"Or--well, trouble in the sky?"
Artana shook his head, puzzled.
Ross answered his unspoken question. "One of our ships was destroyed on
our flight from the Earth. And I don't think it was an accident."
"A rocket ship?" Artana sat up. Then his eyes flashed. "Horta?" he
murmured, as if asking himself a question.
Moore leaned forward. "Has Horta been up to anything in the ray
business?" he asked eagerly.
Artana shook his head slowly. "Lord Horta and his savants have made
progress in employing the R-ray, drawn from the red stars, as you
taught him." He knit his brows. "I have heard of nothing else--but
wait. He and his most learned men have worked secretly for many moons,
I know not to what purpose. You think--"
"We think," cut in Ross grimly, "that it's possible that Lord Horta may
be cooking up something new in the ray field."
Artana's face darkened. "If that is true," he murmured, "we may have
the explanation of the disappearance of two of my brigades. I sent them
out in force to scout Horta's territory. No word has come from them."
His hand clenched. "A war of rays--here on the Moon!"
* * * * *
Ross and Moore exchanged uncomfortable glances. They had fought in the
terrible war on the Earth when nations battled with the new red ray,
and whole fleets of the ancient steel warships were sunk by the first
of the ray-torpedoes, before the Council of Seven was formed to rule
all Earthly affairs. And they had served in that first Moon-flight,
and had slain with rays the first Moon armies who had resisted the
intrusion of the Earth-fleet. Was history to repeat itself--in reverse,
with Horta's Moon machines raking the Earth with death? Perhaps that
strange Purple Death of the Trowbridge message?
Ross made his resolve. "If your armies can't find out what Horta's
doing, Artana, perhaps my fleet can."
"Your fleet?" Artana looked up, a flicker of hope in his somber eyes.
"You mean that you would fly over the Caverns?"
Ross nodded. "And study the work he has done. Photograph it, and
report to you and the Queen. If you then wish us to try to destroy it,
I'll take the responsibility. I feel that the Council of Seven would
approve."
Artana stood up, his eyes alight. "Ah, Ross! If you succeed, and bring
peace to the Moon people, your planet and mine will do you homage!"
Ross flushed sheepishly. "Well, maybe. For my part I'd rather be
overlooked. You know, there's an old, old saying where I come from, 'A
hero today, a bum tomorrow.'"
"A 'bum'?" echoed Artana, puzzled.
"A-a sort of--" Ross remembered in time that there were no beggars on
the Moon. Nor panhandlers, nor paupers, nor hobos. "Oh, never mind.
We'll take off in the first hour of light, and see what we can see."
"In the meantime," Artana hastened to say, "you must sleep." He ushered
them into a circular chamber, the elevator that would take them to
the spacious under-world of the Moon. Closing the door, he pressed a
button. The resultant motion was almost imperceptible, but Ross and
Moore knew they were being hurtled toward the Moon's core at hundreds
of miles an hour. Almost instantly the chamber stopped, the shock of
cessation being oddly cushioned. Artana opened the door, and the three
stepped into the great rotunda whence radiated the life and activity
of the Province of Peak Four. Moon people hurried to and fro, only a
few stopped to stare at the Earth-men. Bakers were hawking the curious
brick-shaped loafs of bread, and the fruits that had grown from the
seeds from the Earth were stacked on stands. Drapers stood by their
gossamer-like fabrics. Soldiers hurried to and fro in squads, and their
presence explained to Ross and Moore the inhabitants' disinterest in
the Earth-men.
The spacious chamber to which Artana led them was guarded by two tall
sentries, and tastefully furnished. The Lord of the Peaks cast a
last glance about, said, "I shall call you at the first light," and
vanished.
Moore sank gratefully down upon a high-piled bed. "Well, if this is to
be my last night's sleep, I'm going to do well with it."
"You're always worrying," chaffed Ross. But he lay, awake, mind racing,
long after Moore's even breathing denoted that the chubby navigator's
fears had succumbed to his fatigue.