VI

But only for an instant did he leave open that vent to the treacherous

skies above. Harg and Sert had said--nor was there any reason to

disbelieve them--that horrible death poured from the heavens in this

later age, in the form of intense cosmic radiation. It would be a

hollow victory to save a race and destroy a world.

He let the vent remain open but a few seconds, knowing that Sert's

army, scattered and ready now, in a thousand secret nooks throughout

the domed city-state, would see the signal, know that the dome turret

was in friendly hands, and attack the Masters.

And he was right. Even as the _impervite_ section slid back into its

accustomed position he heard the Underling siren sound from one distant

corridor--then another sounded, and another, and another, until from

every weaving tunnel of the labyrinth that was this future city Larry

heard the ear-splitting tumult that was madness and death to the

Masters.

Then a small company of Underlings burst from one tunnel. Larry leaped

from the turret, grasped the leader, thrust him into the control room

and shouted, "Guard this! I have a little job to take care of!"

Jaw set, eyes hard, he was off toward the laboratory where--if the gods

were good to him--he would find the girl he loved and the miserable

parody of a man whom he most certainly did not love.

As he ran, his footsteps followed the tempo of an ever-increasing

volume of sound. Never before, he thought, since the creation of the

world had begun in the high celestial music of the spheres, had mankind

ever fought a life-and-death battle with such an accompaniment.

All about him--it seemed from every corridor, out of each vibrant

metal wall, through every air duct that fed the gigantic new world

labyrinth--came the hideous howling of the electrosonic intensifiers

which had been his invention.

His trip was not a short one, and as he sped toward the laboratory

he saw many men, both friends and antagonists. The Underlings,

straight-shouldered with a confidence born of the up-reaching hope for

liberty, were moving ever onward and onward against the foes. Armed

with lances, crude swords, whatever tools and instruments they could

lay hands on, they were pouring from the recesses of the city-state to

charge upon the heart of the city, where dwelt the Masters.

And in the van of each group was one Underling who carried as his

weapon a small, square box in which a whirling disc made music of

madness.

Larry saw no pitched battles. This was a strange warfare; one in which

the Masters possessed superior armaments--but could not use them.

Time and again a lone Master would break from some cubicle to face,

for a moment, the advancing host of erstwhile slaves. For seconds his

heat-ray gun would pour scorching death into their fore, blasting into

blackened hulks those who led.

But ever and again the Master, snapping on his golden force-field as

protection against the meaner weapons of the Underlings, would fall

prey to the ear-bursting delirium of the howler; would stagger, would

scream and reach for his _menaudo_, would die in a mist of shrieking

madness.

And then, suddenly, Larry was near his goal, and from a side corridor a

familiar figure was racing toward him. It was Sert, and the Underling

chieftain's face was radiant with joy.

"You have succeeded, Larry Wilson! Soon the day will be ours!"

Larry shouted, "You're driving them back, Sert--but to where? They're

not standing and fighting."

"No. They'll concentrate at the central plaza. But our number is

growing each minute. Come with us and be in at the death--"

Larry shook his head.

"This," he said, nodding toward the laboratory now in sight, "is where

I get off. I've got a private score to settle with a grinning little

ape named Harg. Give 'em hell, fella! See you later!"

And alone he burst into the room in which, a short time before, he had

left Harg and Sandra.

* * * * *

Sandra was there, and in the excitement of the moment it did not seem

strange to Larry that at the sight of him she should spring forward

to throw her arms about him, drawing his face down to hers; nor did

it seem strange that his lips should find hers of their own volition.

He knew now, that since first they had met on the grassy plain that

outskirtcd the ultra-world city-state this was inevitable.

Then harsher thoughts dominated him. There was a man's task yet to be

accomplished. He drew away from her, demanded, "Harg! Where is he?"

Sandra's face clouded.

"Gone to rally the Masters to a defense. News of the Underling advance

came to us here. He alone knew a way to combat--"

Larry laughed grimly. "There is no way. The sonic amplifier is killing

the Masters off like flies. Sert's men will soon hold the city."

"But Harg," the girl cried, "has issued orders that all Masters must

turn off their force-fields. He guessed the secret of the sonic weapon.

With no force-field to act as a conductor, our sound-weapons will be

useless. The Masters are gathering in the central plaza. From there

they plan to ray into extinction all Underlings who venture near

them--at distance too great for hand-to-hand conflict!"

"And they outnumber the Underlings!" This was bad news. Larry saw, now,

the one factor that would spell defeat to his friends. There were too

many Masters. By holding the Underlings at a distance, destroying them

with heat-rays, not permitting a close attack--

"But there is another way, Larry!" Sandra was crying. "I thought of it

after Harg left. And--I have already set the machine into operation."

Larry cried desperately, "I don't know what you're talking about,

Sandy. There is no other way. We're licked, and only because they

outnumber us. I must find Sert, tell him to sound the retreat before

all are killed--" He turned, sped for the doorway. Sandra's voice

followed him.

"But, Larry, all will be well! I'm--"

"Later!" he shouted back. Then once again he was racing through the

tortuous corridors of the domed metropolis. He caught up to Sert's

little band on the very edge of the spacious clearing which was the

central plaza of the city. That circular area must have been a full

mile in diameter, into it fed literally hundreds of corridors. This was

the heart of the future-city; the main aorta which fed to the smaller

outlying sections.

"Sert!" Larry's cry stopped the Underling leader's upraised arm from

falling. "Sert, do not lead an advance!"

Sert turned, wonderingly.

"But why not, Larry Wilson? See, they huddle in the center of their

doomed city like kine awaiting the knife. In a few minutes the city

will be ours."

"Look again! Do you see their force-shields? No. They've turned them

off. They're waiting there for you to attack. If you do--Good Lord!"

Larry stopped, horrified. For as he spoke a group of exhuberant

Underlings burst from a tunnel at the other end of the plaza, charged,

three dozen strong, down upon the huddled, waiting group of Masters

in the center. Their electrosonic machine was shrieking its high note

and the Underlings raced forward confidently, expecting to see the

dwarflings cringe and fall before the blasts of that potent weapon.

But instead, from the ranks of the Masters came a withering blast of

white radiation. The concentrated fury of a thousand heat-ray handguns.

There was a brief puff of smoke, the abbreviated scream of agony from

Underling throats--then silence! A small untidy heap of charred refuse

dotted the spot where gallant men had died instantly.

Sert's face paled. In a shaken voice he said, "It is again a stalemate,

Larry Wilson! We lack the man-power to storm that central group."

Larry said hollowly, "Not a stalemate, Sert. Taps! They've beaten us by

the oldest of warfare's means--superior numbers."

"You see no hope?"

"I see," Larry shook his head sorrowfully, "no--"

* * * * *

Then, where a temporary awed silence had fallen over the Underlings,

there arose a mighty shout that shook the dome overhead! There came

strange sounds, the clash of metal upon metal, the sharp bark of

musketry, the clatter of shod hoofs, bellowings and trumpetings Larry

could not begin to guess the reason for. Stranger still, the sound of

crying bugles--and grating commands in tongues harsh and foreign!

And from the corridors to right and left, main arteries of the plaza,

spewed an amazing host!

In the fore were a horde of short, dark men garbed in leathern kirtles,

with great golden greaves glittering on swart and hairy calves, with

burnished shields before them, with broad-swords raised in brandishment

as they plunged toward the startled central knot of Masters.

And immediately behind these came, trumpeting and thundrous-hoofed,

a dozen elephants in war-trappings of Byzantine splendor! At

express-train speed the pachyderms lumbered down upon the shrinking

knot before them.

From another corridor spilled yet another incredible host. Four score

of men, bearded and moustached, gay-uniformed in the blue and crimson

of the _francs-tireurs_, the bitter guerrilla invaders who struck

terror into Prussia in 1870. Horse-mounted were these, and their

mounts' nostrils quivered with the ancient lust for battle as they

hurtled ever forward.

In an endless stream, then, came the man-power that alone could win

this battle! And never a stranger host had taken a single field.

Here, on swift, hairy ponies, rode a handful of wild-eyed Huns clad

in ragged furs. There, from another corridor, burst a clanking

foot-legion that rallied beneath the banner of Darius. Behind these,

pressing to get through and into the thick of the fray, came a troop of

butternut-uniformed musketeers beneath a barred and starred red banner.

Their rebel yell sounded shrill and deadly above the tumult.

Sert's face was blank with astonishment, but his fighting heart knew

but one thing. That here, by a miracle, were the reinforcements he

needed. With a great cry, "For freedom!" he raised his arm--and from

their separate tunnels broke forth the Underlings to do battle,

shoulder to shoulder, with those who fought their cause!

Not easily was that cause won. After their first instant of shock, the

Masters raised their weapons against the diverse foe. Flaming death

answered the barks of muskets, colored rays of potency unspeakable

poured destruction into the close-pressed ranks of those who stormed

the plaza.

But here were a hundred legions, all trained to war and inured to the

fact of impending death. Where one man fell another took his place.

Spears, arrows, even flaming projectiles filled the air. From somewhere

came the biting chatter of a Gatling gun, pouring its slow racket of

death into the ranks of the dwarflings.

Force-fields went on--and Masters died as the Underlings' sonic torture

burst their brains. Force-fields went off--and Masters died beneath

barbaric weapons from ages long forgotten. The metal floor ran red with

blood, blood was grit when mingled with charred ashes that had been

men.

There could be but one result. It came at last when a cowering Master

leader threw both arms skyward, pleading a truce, acknowledging a

defeat!

* * * * *

Larry found himself in the front rank of the attackers. How he had

gained that spot he did not know, nor did he ever afterward remember.

He had a confused recollection of having raced forward, Sert on his

left side, his right flank guarded by a huge, blond Viking warrior in

scarlet casque and birnie; he found that the smoking heat-ray gun in

his hand was exhausted. And he knew his eyes were still seeking the

one Master on whom he had pledged his personal vengeance. But that one

Master, the Master of Masters, Harg-Ofortu, was not to be found.

Perhaps he was one of those headless bodies who had fallen beneath the

short-swords of the Carthaginians, or he might have been one of those

impaled by the lances of Attila's wayward horde. Possibly even--but

Larry hated to remember the typically feminine way in which that tiny

band of Amazon allies had treated their foes....

And then Sandra was beside him, sharing with him the triumph of the

Masters' surrender. And to her he turned for an answer.

"You did this, Sandra?"

"I tried to tell you, Larry. It was the only thing I could think of.

From Harg we learned how to operate the Time-warp machine. I set its

dials, brought these warriors through to aid our cause."

"But the language! They speak a thousand tongues!"

Sandra smiled, and for the first time Larry noticed that she, like

himself, was now wearing the _menaudo_ of the Masters. "And with this,

so do I."

Sert was addressing the forlorn leader of the beaten Masters. "A new

order rules. From this day henceforth there shall be peace beneath our

Dome. No longer will there be Underlings, you Masters. Acknowledge this

truth and your fellows will be spared. Together we will build a new

civilization to surpass the old."

The Master nodded humbly. "So be it!" he said.

But in the moment of armistice came the last and greatest blow. A

droning sounded throughout the vast arena, and the voice of Harg

filled the plaza.

"Think you that you have won, barbarian from the past?"

Sandra's eyes filled with alarm. She clutched Larry's arm tensely.

"Harg! But where does he speak from?"

As if in answer to her words, Harg spoke again, his voice rage-choked

and malevolent.

"Know then, fools, that in a few moment's time the last Master

dies--and with him dies the civilization of this accursed planet! When

I draw back this lever--"

Larry stiffened.

"The dome control turret! He has taken it again!"