The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.
He'd never been there before, yet already he
was a fabulous legend--a dire, hateful legend.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and an
odd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him the
little winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; he
could only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minarets
that twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.
One part of his mind said, _This is it, this is the fabled city of
Mars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,
and I must go down there._ Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep in
the primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut and
urgent. _Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from the
city before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,
a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like those
who came before you._
He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantastic
beauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought to
close them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,
staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thin
wail of music reached him, saying, _Come into the city, come down into
the fabled city_.
He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.
The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it
touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the
towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.
His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an
instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red
dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin
strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.
He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his
face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone
for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the
sides of the canal and never look back.
He told himself, "I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,
and this is not real."
He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until
he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the
canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his
haste. He wouldn't look again.
The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It
told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and
wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,
waiting for him to claim them.
He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head
began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,
beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.
When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.
When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy
gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,
"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!" The music was richer now, as if
it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.
A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue
street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue
leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew
the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the
sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, "I give you the welcome
of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it
may be set in the records of the dreamers."
The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, "I am Eric
North!"
The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was
white. He cried aloud, "It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the
Legend." He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal
hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.
* * * * *
When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about
him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.
Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man
came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang
deafened Eric and the man cried, "You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.
Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city."
The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took
fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, "Whips, bring the whips," and
fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless
feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed
through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates
closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart
hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and
looked behind to be sure he was safe.
The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, "Come back,
Eric North. Come back to the city."
He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until
his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.
And deep inside him some part of his mind said, "This is a madness you
cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,"
and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.
He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings
of the great door, crying, "Let me in! Please, take me back into the
city."
And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a
city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and
minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound
of the city was a macabre song of hate.
He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the
beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it
was beautiful again.
He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the
motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he
stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat
had not entirely failed him after all.
He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to
call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when
it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.
And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the
canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and
the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he
was beyond the range of the illusions.
And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,
and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which
he had been pitted.
The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield
against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had
failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised
pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense
against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly
to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and
the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as
the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.
He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,
whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he
had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they
were as ugly as the second city had been.
Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the
arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver
indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve
North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he
would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they
had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would
be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.
The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had
established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's
face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.
He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that
he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a
swift leap, calling, "Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?"
The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, "Garve,"
wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note
clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently
and began to read. Garve had scrawled:
"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked
down to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town
of some sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but
thought I'd better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for
hours now, and I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to
follow, come straight down the canal."
Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently
Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been
so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.
Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric
selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They
were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed
with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That
should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began
walking back to the canal.
* * * * *
The return back to the city would always live in his mind as a
phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he
came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the
wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same
tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the
wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen
wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.
He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. "Eric," the voice said. "Eric,
you did come back." The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,
seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of
his brother. The figure cried, "The hat! You fool, get rid of that
hat!" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked
so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung
away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.
The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome
than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, "Come," and
Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.
Garve said, "Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet
someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from
this side of the city."