Surrounded by its many suns, Lysor scorned
Federation rule and plotted the destruction of our
galaxy. So Craig Nesom came in a starship to this--
PLANET OF DREAD
By Dwight V. Swain
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
February 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Face slack, eyes glazed with terror, the Baemae wench came forward
through the gate into the walled ring.
An appreciative murmur ran through the crowd. As one, the assembled
Kukzubas barons and their ladies pressed closer about the pit-rail,
tense and eager with anticipation.
High on his dais, Lord Zenaor chuckled. "A pretty thing, is she not,
Vydys?" he queried of the woman who sat beside him, dark vision of
sinister beauty.
Hot with strange passion, the woman's eyes clung to the cringing figure
in the pit. The pink tip of her tongue flicked at her lips. "If you can
see your way to calling any Baemae woman pretty. For my part, I prefer
her in her proper role, as prey here in the games."
"So--?" Lord Zenaor raised a mocking coal-black eyebrow. "No wonder
they call you 'Vydys the Cruel' behind your back, my dear! If you had
your way, there'd soon be no Baemae left alive to serve us."
Visibly, Vydys stiffened. Her head came round--dark eyes flashing,
jet hair ashimmer; and when she spoke her words were edged with fury.
"Have a care, Zenaor! I've no taste for taunts, even from the chief of
barons."
"The truth is no taunt." Zenaor gave not a fraction. "Because pain is
your passion, you drive our serfs to rebellion."
"Rebellion--!" The woman's eyes glinted like crater diamonds. "How many
of the Baemae have flown south with their cursed discs already, off to
the djevoda ranges? There lies your rebellion--and only torture will
stop it!" Her laugh rang gall-bitter. "Or perhaps, like that Narla,
you believe we should free them?"
"Keep your tongue off my daughter!" It was a command that brooked no
discussion. "As for the free range, the discs, cross them off. They'll
soon be no menace."
"Oh?" Vydys' lips twisted, mocking. "No, doubt you have a plan, my lord
Zenaor--"
"I have a plan indeed." Zenaor's tone was icy. "One word too many, and
you'll die as its first step."
Vydys faltered.
"You see, my dear, our goals are different." Zenaor clipped, smiling
thinly. "You lust after pain, I after power. As chief of barons, I mean
to have it--and that means holding down the Baemae. But I'll waste no
time on half-way measures. When I strike, it will be in my own way, and
it will win. And"--now he leaned forward, close to Vydys--"and even one
lovely as you shall die if in that moment she plots against me."
Vydys' nostrils flared. But before she could speak, the chief of barons
turned away. He raised his voice till it echoed through the great
vaulted hall. "Wench! Are you ready?"
Below him, in the ring, the Baemae girl's lips moved in a soundless
agony of panic.
A ripple of laughter rose from the crowd. Packed bodies shifted and
pressed tighter. Hungrily, mercilessly, a thousand eyes appraised the
evening's victim.
Zenaor said, "Wench, tonight you meet the Lady Vydys' roller. If you
survive, I'll make a place for you in my own harem. If not...." He
shrugged: turned back to Vydys. "My dear--"
Vydys' high, proud breasts rose on a quick-drawn breath. Lithely, she
twisted in her seat. "My helm, serf!"
The rawboned Baemae youth who wore her livery lifted the ornate
metal headdress from its case; stepped forward. His face was pale,
sweat-beaded. His hands trembled.
Vydys' eyes distended. "Why do you shake so, carrion?"
The youth's voice quavered. "She--that girl...." He floundered, groped.
"She--she is my sister, Lady Vydys."
"Your sister!" The mask of anger fell away from Vydys' face. "You mean
she is of your blood? You love her?"
Mutely, the serfman nodded.
"And you would suffer were she to meet my roller?"
Again, the liveried Baemae's head moved in silent affirmation.
* * * * *
A light gleamed deep in Vydys' eyes, all dark and evil. Once more, she
ran the small, pink tongue along her lips, as if savoring the tension
of the moment.
"You--you will spare her--?" The youth's words came out a hoarse,
cracked whisper.
"Spare her--and spoil the evening's entertainment?" The Lady Vydys'
ripe lips curved in a small, slow smile that was straight from hell.
"Surely, serf, you would not ask that of me!" And then: "Place my helm
upon me."
A new tremor ran through the serving-serf. Wordless, he slid the
shining metal casing down over the jet hair, seated it carefully upon
the woman's head.
Approvingly, she nodded. "Now, seat yourself before me--here, where I
can watch your face."
Stiff-lipped, the youth obeyed.
Vydys laughed softly; turned to Zenaor. "You see, my lord? Down there
in the ring will be the wench, pitting herself against my roller; while
here close by me sits her brother, suffering with her. It offers a new
kind of titillation!"
Zenaor shrugged. "As you will it."
Eyes sparkling, Vydys leaned forward. "Let in the roller!"
An iron gate lifted. A faceted four-foot sphere bowled slowly out of
the shadowed passage into the walled ring.
The roller.
A strange creature, in any evolutional pattern. Its surface was
completely covered with leathery, inch-wide octagonal pads, each
centered with a third-inch cup that served as combined mouth and mode
of movement. For through these cups it both took nourishment and pulled
itself in whatever direction it sought to go by applying differential
suction to the surface on which it rested.
Now, in the center of the ring, it hesitated; paused there, teetering,
like some great ball come to rest.
The Baemae girl caught her breath, the sound rasping over-loud in the
sudden hush that had fallen upon the crowd. Eyes wild and wide, she
shrank, back against the wall, hands splayed out flat against the
polished duroid surface.
Still smiling, Vydys spoke to her victim--gentle, coaxing: "This is
a game wench--a game betwixt you and me. Do not fear the roller. In
itself it is harmless, a mere ball of flesh with so little brain that
it barely knows enough to feed. But through this helm"--she touched her
headdress--"my thoughts can project waves that stimulate its nervous
system, so that it moves wherever I may will it. You understand?"
The girl below gave no sign that she had even heard.
Vydys pressed on: "So, now, I'll spin the roller at you, while you try
to dodge it. That is the game. To win, you have only to leap atop the
thing and scale the ring-wall."
Among the barons, someone laughed aloud, harsh and explosive.
The Baemae youth who was the victim's brother buried his face in his
hands.
Still the girl in the pit said nothing. She seemed to have eyes only
for the roller.
Zenaor's black brows drew together. "Get on with it!"
Vydys murmured, "The game begins...." Her face set in a mask of
concentration.
Down in the ring, the roller began to move once more. Slowly at first,
then faster, it bowled around in a long curve.
The girl slid along the wall, keeping space between her and the
creature.
Vydys' lips parted, peeled back over sharp white teeth. Her fingers
wrapped tight around the throne-arm.
The roller swerved sharply. Gathering speed, it hurtled towards the
girl.
She darted sideways.
The roller struck the wall with a meaty thud. Then, rotating so
rapidly its pad-facets blurred, it raced along the pitside, close on
its victim's heels.
The girl gave a small, shrill cry of panic, and fled across the center
of the ring.
Again the roller spun; lanced after her.
* * * * *
The girl threw herself aside barely in time. The roller missed her by
scant inches. Racing on, once more it struck the ring-wall, even harder
than before ... caromed off like a huge ball bouncing ... hurtled back,
straight at the girl.
She stumbled to the left, seeking desperately to dodge it.
The roller veered.
The girl screamed; twisted.
But not quite far enough, nor fast enough. One side of the speeding
roller ticked her; knocked her backward. She sprawled in a heap on the
ring's floor.
The crowd roared; strained forward.
Up on the dais, the Baemae youth surged to his feet--fists clenched,
face working.
Vydys laughed aloud ... a throaty chortle, somehow hideous, more
befitting fiend than woman. "Ah, Zenaor! Was that not well turned?" Her
features shone with strange, evil radiance.
The chief of barons shrugged, face wooden.
Down in the ring, the roller came to rest. Panting, shaking, the Baemae
girl scrambled to her feet.
Vydys' smooth brow furrowed. Slowly, the roller began to move again--in
a spiral, this time, circling and converging on its fear-straught prey.
Sobbing, the girl tottered backward.
Swiftly, the roller changed course ... spun towards her.
The girl fled, running off wildly at right angles, not even pausing to
look behind her.
Veering once more, the roller raced to intercept her. Too late, the
girl threw a mad glance back over her shoulder.
But now the roller was upon her, striking at her legs even as she tried
to spring aside. There was the brittle _crack_ of a femur snapping. A
scream--high, shrill, alive with surging terror.
The crowd shrieked its delight.
Only then a new voice slashed through the uproar: "No--! No!"
The roller thudded against the wall; lay still. Heads came round,
searching for the shouter.
They found him on the dais, with Vydys and Zenaor. It was the Baemae
youth, the downed girl's brother. "Curse you!" he shouted, face white
with fury. "Curse you all, you vermin!"
He turned as he yelled; started towards Vydys.
She went rigid. Beside her, the Lord Zenaor brought up his hand in a
quick, tight gesture.
Guards lunged forward, weapons drawn and ready.
The youth whipped a knife from beneath his livery. Slashing, he leaped
back, eyes rolling wildly.
But there was no escape ... only the closing circle of hard-faced
guards with their leveled fire-guns.
The youth's face set in a sort of feverish desperation. Whirling, he
charged down from the dais, straight for the walled ring.
Curses rang from the barons, shrieks from their ladies. Bellowing,
trampling, they threw themselves clear of the flashing blade.
The youth reached the ring-wall. For an instant he poised atop it,
wavering. Then, tight-lipped, he leaped down into the pit itself and
stumbled to the side of his fallen sister.
The crowd breathed again.
On the dais, Vydys tensed and gripped the throne-arms till her knuckles
gleamed white as djevoda ivory. The scarlet lips quivered in a grimace
of hate.
Below, the roller lurched into motion. A thousand crushing, crippling
pounds of flesh and gristle, gaining momentum with every second, it
spun across the ring.
The youth leaped to meet it. Savagely, he slashed at the thing's
leathery outer hide.
But the pads turned away his blade. Ball-like, not even slowing, the
sphere knocked him aside as, moments earlier, it had the girl.
Then, while he still fought for balance, it was past him, hurtling
ever faster ... thundering towards the spot where his sister lay in a
huddled heap upon the floor.
She tried to rise. Failed.
The rocketing roller cut short her scream.
Then the creature was bowling to a stop on the ring's far side. A hush
fell over the great vaulted hall.
* * * * *
Stiffly, the rawboned Baemae youth dragged himself up from the place
where he had fallen. Wordless, shambling, he crossed the pit to where
the crumpled, broken thing that had been his sister lay; he knelt there
beside her for a moment.
Then he arose again and stared up at the packed, engulfing mass of
Kukzubas barons and their ladies ... looked on beyond and above them to
the dais--to Vydys and to Zenaor.
The silence echoed.
Thick-voiced, he spoke, then: "You've killed her, curse you--you filth
that call yourselves Kukzubas barons!"
"True, carrion." This from dark Vydys. "And now you die beside her!"
She concentrated. The roller turned, wending its blood-trailing way out
from the wall once more.
But incredibly, the youth who wore Vydys' black-and-silver livery
gave the gore-drenched thing no heed. Slowly at first, then faster
and faster, his shoulders shook till he burst out in a wild gale of
laughter.
"So I die!" It was the mirth of a madman. "Go on, you fools! Kill me!
But I die holding a secret that spells your doom, also!"
Up on the dais, Lord Zenaor stiffened. He caught Vydys' arm. "Wait!
Hold back the roller!"
The youth raved on: "Our day is coming, you cutthroats--the day of
the Baemae! We have summoned one who will sit in judgment on you,
a man from the far Federation! Already, this moment, his starship
approaches--"
Zenaor surged from his seat. His bull-roar filled the hall: "The
night's games are over! I, Zenaor, decree it!" And then, to his
guardsmen: "Take that serf to my chambers!"
The crowd swirled in tumult. Dark Vydys turned on him. "You cannot--!"
"I can, and I do!"
For a moment their eyes locked ... a taut, vibrant moment.
Then the woman looked away. "If you will it...." The words came out
sullen.
But already Zenaor was turning, striding off through the light-wall
that served as backdrop for the dais, away to the force-shift that led
to his quarters.
Out again at the seventh level, he stalked into the living-chambers.
His daughter, Narla, seated by an antique scanner unit, looked up as
he entered, grey eyes cool and speculative. "What--? Is the evening's
butchery over already?" Scorn was in her voice.
Zenaor's fists knotted. "Once too often you'll tempt me to violence,
daughter." Pivoting, he stepped to a wall-stand, slopped taxat into a
bor-glass, and drank it down.
The girl's brows drew together in the slightest of frowns. Rising in
one smooth, graceful motion that set her flaxen hair to shimmering in
the caron-light, she followed the chief of barons into the next room.
"Is something wrong, father? Were Vydys' tastes more than usually
hideous tonight?"
The shaft-bell clanged before Zenaor could answer. Stepping around his
daughter, he strode back to the entrance.
* * * * *
Already, guards were dragging in the rawboned Baemae youth from the
pit. Blood smeared his right cheek. Shackles hung heavy upon him.
"Good," Zenaor nodded. "Leave the serf with me, and return to your
quarters."
The guard in charge stared. "Leave him with you--alone?"
"Alone."
The guard shot the Lord Zenaor a quick, sidelong glance. Then, saluting
smartly, he about-faced and left the chambers, followed by his fellows.
Curiosity flickered in Narla's grey eyes. "Father--"
He turned on her, stony-faced. "You, too."
"I--?"
"You go to your chambers--and stay there. I wish to be alone with the
prisoner."
The girl opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.
Flushing slightly under her father's cold, impassive gaze, she stepped
through the light-wall into her own quarters.
Now, at last, Zenaor faced the shackled Baemae.
"You know, of course, that you are doomed to die?"
Mutely, the youth nodded.
"Yet there are ways and ways of dying. Slowly, painfully. Quick, clean,
easy."
The serf said nothing.
"There are things I would know--things that have to do with Baemae
treason." Zenaor's lips drew thin. The black eyes were never colder.
"What is this nonsense of someone coming from across the void, from the
Federation? You know there are no grounds--that the Federation holds no
jurisdiction!"
All the fire seemed to have gone out of the youth. He shrugged
sullenly. "All I know is that a one called Tumek learned of some new
weapon you planned to use against the free Baemae in the djevoda lands
to the south. Secretly, then, he sent word to the Federation, saying
that if you ever used the thing you planned, it would imperil all other
worlds as well as ours."
No flicker of emotion showed in Zenaor's lean, high-boned face. "And do
you believe him?"
"Who am I to know or judge? Baemae are only good for dying!" The youth
gave vent to a bitter laugh. "But at least the far Federation thought
the peril was worth a starship."
"And the man--the one they send to weigh the facts here?"
"His name is Craig Nesom. I know no more than that about him."
Silence. An eddying sort of silence that crept in from the walls and up
from the floors and down out of the ceiling.
Then, abruptly, the Lord Zenaor laughed.
"So you'll die," he clipped. "But at least you shall go knowing that
you're the only man, Baemae or baron, to learn the truth about my
weapon. You shall judge it for me with your dying breath--prove to me
that it can truly give me power and strength for conquest...."
He was striding away even as he spoke--striding across the room to a
wall set off with a delicate interlay of panels.
One slid aside beneath his hand. Beyond lay a chill, bleak laboratory
chamber.
Still smiling, Zenaor led the shackled Baemae forward ... shoved him
through a port-like door into a transparent cubicle mounted on a stand.
"Now ... one moment...." With quick efficiency, the chief of barons
closed the cubicle's door and sealed it. Then, taking a tiny glass
ampule from the nearest bench, he dropped it into a slot atop the
cubicle and brought down a crusher valve upon it.
* * * * *
The ampule splintered. For an instant light glinted on sparkling,
dust-like grains descending, floating out in lazy spirals through the
sealed cubicle's still air.
But only for an instant. For then, suddenly, the grains were growing,
uniting, multiplying, melding. In a finger-snap, grey slime began to
form on the unit's glistening, sterile floor.
A slime that swirled and crawled and eddied....
The shackled serfman screamed.
Not that anyone could hear it. The cubicle was far too skillfully
designed for that.
With grim satisfaction, cold appraisal, the Lord Zenaor watched the
slime-tide rippling higher. Carefully, he noted reaction time ... the
victim's grimaces and contortions and frantic terror.
So preoccupied was he that he didn't even hear Narla approaching till
her voice rang out behind him, raw with sudden shock: "_Ourobos--!_"
Zenaor spun by instinct.
His daughter's lovely face showed stiff with horror. "Father...." She
choked; retched.
Cold-eyed he waited till the spasm had passed before he spoke: "So ...
you find my secret shocking?"
"Shocking--?" The girl's eyes held disbelief. Then: "Father, not even
Vydys would do such! To bring those horrors here from Xumar--" She
shuddered. "You would not! You dare not--"
"I dare not?" Zenaor laughed harshly; gestured to the cubicle, and the
dying serfman engulfed in slime. "I have already done it!"
"Then--you would destroy our world--the Baemae--?" The girl's voice was
queer, choked.
"Are there only Baemae, then, on Lysor?" Anger carved Zenaor's jaw-line
deeper, sharper. "I am of the Kukzubas, Narla; the barons! My loyalty
is to them, for from them I draw my power."
"Your power!" Narla came erect at the word. "There is the answer,
father! Your loyalty is not to the barons or to Lysor, but to power
alone. You live for it. You bow before no other god."
"And so?" Zenaor stood inflexible as duroid.
The girl gestured helplessly. "What can I say, when not even the fate
of our world can touch you?"
"Our world--this puny dot that men call Lysor?" Zenaor laughed aloud.
"This planet of ours means nothing, Narla! By using the slime-things,
the ourobos, I can reach out across the void till even the far
Federation's chiefs will tremble! Nothing can stop me! Nothing!"
"I see." Narla's face was pale now, and her lips quivered. But she
stood proud and erect. "Then I have no choice, father. My loyalty is to
Lysor. I shall fulfill it."
"Even against me?"
"Even against you."
"So Vydys was right...." The chief of barons' coal-black eyes gleamed
hard and bitter. "Very well, then. As of this moment you shall be
treated as a prisoner--"
The clang of a com-box bell cut in upon him. Zenaor left his sentence
hanging; flicked the switch. "Yes?"
"My lord, a starship seeks to land here."
"A starship--?" Zenaor stiffened.
"Yes, my lord. The message says it bears an envoy from the Federation."
"His name?"
"Craig Nesom."
Slowly, Zenaor straightened. Cold-eyed, he glanced to the glassite
cubicle ... the dead serfman, swallowed up in the pulsing slime-mass of
the ourobos. He was hardly aware that Narla was stepping quietly from
the laboratory chamber.
Again, the voice from the com-box: "My lord...."
Harsh-voiced, face set, Zenaor threw back his answer: "Let them land."
And then, beneath his breath: "But blasting off alive will be another
matter!"
CHAPTER II
She was the loveliest creature Craig Nesom had ever seen.
Or perhaps that was only the hunger gnawing in him--the Earth-hunger,
the aching loneliness that comes to all men who dare to roam the far
void to the stars.
Yet here he stood, on this strange, mediaevalish world of Lysor.
And here _she_ stood before him, smiling.
Suddenly, to Craig Nesom, it didn't matter that they were met in an
alien city called Torneulan, or that she was Narla, daughter of Lord
Zenaor, whose rule here he had come to question. The crowd's clamor,
the bizarre costumes, the twin suns blazing like green balls of fire
against an emerald sky--what did they count now? For gazing into this
slim girl's eyes, he could almost forget duty and the Federation and
the starship, the darkling dreams of friends and homeland.
She said, "_Tarata, fodal_.... Welcome, voyager," and he was glad
that she paused and smiled and spoke ... glad for the psychmen's
hypnoscanner treatment that let him understand her words, her meaning.
He matched her pleasantry. "This drink called taxat--will you join me
for one?"
"A taxat--?" Her eyes danced. She took his arm. "Of course."
Only then, though her lips still curved, the grey eyes seemed to
shadow. Her voice dropped and now, all at once, it held a note of
bitterness, of tension: "If death stays its hand long enough for us to
drink it."
He stared. "_What--?_"
The shadow vanished. His companion laughed softly; tossed her head in
a gesture old as woman, so that the shimmering blonde hair swirled
and rippled. Only in her whisper did the dark undercurrent still show
through: "Please, come! Do not let your face betray us!"
For the fraction of a second Craig hesitated, weighing her with his
eyes. Of a sudden he was acutely aware of alien sounds and smells and
voices.
Only then the girl whispered, "Please...." again. Her eyes held mute
entreaty.
Stiff, wordless, Craig let her lead him through the throng and din of
the assembled barons and their ladies ... out of the emerald sunlight,
along the shadowy porticos of the tower itself.
The Central Tower. The Tower of Zenaor.
The girl darted a quick glance back over her shoulder, then whispered,
"Hurry! We must get out before they realize that we are missing!"
Catching Craig's hand in hers, half-running, she pulled him through the
nearest door, into the massive building.
There were corridors, then, and stairs and ramps, all leading downward,
till at last they moved along a dusty, dim-lit passageway that seemed
to stretch forever, echoing and empty.
Abruptly, Craig pulled the girl up short. "It's time for explanations,"
he clipped flatly.
The grey eyes rose to meet his, cool and steady. "You came to Lysor on
complaint of Tumek, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And he charged that my father planned aggression that might endanger
even your Federation?"
Again, Craig nodded.
The girl leaned close. "Do you realize what that means, Craig Nesom?
Can you imagine to what lengths the barons will go in order to keep you
from reaching Tumek?"
"But--"
A sudden echo of distant voices cut short Craig's answer. The girl went
rigid.
"Quick!" Her voice hissed taut, now; ragged. "This may be your only
chance to contact Tumek--if it is not too late already!"
After that there was no more time for words; only a hurrying through
the silent passage, till at last a ramp loomed before them and they
came out into the day once more.
* * * * *
Here the tower loomed distant and forbidding, a stark shaft lancing
up like a spear-head into the emerald sky. Here were the slums, the
quarters of the Baemae, with noise and filth and sweat-drenched bodies
that stank rank enough to turn the stomach of any Kukzubas baron.
Wordless, still gripping his hand, the girl who was Zenaor's daughter
led Craig into a low, cramped wineshop. Dirt scuffed up under his
feet. Boisterous voices rang out in shouts and curses, and the stench
of stale liquor hung all-pervasive. A couple reeled past, clinging to
each other for support. The woman's brief halter hung loose. She was
laughing drunkenly, and her near-naked body shone slick with sweat.
Beyond her, a man prodded a huge, weird, spider-like lifeform into a
shuffling dance atop a table.
Craig's jaw tightened. What was he doing in a place like this? How
foolish could even a Federation agent get?
But the girl's grey eyes still pleaded. Tense, raw-nerved, Craig,
followed her through the crowd and din to a table in the wineshop's
farthest corner.
A gaunt, stoop-shouldered oldster paused beside them. He wore the
tabard of the serf-class. "Yes?"
"Taxat." The girl spoke for Craig. Her fingers pressed hard against
his arm. Her whisper held a note almost of panic: "Quick! Smile, Craig
Nesom--before the baron's men suspect the truth and sweep down on us!"
Craig flicked a glance across the room. For the first time he became
aware of the presence of solitary loungers--cold-faced, tight-lipped
men who stood close by the walls, nursing stale drinks.
Their eyes were on him.
The back of his neck prickled. He bared his teeth in a thin, bleak
grin. "I might play better if I knew the game," he murmured beneath his
breath.
"Oh--?" the girl exclaimed, too loudly. She shot Craig a low-lashed,
coquettish glance and pushed closer, sliding her hand over his. Her
lips barely moved. "Later, you madman! For now, look at me as men look
at woman!"
She drew back as she spoke, flaunting her slim young body's charms
before him in a sinuous, sensuous motion. Her face was a pale oval
cameo of loveliness. Temptation, incarnate, came to life in the lithe
twist of her torso.
Craig caught his breath. "You devil--!"
The red lips quivered. "You see? You learn quickly!" The girl relaxed,
leaned against him. "Make love to me, voyager. Your arms--put them
about me. Kiss me...."
A numbness gripped Craig. His hands trembled.
But the girl's bare leg and hip pressed hard against him. Her hair
brushed his cheek, soft as perfumed silk, and her skin was smoother
than any satin. "Are you afraid of me, then, Craig Nesom?"
"Damn you!" he choked.
Only then her cool fingers slid beneath his uniform jacket, and all
at once his heart was pounding, pounding. The room, the noise, the
cold-eyed loungers--they faded till he could think of nothing but the
ripe lips and their invitation.
It was the loneliness, he told himself; the old Earth-hunger.
And here was this woman, Zenaor's own daughter, the antidote, his for
the taking.
He would have strained her to him, then, in spite of all his doubts and
thoughts of Federation rules and duty. But now the serving-serf was
back, bearing twin silver cones of taxat.
The girl pushed away from Craig, smoothing her tousled hair. Her face
was flushed. Her eyes dodged his.
A sort of senseless fury gripped him. "It's you who are afraid!" he
lashed. "You bring me here. You tempt me. But then you push away
again--"
The girl's eyes flashed. Once more, she leaned close. Her voice was
suddenly edged and brittle. "My task is to help you get to Tumek,
Earthman. To that end, and in order to help dispel suspicion, I have
no choice but to act like any Kukzubas woman who would rendezvous with
a lover in the Baemae quarter. But it goes no further. Now that I have
brought you here, a courier will take you on to Tumek. When he comes--"
She broke off sharply, eyes flaring sudden panic. "Craig--!"
Craig half-turned in his seat.
* * * * *
A man stood framed in the wineshop's doorway--a tall broad-shouldered
man who wore a high-crowned metal helmet like none that Craig had ever
seen before. His sweeping shoulder-cape bore the blaze of brocaded
heraldry of Lord Zenaor's service, and his eyes, his mouth, were cruel
and grim.
Now he paused on the wineshop's threshold, sweeping the place with a
glance that held no mercy.
A hush fell over the echoing, low-ceilinged room--the hush of fear.
Men's faces paled, and women shrank back as if to hide behind their
partners.
Beside Craig, Narla whispered, "That man--he is my father's chief of
guards, the master of the rollers! They must already guess you're on
your way to Tumek--"
Once more, Craig glanced round at the doorway--and found himself
staring straight into the guard-chief's eyes.
For a taut, vibrant moment the silence echoed. Then the man in the
doorway lashed, "On your feet, Earthling!"
Craig felt Narla's nails dig into his arm. Her whisper hissed so faint
it might have been imagination: "Window--room behind this...."
A knot drew tight in Craig Nesom's belly. Stiffly, he rose ...
side-stepped out from behind the table.
The hush of the room was deafening now. The wineshop revelers sat like
creatures frozen.
"You die now, Earthling!" snarled the guard-chief. "Here, beneath the
rollers, by Lord Zenaor's own orders."
He stepped aside as he spoke. A great, bulbous sphere rolled slowly
past him through the doorway.
Instinctively, Craig fell back a step.
"Stop him!" barked the guard-chief.
The words crackled. Two hard-faced loungers by the rear wall sprang
forward.
Inside Craig Nesom, something snapped. It came to him, of a sudden,
that here lay the answer to all his tension and loneliness and homeland
hunger. Here, channeled into rage and bruising violence....
With a curse, he smashed a fist square into the face of the foremost of
his assailants. A hoarse cry of anguish burst from the man's throat. He
crashed back across the nearest table.
Like lightning, the hand of the second flashed to an ornate belt-dagger.
Craig lunged for him in chill, surging fury. Savagely, he drove his
elbow into the soft flesh below the other's rib-casing.
The man reeled--retching, knife forgotten.
Craig caught him from behind by belt and shoulder ... half-hurled him
into the path of the roller that now spun forward.
Man and sphere came together with a thud of flesh against flesh.
Man went down, screaming.
But now other guardsmen were charging in. Whirling, Craig dashed for
the door to the back room. In another instant he was through it,
racing for the window.
A bolt of green fire seared past his head.
He ducked.
But in the same instant, something struck his shoulder a hammer blow
from behind. He sprawled on his knees. Through a strange, blurred haze
of pain, it dawned on him that now his right arm hung limp and useless.
Only then hands gripped him and dragged him forward, on to the window.
Incredulously, he discovered that it was the serving-serf, the grey,
stoop-shouldered oldster who had brought the taxat.
"Hurry--!" the man panted. "Climb up! I am not strong enough to lift
you...."
With a tremendous effort, Craig dragged himself erect. Clutching the
high sill, he tried to pull himself up to it.
The panting serfman heaved and boosted. "Hurry! Hurry--!"
A final surge. Momentarily, Craig sagged on his belly on the sill.
The serf tugged up the hanging legs and swung them through the opening.
From behind Craig came a crash of splintering timbers, a ring of
curses. He threw a dazed glance back.
Someone--the serf, perhaps?--had slammed shut a heavy door between
this rear room and the wineshop proper.
Now its bolt tore loose. The door burst inward. One of Zenaor's men
clawed past it, whipping up a weapon that might have been a pistol.
The old serf threw himself upon the guardsman.
Green fire blazed. The serf fell back.
* * * * *
Craig dropped from the window-sill into an alley. The haze of pain was
clearing now. He could run again, though his right arm still trailed
useless at his side.
Desperate, a hunted thing, he plunged off down the passage.
More cries behind him. More green fire blazing.
But these ancient alleys were like a maze, a rabbit-warren. Given ten
seconds' lead, a man had at least a gambler's chance to lose himself,
find safety.
And Craig had ten seconds ... ten seconds a grey-thatched serving serf
had bought with his own life.
The knowledge brought new sickness surging through Craig--a sickness
that drew no fragment from the pain of his wounded shoulder.
But he had no time for thoughts or bitterness or brooding. Not now. For
him, there were only the shouts behind and the blackness of the alley.
Only then, from his backtrail, a new sound rose ... the whisper of a
roller's leathery pads spinning over the cobbles.
Craig whirled.
Running blind, caroming from wall to wall as it sped through the narrow
alley, the sphere raced towards him.
Craig threw himself into the angle of the nearest doorway.
The sphere missed him by inches; hurtled on beyond.
Sweating, shaking, Craig stepped out once more.
But now the shouts came closer as guardsmen ran towards him, following
up the roller.
Pivoting, Craig stumbled on once more.
Before he had taken a dozen steps, the whispering of the roller drifted
to him.
The sphere was hurtling back again.
Panting, Craig wedged himself into the chimney-like shaft between two
buildings.
Again, the roller passed him. The guards' shouts echoed ever-louder.
It dawned on Craig that the crevice in which he stood stretched upward,
clear to a tiny wedge of emerald sky.
At least, up there, there'd be no rollers.
Wincing with pain at each movement of his wounded arm, bracing himself
with feet on one wall, back against the other, he worked his way slowly
up the shaft.
The roller again. Guards below him now.
Craig held his breath.
But they passed on without an upward glance. Painfully, he worked his
way still higher, till the emerald wedge widened into a shining vista.
Then--of a sudden, it seemed--he was out on a flat, sagging roof,
drinking in air in great, greedy gulps.
In the same instant, a shout hammered at him. He whirled.
A guard was running towards him across one of the nearby roofs. While
he watched, another appeared, then another.
Ring-like, they surrounded him, hemming him in with a circle of death.
And him with no weapon but the rooftop rubble.
Savagely, he cursed aloud--Zenaor, and Lysor, and the Federation,
and his job, and duty, and the girl called Narla; baron and Baemae,
Earth-worlds and aliens.
Why should he die here, alone and forgotten?
Yet die he would: he knew that now.
But at least, it would cost them.
He fumbled up a brick-sized stone ... took his stand against the
roof-edge, spraddle-legged.
The guards closed in--warily, now, but moving ever closer.
It was in that moment that the shadow fell across him.
At first Craig thought it was a cloud that had drifted between him and
the twin emerald suns.
Then he glimpsed the guards' faces, and knew it was not.
Dropping to one knee, left arm held high to shield his face, he stared
up at the thing now skimming towards him.
It was a disc--a shining, circular chip somehow suspended in the sky. A
man in a Baemae tabard balanced lithely on it.
Now, while Craig watched, the disc tilted and raced towards him.
A guard shouted. As one, he and his fellows lunged forward.
* * * * *
Craig hurled his stone. By more luck than good judgment, it caught the
foremost guard square in the forehead.
The man went down like an axed ox. His fellows stopped short.
In the same instant the disc whipped round in a tight spiral close by
Craig's side. "Get on! Flat between my legs...." The rider's voice
rasped raw and urgent.
Craig threw himself aboard.
Angry cries from the guards. Green fire spurting.
A shout from the discman: "Hold tight!"
Barely in time. Craig caught the disc's rim.
For as he did so, the disc's Baemae rider shifted weight sharply. With
startling suddenness, the saucer tilted to a forty-five degree angle.
Another shift. The disc cartwheeled round in a fast spin that had Craig
clinging with teeth and toenails.
Then the strange craft was climbing and spinning at once, faster and
faster. Even the Baemae pilot dropped to his knees and gripped the
disc's edge.
They cleared the roof ... peeled off in a wide arc that carried them
out and away from the building, still climbing.
The guards' shouts welled to a furious chorus of frustration. Craig
glimpsed more streaks of flame.
But they burned out far short of their target. The disc wheeled on, the
whole of the ancient Baemae quarter spread out below it.
The serf's fingers dug into Craig's shoulder. He was laughing now--a
fierce, bubbling chortle of triumphs. "You see, Earthman? These discs
will free Lysor of its thrice-cursed barons! With your aid, Craig
Nesom--"
Craig started. "You ... know my name--?"
"Did you think I came here to save you by mere chance?" The discman
chuckled. "No. I was your contact, to help take you to Tumek. But
Zenaor's guardsmen got to you before me. So I stood by and waited, in
hopes I could save you."
Craig nodded slowly. "Then you can give me some answers, too--about
this whole business."
"A few." The discman straightened. "But that can wait till we have
landed...."
Skillfully, he guided the disc off, away from the city; brought it down
on a tiny, brush-clotted river island. Stepping clear, he helped Craig
up and gripped his hand. "They call me Bukal."
"And you know me already."
They both laughed. Then the discman's broad, bronzed face sobered. "You
seek explanations...."
"At least, they'd help me," Craig nodded, grinning wryly.
"Then they must be brief. That Zenaor's a devil. He'll trace us in
minutes, on a daylight landing." Bukal kicked the disc. "Do you know
what this is?"
Craig eyed it curiously. Flat, polished, of plastic or metal, it
measured a good six feet across. Beyond that, he could tell little,
save that it had neither moving parts nor control equipment, so far as
he could see.
"It flies, and it saved my neck," he said finally. "That's all I know
about it."
Again, Bukal laughed. A grim laugh without mirth. "Then I'll tell you
rover. This thing is a weapon--a weapon of peace, one that can't kill;
yet it's going to break the cursed Kukzubas barons' power forever."
"But how--?" Craig groped for words.
"How does it work, you mean?" The bronzed, stocky Bukal chuckled.
"Magnetic waves--you know about them?"
"Yes, after a fashion."
"Then think of them flowing from pole to pole like some great river."
Craig stared. "You mean--these discs of yours ride the current--?"
"As chips ride a stream," the other nodded. "The secret lies in
the alloy's basic pattern, its molecular structure. It serves as a
filter--a trap that catches enough wave-power to lift and carry."
"And to maneuver--"
"You tilt the disc. That breaks the flow-pattern." Shifting, Craig's
rescuer peered out through the brush that fringed the river's edge. He
gestured. "When our visitors get closer, I'll show you."
* * * * *
Craig followed the other's movement: saw a boatload of men in guards'
regalia cutting swiftly toward the islet from the river's near shore.
"They're quick," he acknowledged. And then, prompting: "You said discs
were weapons."
Bukal's eyes went dark, brooding. "How much do you know of our ways
here on Lysor?"
"Only that you have two groups, barons and Baemae--"
"Do you know how the barons hold their power?"
"No."
"They do it with a weapon--a barrier ray, they call it--" Bukal's mouth
had a bitter twist--"It sets up zones of death around the cities, the
great estates--binds us to our serfdom."
"And the discs--"
"They give us a bridge across the barrier--a highway to freedom to end
our thousand years of bondage!" Of a sudden a tight wolf-grin wiped the
bitterness from Bukal's broad face. He surged to his feet. "Here. Let
me show you!"
A cry of excitement rose from the guardsmen out on the river. The boat
arced towards Craig and bronzed Bukal.
The Baemae laughed aloud. Bending, he seized the disc and lifted it on
edge. "You see? It is light!"
Craig brought up his own hand beneath it. For all its size, the thing
seemed hardly heavier than balsa.
Gesturing him back, Bukal swung the disc clear of the ground, holding
it waist-high, plate-flat. "Now, I spin it...." He whipped it round as
if its center were mounted on a pivot, pulling through with his right
hand, guiding with the left.
The boat was almost to the island now. The guards were readying their
weapons.
Faster, till the wave-flow catches.... The disc was spinning like a top
now, parallel with the ground.
Craig threw a quick glance at the guard-boat. A trickle of sweat rilled
down his spine.
He looked back to Bukal and the saucer.
Suddenly, there was the slightest of jerks. The disc seemed to vibrate.
Bukal dropped his hands. For a moment the disc hung in the air,
spinning free.
And then, incredibly, instead of falling, slowly it began to rise!
Open-mouthed, Craig stared, still not quite believing.
But already, Bukal, was moving. Nimbly, he threw himself forward, flat
on the disc.
The plate stopped spinning. As if by magic, it hung suspended in the
air, swaying gently.
Bukal clambered to his feet, balancing on the polished surface as a
bather might upon a surfboard. Tilting skillfully, he sideslipped the
strange craft down a fraction lower. "Get on!"
Sucking in a breath, Craig slid aboard.
Bare yards away, the boat beached. Guards swarmed ashore, cursing and
shouting.
Nonchalantly, Bukal threw them a salute, and brought the disc round in
a lazy, climbing spiral.
Green fire, falling short. Fuming rage, wild curses.
"You see--?" The elation of triumph rang in Bukal's voice. "It's the
end of the barons, Earthman! How can any barriers hold back the Baemae,
when with discs like this we can sail above them? To the south, there's
the whole djevoda range and freedom! Already, we've colonies of our own
down there, free colonies, spread out so the barons can't strike at
them. We're turning out these discs by hundreds--emptying the cities,
stripping the estates to their last serfman--"
Frowning, narrow-eyed, Craig stared down at the panorama spread out
below them, then off to the glittering towers of Torneulan.
"Why send for me, then?" he cut in on the other. "Who's Tumek? What
made him call for help from the Federation?"
The discman's face sobered. "Why--?" He shrugged. "That I can't tell
you; it's still Tumek's secret."
"And ... who is he?"
"Tumek?" Light came back to Bukal's bronzed face. "Call him genius:
that says it."
"But--"
"A statue-caster by trade; old, now; one of the free Baemae craftsmen.
These discs--he devised them. The colonies, too--they're part of his
plan."
"Yet he sent for help...." Craig's frown deepened.
"He heard rumors of some new scheme of Zenaor's." Bukal shifted,
glanced up into the darkening sky. Tilting the disc, he crept it in
towards the outskirts of the city's bleak Baemae quarter. "When the
green day suns, Boh and Koh, set, and night comes, I'll drop you off
near him. He's hiding in the shop of a friend, Notal, in the Street of
Arts, waiting for you."
Craig nodded slowly. Thoughtfully, he looked away to the west, where
the nose of the starship showed above the buildings like a slim silver
lance-tip. "Good. Meantime...."
"Yes?"
"Meantime--"
* * * * *
It was a sentence never finished. Suddenly, out of a gap in the
roof of a ruined building below them, a blurred bulky mass vomited
towards them. Spreading as it hurtled upward, it stretched into
loose-patterned cordage.
Bukal went rigid. "A net-gun--!" He sideslipped the disc. It careened
low over the hovels.
But green flame speared up in their path--a great, roaring gout of it,
ten times the size of the blast that might come from any hand weapon.
Bukal jerked back. The disc spun crazily.
Then they were falling, men and disc alike, clinging precariously.
Barely in time, the craft leveled off a fraction, then tilted once more
to spill both Craig and Bukal to the ground, a jarring, ten-foot fall.
Guardsmen lunged up from cover, converging upon them.
Craig lurched to his feet, trying to shake the haze from his eyes.
But Bukal was ahead of him--shoving him bodily back into an alley. "Run
for it, you fool! I'll hold them--"
Staggering, half-falling, Craig fled into the shadows.
The starship. That was the answer. If he could only reach the starship!
This thing was beyond any one man's handling....
Panting, he crawled up a crumbling stair, searching the skyline for
some glimpse of the silver prow to guide him.
Then there it was, off to the west.
Craig's jaw tightened. That slim silver craft represented the strength
of the whole Federation. One word from it, and a fleet would come
roaring down upon Lysor.
But first, that word must be spoken.
He phrased the message in his mind: "DETAILS LACKING BUT NO DOUBT OF
ZENAOR AGGRESSIVE INTENTIONS AS SHOWN IN ATTEMPTS TO KILL ENVOY...."
He started to turn, to make his way back down the stairs.
But in that instant the sky went suddenly bright with a blaze of
light ... a light so dazzling that it left Craig blind and shaking.
A light that centered on the starship.
Craig clapped his hands across his eyes. A wave of sudden panic gripped
him.
Grimly--desperately, almost--he fought it down.
Slowly, his vision cleared. He let his hands fall.
Then he wished he had not.
For now the starship's silver prow no longer stood silhouetted against
the distant western sky. As if by magic, it had vanished, its passage
marked only by a slowly settling dust-smoke haze.
So this was Zenaor's answer to the Baemae challenge. He had destroyed
the Federation starship.
Craig Nesom stood on Lysor alone....