_Taloned Hands_
Simple, pastoral folk, the People of the Light! In their inner world,
a vanishing world, where nearly all of what once had been a vast
country was now covered by the steadily encroaching sea, they had
resisted the degeneration which might easily have followed the
destruction of a complex civilization. Living simply, and clean of
mind, they had clung to the culture of the past as it was taught them
by their Wise Ones. And now the People of the Light had found a new
god.
Not that Dean Rawson had asked for that exalted position; on the
contrary he had tried his best to make them understand that he was
only one of many millions, some better, some worse, but all of them
merely humans.
His speaking the language of the holy mountain had convinced them
first. But when old Rotan, oldest and grayest of the mountain's
servants, went into a trance, then Rawson could no longer escape the
honors being thrust upon him.
"The time of deliverance is at hand," old Rotan said when he awoke.
His voice that so long had been cracked and feeble was suddenly
strong, vibrant with belief in the visions that had come to him.
They were in the inner chamber of the white mountain, where Dean
Rawson, heartsick, lonely and hopeless, had spent most of his time
listening to the voice from the outer world. Gor was there, and Loah;
and the writers had left their desks to gather around old Rotan, where
now the old servant of the mountain stood erect, his glistening eyes
fixed unwaveringly upon Rawson.
"Listen," he commanded. "Rotan speaks the truth. Never shall the
People of the Light return to the outer world; it is here we stay. For
now our world which is lost shall be returned to us." His eyes,
unnaturally bright, met the wondering gaze of his own people gathered
around, then came back to rest again upon Rawson.
* * * * *
"Dean--Rah--Sun!" he said. "'Rah'--do you not see? It is our own word,
Rah--the Messenger! Dean--Messenger of the Sun! The sun-god has sent
him--he will set us free. He will restore our lost cities. The People
of the Light will spread out to fill the new land; they will multiply,
and once more will be a mighty nation, living happily as of old in
their own lost world.
"Dean!" he called. "Dean--Messenger of the Sun!" He was drawn to his
full frail height, his arms outstretched. But Rawson saw the old eyes
close, sensed the first slackening of that tense body; it was he who
sprang and caught the sagging figure in his arms, then lowered the
lifeless body to the floor of crystal white.
Even happiness can kill. A feeble heart can cease to beat under the
stress of emotions too beautiful to be borne. And Rotan, wisest of the
wise, had passed on to serve his sun-god in another world.
And thereafter, Rawson, Dean-Rah-Sun, was undeniably a god. But he
wondered, even then, while the others dropped to their knees in humble
worship, why Loah, her eyes brimming over with tears, had broken
suddenly into uncontrollable sobs and had rushed blindly, swiftly,
from the room.
* * * * *
To Rawson the unwavering, simple faith of the White Ones was only an
added misery. Rotan's vision was accepted by them unquestioningly;
their adoring eyes followed Rawson wherever he went, while the
children carpeted his path to the holy mountain with golden flowers.
And there Rawson would sit, cursing silently his own helplessness,
while the voice of the mountain told of further devastation up above.
His plans for leading a force against the mole-men were abandoned. On
the island, all that was left of this inner world, were only some two
thousand persons, men, women and children. And the children were few;
the population had been rigorously kept down. Their present number was
all that the island would support, though every possible foot of
ground was tilled.
"Only a handful of them," Rawson admitted despondently, "and not a
weapon of any sort. They've kept by themselves. Only Loah and a few
of the others had enough curiosity and nerve to scout around where the
mole-men live. She even understands their talk! Lord, what I'd give
for a thousand like her, a thousand men with her nerve! Then, with
weapons, and means of transportation...." But at that he stopped,
aware of the futility of all such thoughts.
He had tried to talk to Gor, tried to tell him of his own limitations.
And Gor had only smiled pleasantly and repeated "Rotan has spoken. It
will come to pass!"
Ceaselessly his thoughts revolved about the hopelessness of his
situation. He was alone. Whatever was to be done he must do
single-handed--and there was nothing he could do! But he would not
admit to himself that the aching loneliness came to a focus in the
memory of a girl's smiling eyes, the touch of her soft hand.
"They're fighting up there," he argued, "fighting for their lives, and
I can't help. What right have I to think of Loah or myself?" In spite
of which he sprang abruptly to his feet, left the mountain and the
voice of the mountain behind him, and went in search of the girl.
"I've got to make her understand," he exclaimed. "I've got to have
someone to talk to. But I can't make her out. She's so confoundedly
respectful--acts as if I were a little tin god. And yet--she wasn't
always that way!"
* * * * *
At the home of Gor he found Loah, slim and beautiful as always. She
had just come from the bath. The creamy texture of her skin had
flushed to rosiness in the cold fountain. Her jeweled breast-plates
sparkled. A cloth that shone like silk enwrapped her hips in soft
folds of pale rose and hung in an absurd little skirt. She might have
been the spirit of youth itself, a vision of loveliness; yet Rawson
felt an almost uncontrollable desire to take her in his two hands and
shake her when she bowed humbly and treated his request as if it were
a royal command.
"To walk with Dean-Rah-Sun! But certainly, if that is his wish!"
In silence they left the village and walked toward the island's end
where Rawson had emerged from the under-world.
The island was not large. On either side were low hills, mere knolls,
of white crystal, where, in every hollow, men and women were
harvesting strange grain. Between the two ranges of hills were flat
fields of green, reaching out toward the point some three miles
distant.
Rawson made no attempt to talk as he led Loah along the roadway that
cleft the green expanse in half. Other workers were there, and Dean
acknowledged their smiling, worshipful salutations. He did not want to
talk now; he wanted to find some place where he and Loah could be by
themselves. There was so much he must tell her. He must try to make
her understand. And after that, perhaps, with her help, he could find
some way to be of aid to his own beleaguered people--something he
could do even single-handed.
* * * * *
Where the fields ended, and from there on toward the point, had been
an expanse of glistening white. Rawson remembered it plainly. So now,
when he found it a place of flaming crimson, he stared in amazement.
Across the full width of the valley a brilliant carpet had spread
itself, a covering of flowers. A blossoming vine had sprung up in the
few days since his arrival and had woven a thick mat of vegetation.
He wanted to go on out to the extreme end of the point. There they
would be alone. But Loah objected when he started to enter the red
expanse.
"No!" she said in quick alarm. "We must not cross. It is the Place of
Death. We will go around it, following the hills."
"We crossed it the other day when it was a plain of white salt,"
argued Rawson.
"But now the flowers have come. Even now it might be safe--but when
they die then nothing can cross here and live."
Loah could not give the reason. Dean gathered from what she could tell
that a gas of some sort was formed, perhaps by the decomposing
vegetation. Perhaps it combined with the sparkling white shale. But
all this was of no consequence compared with his own problems. He did
not argue the matter but followed where Loah led.
"Where is the shell?" he asked, when they stood at last near the open
mouth of the great shaft into which the air was rushing. "Where is the
machine that we came here in? I wanted to see it--thought perhaps I
could use it later on.
"The jana--the shell, as you call it--is safely locked in a great room
of Gor's house. Not all understand its use; it must be kept away from
careless hands."
* * * * *
Then Rawson put that thought aside. He took Loah's hand and led her
some distance away toward the shore. Beyond a rocky, crystalline mass,
where fragments had been heaped, the sound of the rushing air was
lost; only the flashing emerald waves whispered softly on the shore
beyond. And there in that quiet place, under the brilliance of the
central sun, Rawson told her of himself and of the great outer world.
He told her of his work, of everything that had happened, of how he
was only one of many millions of men and women like, and yet unlike,
the People of the Light. And at last he knew that she understood.
He had spoken softly, though he knew there were no other listening
ears. Loah had been seated before him on one of the white blocks. She
rose to her feet. Her eyes were troubled. Vaguely he sensed behind
them a conflict of emotions.
"I must think," she said. "I will walk by myself for a time; then I
will return."
Rawson reached for her hand. "You're a good sport," he said huskily.
Then he felt the trembling of that hand in his; and, as if it had been
an electric current, his own body responded.
Shaken in every nerve, his poise deserted him. He could not think
clearly. He knew only that that horrible loneliness was somehow gone.
By force of will alone he kept his arms from reaching out toward that
radiant figure. Instead, he raised her hand toward his lips.
She withdrew it sharply. "No," she said, "our Wise Ones were mistaken.
For years they have listened to the mountain; they have written down
its words. Slowly they have learned their meaning. A kiss, they said,
was a symbol of love in your world. They were mistaken--as was I. Now
I will walk alone for a time."
* * * * *
Rawson let her go. She seemed hardly looking where she went; her eyes
were downcast. She moved slowly around the sheltering rock and on
toward the level ground and the rushing winds of the shaft.
His own thoughts were in a whirl, too confused with emotion for clear
thinking. "A symbol of love!" And back there in that cave world she
had pressed her lips to his hand. Then they had come here, and he had
been transformed to a god, a being who could never have more than an
impersonal affection for one as humble as she.
The rising flood of happiness within him was abruptly frozen, changed
to something which filled his veins with ice. For, from beyond the
crystal barrier that hid Loah from his view, her voice had come in one
single cry of terror. Then, "Dean!" she called. "Dean San!" But by
then, Rawson was throwing himself madly around the barricade of rocks.
Like a sensitized plate when the camera's shutter is opened a merest
fraction of a second, Rawson's brain took the imprint of every detail
that was there. The black mouth of the shaft, and, on the rock beside
it, something metallic, brilliantly gleaming--a flame-thrower! Beyond
the pit was Loah, half crouching, her slim body tense as if checked in
mid-flight. She had been running toward him, coming to warn him. And
between her and the shaft, his back turned squarely toward Rawson, was
the hideous figure of a mole-man, one of the Reds! His grotesque,
pointed head was bent forward toward the girl; his arms were reaching,
the long fingers like talons.
* * * * *
Rawson did not know when he called the girl's name. But he knew the
instant that he had done it and he knew it was a mistake. He should
have crept quietly, seized the weapon--and now his feet tore madly on
the white rock floor as he raced toward the shining implement of
death. From beyond, the red figure, whirling at his call, leaped
wildly for the same prize.
The taloned hands were on the flame-thrower first. Rawson saw the red
body straighten, saw the weapon swing, glistening in air, swinging
over and down. From its tip green fire made a straight line of light.
He leaped in under the descending flame, felt the nozzle of the
projector as it crashed upon his right shoulder and the green fire
spat harmlessly beyond his back. That last spring had thrown him
bodily against the red monster. They were both knocked off balance for
a moment, then Rawson caught himself and swung with his left. He set
himself in that fraction of a second, felt the first movement of that
shining, crook-necked tube that meant the green flame was being drawn
back where it could reach him; then his fist crashed into a yielding
jaw.
Not five feet from the brink of that nearly bottomless shaft he stood
wavering in the rush of air. He knew that the ugly red figure had
toppled sideways, that the weapon had fallen with him, the blast
swinging upward in a vertical, hissing arc--then man and weapon had
dropped silently into the pit.
He was alone, save for the girl, who, her eyes wide with horror, threw
herself upon him and clung trembling, while she murmured
incomprehensible endearments in her own tongue wherein his own name
was mingled: "Dean, dear! My own Dean-San!"
But the mole-men! Dean Rawson's mind was aghast with the horror of it:
the mole-men had now found the way.