_A Subterranean World_
The metal plate that had sealed him in this tomb fell open with a
crash. Beyond it the passageway was alive with crowding red figures.
Above their heads the nozzles of a score of flame-throwers spat jets
of green fire. Rawson drew back in sudden uncontrollable horror as
they came crowding into the room.
The familiar feel of the bailer's cold metal had given him a momentary
sense of oneness with his own world. Now this inrush of hideous,
demoniac figures beneath the flare of green flames was like a fevered
vision of the infernal regions come suddenly to actuality.
Rawson retreated to the shattered, rocky wall and prepared for one
last fight, until he realized that the evil black eyes in their
ghastly circles of white skin were fixed upon him more in curiosity
than in active hatred.
They formed a semicircle about him--a wall of red bodies, whose
pointed heads were craned forward, while an excited chatter in their
broken, whistling speech filled the room with shrill clamor. Then one
of them pointed above toward the open shaft that Rawson had drilled,
the shaft up which the bailer had gone. And again their voices rose in
weird discord, while their long arms waved, and red, lean-fingered
hands pointed.
Only a moment of this, then one of them gave an order. Two of the red
figures came toward Rawson where he was waiting. They were unarmed.
They motioned that he was to go with them. And Dean, with a helpless
shrug of his shoulders, allowed them, one on each side, to take him
by the arms and hurry him through the open door. Two others went
ahead, the green jets of flame from their weapons lighting the
passage.
The system of communicating tunnels seemed at first only the vents and
blow-holes from some previous volcanic activity. And yet, at times
they gave place to more regular arrangement that plainly was
artificial. The air in them was pure, though odorous with a pungent
tang which Dean could not identify. Through some of the passages it
blew gently with uncomfortable warmth.
The guard of wild red figures hurried him along through a vast world
of caverns and winding passages which seemed one great mine. The
richness of it was amazing. Dean Rawson was a man, a human being,
facing death in some form which he could not yet know, and, so fast
had his wild experiences crowded in upon him, he seemed numbed to all
normal emotions; yet through it all the mind of the engineer was at
work, and Dean's eyes were flashing from side to side, trying to see
and understand the ever-changing panorama of a subterranean world.
* * * * *
Mole-men, both red and yellow, were everywhere. But it was apparent at
a glance that the yellow giants were a race of toilers--slaves, driven
by the reds.
Their great bodies glowed orange-colored with the reflected heat of
the blasts of flame used to melt the metals from their ores. Gold and
silver, other metals that Rawson could not distinguish in the half
light--the glow of the molten stuff came from every distant cave that
the passages opened up.
The sheer marvel of it overwhelmed him. His own danger, even the death
that waited for him, were forgotten.
A world within a world--and who knew how far it extended? Mole-men, by
scores and hundreds, the denizens of a great subterranean world, of
which his own world had been in ignorance. Here was civilization of a
sort, and now the barriers that had separated this world from the
world above had been broken down; the two were united. Suddenly there
came to Rawson's mind a flashing comprehension of a menace wild and
terrible that had come with the breaking of those barriers.
They were passing through a wider hall when the whistling chatter of
Dean's escort ceased. They were looking to one side where a cloud of
smoke had rolled from a slope beyond. One of the red figures
staggered, choking, from the cloud. Two yellow mole-men followed
closely after.
The red mole-man was unarmed; each yellow one had a flame-thrower that
was now so familiar a sight to Dean. His own escort was silent; they
had halted, watching those others expectantly.
* * * * *
In the silence of that rocky room the single red one whistled an
order. One of the two yellow men placed his weapon on the floor.
Another shrill order followed, and the remaining worker, without a
moment's hesitation, turned the green blast of his own projector upon
his comrade.
It was done in a second--a second in which the giant's shriek ended in
a flash of flame for which his own flesh was the fuel. A wisp of
drifting smoke, and that was all. And the red creatures who had Rawson
in their charge, after a moment of silence, filled the room with
shrill-voiced pandemonium, while they shrieked their approval of the
spectacle.
But Dean Rawson's lips were forming half-whispered words, so intently
was he thinking the thoughts. "The damned red beast! That poor devil's
flame hit some sulphur, I suppose--burned it to SO_2--then he got
his!"
But, even while he searched his mind for words to describe the evil of
this red race, he was realizing another fact. These yellow giants,
countless thousands of them, perhaps, were held in subjection by their
red masters. They would do as they were told. Dimly, vaguely, through
his horrified mind, came the picture of a horde of red and yellow
beasts turned loose upon the world above.
There were fears now which filled Dean Rawson, shook him with horrors
as yet only half comprehended. But the fears were not for himself, one
solitary man in the grip of these red beasts--he was fearing for all
mankind.
* * * * *
His guard was hurrying him on, but now Dean hardly saw the scenes of
feverish activity through which they passed. Another thought had come
to him.
That shaft, the hole which he himself had drilled--what damage had it
done? It was he who had broken down the barriers. His drill had told
these beasts that there was other life above. It had guided them. They
had realized that they were near to some other place where men worked
and drove tunnels through the rocks. They had followed up these
forgotten passages that led to the old craters, had ascended inside
the volcano, made their way through the top and emerged into another
world--a clean and sunlit world.
Now Rawson's eyes found with new understanding the activity about him.
The mining operations had been left behind. Here were branching
passages, great cavelike rooms--a world within a world, in all truth.
Throughout it, demoniac figures were hurrying, driving thousands of
giant yellow slaves where the light shone sparkling from innumerable
heaps of metal weapons--flame-throwers and others, the nature of which
Rawson could not determine. And everywhere was the shouting and hurry
as of a nation in the throes of war.
His speculations ended abruptly. They were approaching a room, a vast
open place. High on the farther wall was a recess in the rock in which
tongues of flame licked hungrily upward. The heat of the fires struck
down in a ceaseless hot blast. Close to the fires, unmindful of the
heat, a barbaric figure assumed grotesque and horrible postures, while
its voice rose in echoing shrillness.
Below were crowding red ones who prostrated themselves on the rocky
floor.
"Fire worshipers!" The explanatory thought flashed through Dean
Rawson's mind. "Here was one of their holy places, a place of
sacrifice, perhaps, and he was being taken there, helpless, a
captive!"