Gradually and so insidiously that the Velantian's dire warnings might
as well never have been uttered, the scene changed. Or rather, the
scene itself did not change, but the observers' perception of it slowly
underwent such a radical transformation that it was in no sense the
same scene it had been a few minutes before; and they felt almost
abjectly apologetic as they realized how unjust their previous ideas
had been.
For the cavern was not a torture chamber, as they had supposed. It
was, in reality, a hospital, and the beings they had thought victims
of brutalities unspeakable were, in reality, patients undergoing
treatments and operations for various ills. In proof whereof the
patients--who should have been dead by this time were the early ideas
well-founded--were now being released from the screenlike operating
theater. And not only was each one completely whole and sound in
body, but he was also possessed of a mental clarity, power, and grasp
undreamed of before his hospitalization and treatment by Delgon's super
surgeons!
Also, the intruders had misunderstood completely the audience and
its behavior. They were really medical students, and the beams which
had seemed to be devouring rays were simply visibeams, by means of
which each student could follow, in close-up detail, each step of the
operation in which he was most interested. The patients themselves were
living, vocal witnesses of the visitors' mistakenness, for each, as he
made his way through the assemblage of students, was voicing his thanks
for the marvelous results of his particular treatment or operation.
Kinnison now became acutely aware that he himself was in need of
immediate surgical attention. His body, which he had always regarded
so highly, he now perceived to be sadly inefficient; his mind was in
even worse shape than his physique; and both body and mind would be
improved immeasurably if he could get to the Delgonian hospital before
the surgeons departed. In fact, he felt an almost irresistible urge
to rush away toward that hospital instantly, without the loss of a
single precious second. And, since he had had no reason to doubt the
evidence of his own senses, his conscious mind was not aroused to
active opposition. However, in his subconscious, or his essence, or
whatever you choose to call that ultimate something of his that made
him a Lensman, a "dead, slow bell" began to sound.
"Release me and we'll all go, before the surgeons leave the hospital,"
came an insistent thought from Worsel. "But hurry--we haven't much
time!"
VanBuskirk, completely under the influence of the frantic compulsion,
leaped toward the Velantian, only to be checked bodily by Kinnison,
who was foggily trying to isolate and identify one thing about the
situation that did not ring quite true.
"Just a minute, Bus. Shut that door first!" he commanded.
"Never mind the door!" Worsel's thought came in a roaring crescendo.
"Release me instantly! Hurry, or it will be too late, for all of us!"
"All this terrific rush doesn't make any kind of sense at all,"
Kinnison declared, closing his mind resolutely to the clamor of the
Velantian's thoughts. "I want to go just as badly as you do, Bus, or
maybe more so--but I can't help feeling that there's something screwy
somewhere. Anyway, remember the last thing Worsel said, and let's shut
the door before we unsnap a single chain."
Then something clicked in the Lensman's mind.
"Hypnotism, through Worsel!" he barked, opposition now aflame. "So
gradual that it never occurred to me to build up a resistance. Holy
rackets, what a fool I've been! Fight 'em, Bus--_fight 'em!_ Don't let
'em kid you any more, and pay no attention to anything Worsel sends at
you!" Whirling around, he leaped toward the open door of the tent.
But as he leaped his brain was invaded by such a concentration of force
that he fell flat upon the floor, physically out of control. He must
_not_ shut the door. He _must_ release the Velantian. They _must_ go to
the Delgonian cavern. Fully aware now, however, of the source of the
waves of compulsion, he threw the sum total of his mental power into an
intense negation and struggled, inch-wise, toward the opening.
* * * * *
Upon him now, in addition to the Delgonians' compulsion, beat at
point-blank range the full power of Worsel's mighty mind, demanding
release and compliance. Also, and worse, he perceived that some
powerful mentality was being exerted to make VanBuskirk kill him. One
blow of the Valerian's ponderous mace would shatter helmet and skull,
and all would be over. Once more the Delgonians would have triumphed.
But the stubborn Dutchman, although at the very verge of surrender, was
still fighting. He would take one step forward, bludgeon poised aloft,
only to throw it convulsively backward.
Again and again VanBuskirk repeated his futile performance, while the
Lensman struggled nearer and nearer the door. Finally, he reached it
and kicked it shut. Instantly, the mental turmoil ceased and the two
white and shaking patrolmen released the limp, unconscious Velantian
from his bonds.
"Wonder what we can do to help him revive," gasped Kinnison. But his
solicitude was unnecessary; the Velantian recovered consciousness as he
spoke.
"Thanks to your wonderful power of resistance, I am alive, unharmed,
and know more of our foes and their methods than any other of my race
has ever learned," Worsel thought, feelingly. "But it is of no value
whatever unless I can send it back to Velantia. The thought-screen is
carried only by the metal of these walls; and if I make an opening in
the wall to think through, however small, it will now mean death. Of
course, the science of your patrol has not perfected an apparatus to
drive through such a screen."
"No. Anyway, it seems to me that we'd better be worrying about
something besides thought-screens," Kinnison suggested. "Surely, now
that they know where we are, they'll be coming out here after us, and
we haven't got much of any defense."
"They don't know where we are, or care----" began the Velantian.
"Why not?" broke in VanBuskirk. "Any spy ray capable of such scanning
as you showed us--I never saw anything like it before--would certainly
be as easy to trace as an out-and-out gas blast!"
"I sent out no spy ray or anything of the kind," Worsel thought,
carefully. "Since our science is so foreign to yours, I am not sure
that I can explain satisfactorily, but I shall try to do so. First, as
to what you saw. When that door is open, no barrier to thought exists.
I merely broadcast a thought, placing myself _en rapport_ with the
Delgonian Overlords in their retreat. This condition established, of
course I heard and saw exactly what they heard and saw--and so, equally
of course, did you, since you were also _en rapport_ with me. That is
all."
"That's _all_!" echoed VanBuskirk. "What a system! You can do a thing
like that, without apparatus of any kind, and yet say 'that's all'!"
"It is results that count," Worsel reminded him gently. "While it is
true that we have done much--this is the first time in history that any
Velantian has encountered the mind of a Delgonian Overlord and lived.
It is equally true that it was the will power of you patrolmen that
made it possible, not my mentality. Also, it remains true that we
cannot leave this room and live."
"Why won't we need weapons?" asked Kinnison, returning to his previous
line of thought.
"Thought screens are the only defense we will require," Worsel stated,
positively, "for they use no weapons except their minds. By mental
power alone they make us come to them; and, once there, their slaves
do the rest. Of course, if my race is ever to rid the planet of them,
we must employ offensive weapons of power. We have such, but we have
never been able to use them. For, in order to locate the enemy, either
by telepathy or by spy ray, we must open our metallic shields--and the
instant we release those screens we are lost. From those conditions
there is no escape," Worsel concluded, hopelessly.
"Don't be such a pessimist," Kinnison commanded. "There are a lot
of things not tried yet. For instance, from what I have seen of
your generator equipment and that screen, you don't need a metallic
conductor any more than a snake needs hips. Maybe I'm wrong, but I
think we're a bit ahead of you there. If a DeVilbiss projector can
handle that screen--and I think it can, with special tuning--VanBuskirk
and I can fix things in an hour so that all three of us can walk out of
here in perfect safety--from mental interference, at least. While we're
trying it out, tell us all the new stuff you got on them just now, and
anything else that, by any possibility, may prove useful. And remember
you said this is the first time any of you had been able to cut them
off. That fact ought to make them sit up and take notice. Probably
they'll stir around more than they ever did before. Come on, Bus--let's
tear into it!"
* * * * *
The DeVilbiss projectors were rigged and tuned. Kinnison had been
right; they worked. Then plan after plan was made, only to be discarded
as its weaknesses were pointed out.
"Whichever way we look there are too many 'ifs' and 'buts' to suit me,"
Kinnison summed up the situation finally. "_If_ we can find them, and
_if_ we can get up close to them without losing our minds to them, we
could clean them out _if_ we had some power in our accumulators. So I'd
say the first thing for us to do is to get our batteries charged. We
saw some cities from the air, and cities always have power. Lead us to
power, Worsel--almost _any_ kind of power--and we'll soon have it in
our guns."
"There are cities, yes"--Worsel was not at all enthusiastic--"dwelling
places of the ordinary Delgonians, the people you saw being eaten in
the cavern of the Overlords. As you saw, they resemble us Velantians to
a certain extent. Since they are of a lower culture and are much weaker
in life force than we are, however, the Overlords prefer us to their
own slave races.
"To visit any city of Delgon is out of the question. Every inhabitant
of every city is an abject slave and his brain is an open book.
Whatever he sees, whatever he thinks, is communicated instantly to
his master. And I now perceive that I may have misinformed you as to
the Overlords' ability to use weapons. While the situation has never
arisen, it is only logical to suppose that as soon as we are seen by
any Delgonian the controllers will order all the inhabitants of the
city to capture us and bring us to them."
"What a guy!" interjected VanBuskirk. "Did you ever see his top for
looking at the bright side of life?"
"Only in conversation," the Lensman replied. "When the ether gets
crowded, you notice, he's right in here, blasting away and not saying a
word. But there's one thing we haven't thought of: power. I've got only
eight minutes of free flight left in my battery; and with your mass,
you must be about out. Come to think of it, didn't you land a trifle
hard when we sat down here?"
"Practically inert."
"That means we've _got_ to get some power. Well, it's not so bad, at
that; there's a city right close."
"Yes, but as far as I'm concerned it might as well be on Mars. You
know as well as I do what's between here and there. You can take my
batteries and I'll wait here."
"On your emergency food, water, and air? That's out!"
"What else, then?"
"I can spread my field to cover all three of us," proposed Kinnison.
"That will give us at least one minute of free flight--almost, if not
quite, enough to clear the jungle. They have night here; and, like us,
the Delgonians are night sleepers. We start at dusk, and to-night we
recharge our batteries."
* * * * *
The following hour, during which the huge, hot Sun dropped to the
horizon, was spent in intense discussion, but no significant
improvement upon the Lensman's plan could be devised.
"It is time to go," Worsel announced, curling out one extensile eye
toward the vanishing orb. "I have recorded all my findings. Already I
have lived longer and, through you, have accomplished more, than any
one believed possible. I am ready to die. I should have been dead long
since."
"Living on borrowed time's a lot better than not living at all,"
Kinnison replied, with a grin. "Link up. Ready? Go!"
He snapped his switches and the close-linked group of three shot into
the air and away. As far as the eye could reach in any direction
extended the sentient, ravenous growth of the jungle; but Kinnison's
eyes were not upon that fantastically inimical green carpet. His whole
attention was occupied by two all-important meters and by the task of
so directing their flight as to gain the greatest possible horizontal
distance with the power at his command.
Fifty seconds of flashing flight, then: "All right, Worsel, get out in
front and get ready to pull!" Kinnison snapped. "Ten seconds of drive
left, but I can hold us free for five seconds after my driver quits.
Pull!"
Kinnison's driver expired, its small accumulator completely exhausted;
and Worsel, with his mighty wings, took up the task of propulsion.
Inertialess still, with Kinnison and VanBuskirk grasping his tail, each
beat a mile-long leap, he struggled on. But all too soon the battery
powering the neutralizers also went dead and the three began to plummet
downward at a sharper and sharper angle, in spite of the Velantian's
Herculean efforts to keep them aloft.
Some distance ahead of them the green of the jungle ended in a sharply
cut line, beyond which there was a heavy growth of fairly open forest.
A couple of miles of this and there was the city, their objective--so
near and yet so far!
"We'll either just make the timber or we just won't," Kinnison,
mentally plotting the course, announced dispassionately. "Just as well
if we land in the jungle, I think. It'll break our fall, anyway; and
hitting solid ground inert at this speed might be pretty serious."
"If we land in the jungle we will never leave it"--Worsel's thought did
not slow the incredible tempo of his prodigious pinions--"but it makes
little difference whether I die now or later."
"It does to us, you pessimistic croaker!" flared Kinnison. "Forget
that dying complex of yours for a minute! Remember the plan and follow
it! We're going to strike the jungle, about ninety or a hundred meters
in. If you come in with us you die at once, and the rest of our scheme
is all shot to pieces. So when we let go, you go ahead and land in
the woods. We'll join you there, never fear; our armor will hold long
enough for us to cut our way through a hundred meters of any jungle
that ever grew--even this one. Get ready, Bus. Leggo!"
* * * * *
They dropped. Through the lush succulence of close-packed upper leaves
and tentacles they crashed--through the heavier, wooded main branches
below, through to the ground. And there they fought for their lives;
for those voracious plants nourished themselves not only upon the soil
in which their roots were embedded, but also upon anything organic
unlucky enough to come within reach. Flabby but tough tentacles
encircled them; ghastly sucking disks, exuding a potent corrosive,
slobbered wetly at their armor; knobbed and spiky bludgeons whanged
against tempered steel as the monstrous organisms began dimly to
realize that these particular titbits were encased in something more
resistant far than skin, scales, or bark.
But the Lensman and his giant companion were not quiescent. They came
down oriented and fighting. VanBuskirk, in the van, swung his frightful
space ax as a reaper swings his scythe--one solid, short step forward
with each swing. And close behind the Valerian strode Kinnison, his own
flying ax guarding the giant's head and back.
Masses of that obscene vegetation crashed down upon their heads from
above, revolting cupped orifices sucking and smacking; and they were
showered continually with floods of the opaque, corrosive sap to the
action of which even their armor was not entirely immune. But, hampered
as they were and almost blinded, they struggled indomitably on; while
behind them an ever-lengthening corridor of demolition marked their
progress.
"Ain't we got fun?" grunted the Dutchman, in time with his swing. "But
we're quite a team at that, chief--brains and brawn, huh?"
"Uh-huh," dissented Kinnison, his flying weapon a solid disk of steel
to the eye. "Grace and poise; or, if you want to be really romantic,
ham and eggs."
"Rack and ruin will be more like it if we don't break out before this
confounded goo eats through our armor. But we're making it--the stuff's
thinning out and I think I can see trees up ahead."
"It is well if you can," came a cold, clear thought from Worsel, "for I
am sorely beset. Hasten or I perish!"
At that thought the two patrolmen forged ahead in a burst of furious
activity. Crashing through the thinning barriers of the jungle's
edge, they wiped their lenses partially clear, glanced quickly about,
and saw the Velantian. That worthy was "sorely beset" indeed. Six
animals--huge, reptilian, but lithe and active--had him down. So
helplessly immobile was Worsel that he could scarcely move his tail,
and the monsters were already beginning to gnaw at his scaly, armored
hide.
"I'll put a stop to that, Worsel!" called Kinnison, referring to the
fact, well known to all us moderns, that any real animal, no matter how
savage, can be controlled by any wearer of the Lens. For, no matter how
low in the scale of intelligence the animal is, the Lensman can get in
touch with whatever mind the creature has and reason with it.
But these monstrosities, as Kinnison learned immediately, were not
really animals. Even though of animal form and mobility, they were
purely vegetable in motivation and behavior, reacting only to the
stimuli of food and of reproduction. Weirdly and completely inimical
to all other forms of created life, they were so utterly noisome, so
completely alien that the full power of mind and Lens failed entirely
to gain rapport.
* * * * *
Upon that confusedly writhing heap the patrolmen flung themselves,
terrible axes destructively a-swing. In turn, they were attacked
viciously; but this battle was not long to endure. VanBuskirk's first
terrific blow knocked one adversary away, almost spinning end over end.
Kinnison took out one, the Dutchman another, and the remaining three
were no match at all for the humiliated and furiously raging Velantian.
But it was not until the monstrosities had been gruesomely carved and
torn apart, literally limb from hideous limb, that they ceased their
insensately voracious attacks.
"They took me by surprise," explained Worsel, unnecessarily, as the
three made their way through the night toward their goal, "and six of
them at once were too much for me. I tried to hold their minds, but
apparently they have none."
"How about the Overlords?" asked Kinnison. "Suppose they have received
any of our thoughts? We patrolmen at least have been doing a lot of
unguarded radiating lately."
"No," Worsel made positive reply. "The thought-screen batteries, while
small and of very little actual power, have, nevertheless, a very long
service life. Now let us again go over the next steps of our plan of
action."
Since no more untoward events marred their progress toward the
Delgonian city, they soon reached it. It was for the most part dark and
quiet, its somber buildings merely blacker blobs against a background
of black. Here and there, however, were to be seen automotive vehicles
moving about, and the three invaders crouched against a convenient
wall, waiting for one to come along the "street" in which they were.
Eventually one did.
As it passed them Worsel sprang into headlong, gliding flight,
Kinnison's heavy knife in one gnarled fist. And as he sailed he
struck--lethally. Before that luckless Delgonian's brain could radiate
a single thought it was in no condition to function at all; for the
head containing it was bouncing in the gutter. Worsel backed the
peculiar conveyance along the curb and his two companions leaped into
it, lying flat upon its floor and covering themselves from sight as
best they could.
Worsel, familiar with things Delgonian and looking enough like a native
of the planet to pass a casual inspection in the dark, drove the car.
Streets and thoroughfares he traversed at reckless speed, finally
drawing up before a long, low building, entirely dark. He scanned his
surroundings with care, in every direction. Not a creature was in sight.
"All is clear, friends," he thought, and the three adventurers sprang
to the building's entrance. The door--it had a door, of sorts--was
locked, but VanBuskirk's ax made short work of that difficulty.
Inside, they braced the wrecked door against intrusion. Then Worsel led
the way into the unlighted interior. Soon he flashed his lamp about him
and stepped upon a black, peculiarly marked tile set into the floor;
whereupon a harsh, white light illuminated the room.
"Cut it, before somebody takes alarm!" snapped Kinnison.
"No danger of that," replied the Velantian. "There are no windows in
any of these rooms; no light can be seen from outside. This is the
control room of the city's power plant. If you can convert any of this
power to your uses, help yourselves to it. In this building is also
Delgon's closest approximation to a munitions plant. Whether or not
anything in it can be of service to you is, of course, for you to say.
I am now at your disposal."
While the Velantian was thinking these things Kinnison had been
studying the panels and instruments. Now he and VanBuskirk tore open
their armor--they had already learned that the atmosphere of Delgon,
while not as wholesome for them as that in their suits, would, for a
time at least, support human life--and wrought diligently with pliers,
screw drivers, and other tools of the electrician. Soon their exhausted
batteries were upon the floor beneath the instrument panel, greedily
absorbing the electrical fluid from the busbars of the Delgonians.
"Now, while they're getting filled up, let's see what they mean by
'munitions' in these parts," Kinnison ordered. "Lead on, Worsel!"