug twitched its
plumed tail and narrowed its lambent eyes to slits of emerald fire,
Fermin, the Arch-Mutant did not move. He did not raise his head.
The silver-grey eyes remained fixed, the slightly narrow skull
immobile; outwardly, he seemed absorbed in the photo-plastic record.
But the long, fragile finger of his hand pressed one of the gems that
studded the milky whiteness of the Jadite chair on which he sat.
Imperceptibly the jewel depressed. In the open hearth before him, a
burning log of aromatic wood crackled and sent up a shower of sparks
like shooting stars against the blue glory of the aquamarine glass
columns that flanked it.
"The slightest movement means death!" Fermin said softly, in a voice
that was calm and poised and unhurried. "Even a spoken word might set
_it_ off." In the brooding silence, the subdued hissing of the flames
could be heard.
"You see, intruder, you're standing in a radio beam that controls a
Neuro-flash. The slightest movement disturbs the beam, which in turn
releases the "flash." A most deplorable accident...." His voice trailed
into a melodious undertone faintly etched with laughter. Then he rose
and flung back the folds of his jewelled scarlet robe, bright as fresh
blood, with a gesture of fastidious elegance.
"Come, _Sappho_ ... let us welcome our guest!" he bade the now
crouching, six-foot-long beast whose formidable claws were bared.
"This is a memorable occurrence!" He moved with an effortless surety
remarkable in its economy of movement; there was something oddly
regal and imperturbable in his stride. Beside him, Sappho, the feral
creature, paced with a fluid motion almost like flight, its golden fur
gleaming with firelight reflections.
Across an invisible, if lethal barrier they met.
Fermin gazed into the inscrutable eyes, blue-grey and silvered, almost
like his own. He appraised the astonishing shoulders of the man,
the golden hair with the unmistakable rising tide of silver. Noted
the absence of weapons except for the usual power-rapier. "What a
magnificent addition to our cause," he meditated. Unhurriedly Fermin
retraced his steps to the chair, and depressed another flashing gem
that shut off the radio-beam, then came back to the silent man. "How,"
he inquired in a voice like ice, "did you get in here?" Inwardly Fermin
was torn between the desire to let _Sappho_ display her peculiar
talents, and that of adding yet another valuable recruit to the cause.
He smiled slowly as if reading the intruder's thoughts: "It is safe to
speak now," he pointed out. "I've shut off the power."
"My entrance is but a detail," Julian answered. His eyes traveled
slowly, noting the shock of translucent hair, the silver eyes, then
paused briefly at the power-rapier hanging from Fermin's belt. For a
second he had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh at the ghastly
irony of it. After waiting for hours in the secret passage, he had to
blunder headlong into the presence of the one being in all Ganymede he
would have avoided at all costs!
"I sought sanctuary and there was the Temple-nave. It's inviolate,
isn't it?" (_The point was, should he brazen it out or fight._)
"Of course!"
"But obviously, I couldn't remain in the Temple forever, so ... I had
to find an exit." (_Wonder if the paralysis ray works on a Felirene!_)
"Continue, please," Fermin's voice was a smooth purr.
"The atomic vortex drew my attention and I found beneath it what I
sought. Then, when I came in here and saw you absorbed in those
records ... why, I hesitated...."
"_As simple as that._" A world of irony lay in Fermin's pellucid tones.
The smile of ancient Medusa, would have been mild compared with the
change that came over the Arch-Mutant's face. "No doubt, it is also a
mere detail that the Atomic-vortex--which represents, incidentally,
the Absolute--is absolutely fatal! That secret exit beneath the altar
is known only to five other persons besides myself. And, that the
slightest miscalculation in manipulating the secondary controls of the
last door that leads to this chamber, releases an electronic current
sufficient in itself to incinerate a squadron! Remarkable!" Fermin's
eyes were flashing molten silver. "And casually strolled through!" The
hooded eyes were shadowed with death now. "However," the unhurried
voice continued, "_we expected you, Julian Varon_."
"Yes, I am Varon," Julian answered with a sort of sardonic calm he
reserved for moments when death loomed very near. "I am too near _the
flame_ to have dispensed with your attention. The point is, Fermin,
I thought you a gentleman, while you seem to consider me a knave.
I'm afraid we are both mistaken!" His generous mouth curved in a
contemptuous smile, as the taunt struck home. Death was something the
members of the Dekka had to learn to accept in advance.
* * * * *
Fermin chuckled, if anything as vulgar as a chuckle might be said to
issue from those chiselled, aristocratic lips, but his face was ashen
as his hand grasped the neutralized hilt of his Power-rapier.
"My rank is higher than a Prince, Dekkan--I don't have to be a
gentleman! My mistake lay in thinking that you might be interested in
an offer I was about to make. After all, _you're a sterile Mutant now_."
The savage Felirene licked its golden muzzle and gave a muffled roar
as if tired of waiting, its prodigious musculature rippled under the
metallic sheen of its priceless fur. Fermin stroked it caressingly.
"See, even Sappho has lost patience. I regret I must subject you to
the Psycho-graph--that is, unless you prefer to tell me the reason for
your visit of your own accord." The mellifluous accents were a study in
modulation--clear, precise--sardonic.
Julian had a flashing remembrance of what a Psycho-graph could do
to him. It had happened once before during his twenty-nine years of
existence. He relived for an instant the burst of dazzling light, the
agonizing fury in his brain, while voices that mocked and danced and
probed penetrated deeper and deeper into his consciousness until they
became a searing Babel in his mind. Julian had vowed it would never
happen again. Suddenly he blanked his mind with swift ruthlessness.
And with the same savage ruthlessness he struck. A tiny paralysis
beam flashed from the ring on his left little finger and stretched
out the Felirene without a sound. His right hand already had sought
the Power-rapier and the flashing blade described a scintillant wheel
before him. But Fermin's reflexes were quite as swift. His own blade
leaped into his long, aristocratic hand, as he sought cunningly to back
toward the Jadite chair.
But Julian didn't give him that chance he needed, his onslaught drove
forward with appalling speed, slashing, parrying, probing like a
living thing, until the Arch-Mutant's face went gray, shadowed by
the first fear he had known in his extraordinary life. Craftily, the
scarlet-robed Arch-dynast feinted to the left, in the secret Ganymedean
lure, and to his vast astonishment saw the lure engaged, _and then_,
a searing flash that coruscated before his dazzled eyes left him only
the neutralized hilt of his rapier in his hand! Fermin had a confused
picture of molten drops spilling from the weightless hilt and of golden
motes dancing before his eyes, when the paralysis beam convulsed him
in a frozen shudder and he tumbled slowly to the rug--graceful even in
unconsciousness.
Julian did not waste a single precious second. Both Fermin and his
_alter ego_ would be out for at least two or three hours, he knew.
But his presence might be discovered there any moment. He search
the jewelled cabinets that lined one wall. Feverishly he scanned
the photo-plastic record on the stand, and even read the flowing
hieroglyphics of Ganymede, so much like the written Arabic of forgotten
antiquity, which he found in a special compartment over the hearth, and
found ... nothing! Nothing but a single word, frozen and faded in a now
neutralized telesolidograph screen that flanked the white splendor of
the Jadite chair. The word was "_Paradisiac_." And that was the name
of perhaps the most glamorous, and the most dangerous pleasure den in
their known universe.
At last in desperation, he searched the fallen body unceremoniously.
The jewelled garments of the Arch-Mutant yielded no records, no secret
notes, only a tiny vial fashioned of a single blood-red _Panagran_,
which contained a colorless liquid. This, Julian thrust into a pocket.
Then like a wraith he melted into the aquamarine penumbra of the
titanic columns and disappeared as soundlessly as he had come.
Once out in the diluted scarlet of Ganymede's morning, he saw that the
temple was ringed with guards. Most of them lounged in the careless
sense of security that comes with routine. Julian, the pupils of
his eyes dilating, slid along the side of one wall, there was only
one guard there--beyond was a wide avenue somewhere along which the
Paradisiac was located. He moved as quietly as a _Felirene_, as
implacable as death. The guard never even felt the blow that felled
him. Then Julian was sprinting madly as shouts rose behind him in the
roseate gloom.
"Damn this pink fog!" he exclaimed through clenched teeth.
Behind him the muffled stamp of scurrying feet and the metallic
scraping of power-rapiers became distinct; oaths and imprecations in
various dialects grew loud.
* * * * *
He swerved aside into a half-concealed doorway to hide his progress,
for it wouldn't do to have his pursuers see him. A badly aimed
power-beam from an old-fashioned heat-ray gun splashed off a
wall not a block distant, in incandescent fury. "The fools!" he
thought contemptuously. But his eyes scanned the buildings for
a sign of the "Paradisiac." He was beyond fear--beyond emotion
even. But what bothered him in a sort of dazed wonderment was that
the word "Paradisiac" should have been frozen in the neutralized
telesolidograph. For his assignment as part of the "Plan" was to meet
another member of the Dekka, a Techno-Star, at the "rendezvous!" How
Fermin, the Arch-Mutant had managed to obtain that information was
incredible! It was an index to plans and forces he had not previously
conceived.
But the problem now was to find the Paradisiac, he had merely a matter
of minutes in which to seek concealment. And in this world of tortuous
cabals not to speak of instant death, no blatant signs advertised
pleasure, shelter or concealment. The latter was an art that was
subtly applied to itself. One either did, or did not, know where to go.
Sanctuary was there for the asking--at a price. But the signs were only
for the initiate to recognize.
Desperately Julian tuned in the secret wave-length of the _Dekka_,
and turning his wrist-transmitter to full force, sent out in code a
streamlined account of what had transpired since his landing, as a last
detail he told briefly of his encounter with Fermin, and of taking the
curious vial from the Arch-Mutant. It was then that out of the soft,
roseate haze, a brilliant, vari-colored pinwheel flashed briefly, then
vanished as if it had never been, not fifty paces from where he stood.
And Julian without hesitation was at the blank, beryloid wall in a few
strides.
With his rapier-scabbard, he tapped a series of sounds, and the wall
seemed to part, just wide enough for him to squeeze through the
aperture. Behind him, the incredibly resistant plastic wall had closed.
In silence he waited, trying to control his labored breathing. Knowing
that he was being inspected, and that the translucent barrier before
him would or would not open--as _they_ willed. The thought flashed
through his mind that perhaps this _sub-rosa_ stronghold of the Dekka,
kept ostensibly as a pleasure-den, might have become tainted--a trap
instead of a refuge. And in that brief instant of harrowing suspense,
Julian became conscious of a presence, something cold and weirdly
impersonal, that pervaded the cubicle with its aura. He shifted
uneasily, poised with a grim determination. The blood-stained fabric
moulded to his superb torso gleamed with the sheen of wet metal under
the soporific illumination. There was no sound save his audible
breathing.
After what seemed eternity--in reality seconds--the wall before him
slid silently aside. A long corridor stretched before him. It led to
the public rooms. The sudden shock of overwhelming relief had the
quality of vertigo. The quadrangle walls seemed to lose solidity and
become curved. He shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the
wall on the left side of the quadrangle bore a message in brilliant
letters as if they'd emerged glowing from the plastic substance itself.
It was a message and a question:
"PUBLIC ROOMS NOT NEUTRAL. DISGUISE DESIRED?"
Julian stared. Behind the silver-grey brilliance of his eyes, a mind
trained to irrevocable decisions worked at the level of maximum
awareness. His judgment balanced factors and variables. True, his
instructions had been to seek sanctuary here, at this place, and
on this street that for all its seemingly deserted obscurity was
honeycombed with palaces fabulous for luxury and unlimited pleasures.
Even the exotic tastes of jaded minds whose more esoteric interests
could only be aroused by pain--the wild suffering of crucified
flesh--were catered to.
Fugitives from half a dozen worlds lost their identity in the opulent
warrens where "life" so often could be bought and sold with oblique
indifference. But he had to visit the Public Rooms--his only contact
with what he had come to seek _was there_! Someone who had devoted a
lifetime to the Dekka, in Ganymede. Imperturbably he re-read the fading
words, and with a mental squaring of his shoulders, he replied:
"Yes. Nothing _organic_, of course. But it must be more than merely
skillful!"
Instantly the wall glowed again:
"THE SIXTH PANEL TO YOUR LEFT AWAITS YOUR PLEASURE."
* * * * *
Julian strode down the hall and paused before the sixth panel, it
opened inwardly with the same silent precision that characterized
everything in the place. Thus far he had seen no one. The maximum
anonymity was, of course, essential. Still, there was something
eerie in the atmosphere of complete detachment. He entered and found
himself in a circular room with curving, almost translucent walls.
The floor was firm, yet resilient under foot. He felt like a fop
at a rejuvenation center, and laughed suddenly at the thought. His
whole countenance was lit by that rare smile. From somewhere a slim,
completely masked creature glided silently into the room.
Julian judged its height at slightly less than five feet; however,
beyond the fact that its body was undeniably human, and exquisitely
proportioned, Julian was unable to go, for the being's skin-tight
garment left not an inch of surface exposed--except its hands. These
were long, and marvelously sensitive, with a nervous life of their own
as if they acted independently of the Ganymedean's guiding brain.
They were measuring him now, taking in the magnificent breadth of
shoulder, the long, flat thighs and narrow waist, above which rose
the inverted pyramid that was Julian's torso. At last they carefully
removed his helmet and paused as if appraising the great shock of
golden hair. With a swift motion that took in Julian's entire body,
the designer indicated that Julian strip. Again the exquisite hands
repeated the gesture--impatiently this time--but Julian, his face set,
still hesitated.
The designer was a native Ganymedean, beyond doubt--Julian knew that
much. But, was it a man or a woman? Julian was well aware that the
exquisite beings of fabulous Ganymede, who even when confronted with
the outrage that was _The Dynasty_, foisted upon them by the Terran
Mutants had disdained arming themselves to the teeth as the rest of
the Moons had done, had some very strange ideas about things. And the
"Control-Facet" had no intention of disrobing before a woman--even as
alien and anonymous a being as the Ganymedeans. His face was beginning
to flush with sheer annoyance.
As if reading Julian's thoughts, the masked designer shook its head
and made an expressive gesture with its hands, as if Julian's nudity
would be a thing of such utter unimportance, that it would scarcely be
noticed, except as a foundation upon which to achieve a superlative
disguise. And Julian had no alternative. It was either disrobe or enter
the Public Rooms as he was. Mentally he consigned the stubborn race of
Ganymede to the most sulphuric region he could think of, and palming
his electro-beam, undressed. The coldly unemotional designer was unable
to suppress a gasp! Its ancient, long-forgotten Gods must have been
like this; theirs was a cult of beauty, and in Julian it was witnessing
a masterpiece. Almost, reverently, the fluttering hands began their
work.
The Ganymedean's artistry was very great. "_Part of their accursed
stubbornness!_" Julian thought. For the Ganymedeans had an exasperating
tenacity of purpose which brooked no obstacles until they achieved
their ends--it bordered on genius, or madness, or both. Had they
devoted it to the art of War, Seville-Lorca's "_Jovian Annals_" would
have been a vastly different story.
The space-tanned face with its slightly flaring nostrils, and large
silver-grey eyes, crowned by the shock of golden mane, began to change
subtly under the magical hands of the designer. Slowly the shoulder
long hair took on a dull, ruddy sheen, while the coppered complexion
paled and a temporary irritant brought a deep flush to his cheeks.
With deft movements, the winged brows were darkened and narrowed, and
the generous, full lips were pulled slightly inwards and taped with
invisi-plastic, until only a thin, cruel curve remained. The Ganymedean
stepped back and scrutinized the effect. Quickly it crossed to a part
of the circular chamber and then pressed a stud. A great section of
the wall sank downward, revealing tier after tier of dazzling costumes
already composed. There were gossamer silks from Venus, lustrous as
moonlight pools; the opulent gleam of stiff brocades from Mars, as
unyielding as the character of that supercilious race. Velvets like
crushed petals, embroidered in _Starlimans_, the priceless green
diamonds of Mercury; vivid fabrics from distant Neptune, which were
not woven at all, but secret plastics worth a small fortune each. And,
they were all green--in an infinite gradation of shades, nuances, hues.
The artist's hands reached and drew forth a single garment open at the
back. And then the real work began.
* * * * *
Julian's eyes were inscrutable. He had not been asked what effect was
to be achieved, or indeed how he wished to be changed. True, nothing of
an _organic_ nature had been attempted. But he was not used to this.
The Ganymedean designer, whatever it was, was a great artist. Great
enough to take liberties, or else possessed of the effrontery of
genius. But then, Julian meditated, Ganymedeans were like that. There
were times when one didn't know whether to slay them or leave them.
Then it occurred to Julian that perhaps the instructions of the _Dekka_
had been specific. But dismissed the thought with a wry smile. Even
the Dekka's instructions as to the actual disguise would have been
quietly ignored by this creature. It was a work of art, and in that
realm, Ganymedeans listened to no one. But his meditation was cut short
by the gestures of the artist, which clearly indicated that Julian tilt
his head. In his hands he held a tiny bottle, and something like an
eye-dropper.
"I said _nothing organic_!" Julian reminded him coldly.
"A tint, nothing more," the Ganymedean spoke for the first time in
soft, slurred accents. "It will only last a few days, then disappear.
And, without it, the work is incomplete." Julian submitted reluctantly.
The artist was at last finished. One graceful hand motioned toward a
huge moon of a mirror suspended by anti-gravitic means, and Julian
turned curiously to see what the creature had transformed him into.
His astounded gasp was audible in the silent alcove. For he saw a
tall, disdainful Martian whose violet eyes looked coldly out a face he
couldn't recognize as his own; a mane of ruddy, curling ringlets fell
to the neck-line, while thin, cruel lips curving slightly expressed
unutterable boredom. For the rest, his body was sheathed in palest
silver-green, of a texture like human epidermis--satiny, rippling with
his every movement, while a great belt of _Panagrans_ circled his
narrow waist.
The Ganymedean held up an expressive finger, then flew to a drawer
hidden beneath the folds of the costumes. He extracted something and
came swiftly back. Julian felt a sharp pain in his left ear-lobe, then
the icy sensation of a cauterizer stanching the capillary flow, and
something was fastened to his ear. When he gazed into the reflecting
moon, he saw a huge, solitary _Starliman_ swirling green fire from
his left ear-lobe. The picture of a ruthless, interplanetary fop was
superbly complete. Only a Neuro-Graph machine could possibly have
revealed his identity now.
Julian went over to where his former garments lay on the floor, and
fastened his Power-rapier to the jeweled belt, then extracted the
vial he had taken from Fermin, taking care that the designer didn't
see it, and secreted it on his person. When he straightened up again,
the Ganymedean was holding a cloak of rich _ocelandian_ fur which
Julian threw about his shoulders. The artist gazed at him for a brief
instant, with something like a smile in its brilliant eyes--all that
could be seen of his masked face. Then as silently as he had come, he
literally walked into a section of the panelling which gave way before
him and disappeared in the endless labyrinth that was the Paradisiac.
The door of the circular room opened soundlessly. Julian's hand flew
to the electro-beam under his arm-pit, but no one came. It was a mute
invitation to depart.
The long corridor led him to the balcony overhanging the Public Rooms.
Below him was a hall so vast, built on a scale so great, that it
imparted a feeling of limitless distances, yet he knew this was an
illusion. To his right, a crysto-plast conveyor spiralled down in a
swirl of imprisoned waters, foaming like a rushing stream, while at the
bottom, freed by the deliberately lessened gravity, the worst and best
from all the inhabited worlds sat at individual platforms or revolved
lazily in the upper levels. The enchantment of fantastic harmonies wove
a subtle spell of desire and nameless longings. But although he felt
the magic of the extravagantly honeyed chords, Julian reminded himself
that was not there to propitiate the eternal caprice of the flesh.