It was not quite dawn when my task force settled down on the smooth
landing pad beside the life boat that had brought me to Vallon. It
stood as I had left it seven earth-months before: the port open, the
access ladder extended, the interior lights lit. There weren't any
spooks aboard but they had kept visitors away as effectively as if
there had been. Even the Greymen didn't mess with ghost-boats. Somebody
had done a thorough job of indoctrination on Vallon.
Itzenca scampered up the ladder and had disappeared inside the boat
by the time I took the first rung. The guards gawked from below as I
stepped into the softly lit lounge. The black-and-gold banded cylinder
that was Foster's memory lay in the bag where I had left it, and with
it was the other, plain one. Somewhere in Okk-Hamiloth must be the
machine that would give these meaning. Together, Foster and I would
find it.
I found the .38 automatic lying where I had left it. I picked up the
worn belt, strapped it around me. My Vallonian career to date suggested
it would be a bright idea to bring it along. The Vallonians had never
developed any personal armament to equal it. In a society of immortals
knives were considered lethal enough for all ordinary purposes.
"Come on, cat," I said. "There's nothing more here we need."
Back on the ramp, I beckoned my platoon leaders over.
"I'm going to the Sapphire Palace," I said. "Anybody that doesn't want
to go can check out now. Pass the word."
Torbu stood silent for a long moment, staring straight ahead.
"I don't like it much, Owner," he said. "But I'll go. And so will the
rest of 'em."
"There'll be no backing out, once we shove off," I said. "And by the
way--" I jacked a round into the chamber of the pistol, raised it, and
fired the shot into the air. They all jumped. "If you ever hear that
sound, come a-running."
The men nodded, turned to their cars. I picked up the cat and piled
into the lead vehicle next to Torbu.
"It's a half-hour run," he said. "We might run into a little Greymen
action on the way. We can handle 'em."
We lifted, swung to the east, barrelled along at low altitude.
"What do we do when we get there, boss?" said Torbu.
"We play it by ear. Let's see how far we can get on pure gall before
Ommodurad drops the hanky."
* * * * *
The palace lay below us, rearing blue towers to the twilit sky like
a royal residence in the Munchkin country. Beyond it, sunset colors
reflected from the silky surface of the Shallow Sea. The timeless
stones and still waters looked much as they had when Foster set out
to lose his identity on Earth, three thousand years before. But its
magnificence was lost on these people. The hulking crew around me
never paused to wonder about the marvels wrought by their immortal
ancestors--themselves--; stolidly they lived their feudal lives in
dismal contrast with the monuments all about them.
We were dropping toward the wide lawns now and still no opposition
showed itself. Then the towering blue spires were looming over us, and
we saw men forming up behind the blue-stained steel gates of the Great
Pavilion.
"A reception committee," I said. "Hold tight, fellas. Don't start
anything. The further in we get peaceably the less that leaves to do
the hard way."
The cars settled down gently, well grouped, and Torbu and I climbed
out. As quickly as the other boats disgorged their men, ranks were
closed, and we moved off toward the gates. Itzenca, as mascot, brought
up the rear. Still no excitement, no rush by the Palace guards. Had too
many centuries of calm made them lackadaisical, or did Ommodurad use
some other brand of visitor-repellent we couldn't see from here?
We made it to the gate ... and it opened.
"In we go," I said, "but be ready...."
The uniformed men inside the compound, obviously chosen for their beef
content, kept their distance, looked at us queryingly. We pulled up on
a broad blue-paved drive and waited for the next move.
* * * * *
It was a long five minutes before a hard case in a beetle-backed
carapace or armor and a puffy pink cape bustled down the palace steps
and came up to us.
"Who comes in force to the Sapphire Palace?" he demanded, glancing past
me at my team-mates.
"I'm Owner Drgon, fellow," I barked. "These are my honor guard. What
provincial welcome is this, from the Great Owner to a loyal liege-man?"
That punctured his pomposity a little. He apologized--in a half-hearted
way, mumbled something about arrangements, and beckoned over a couple
of sidemen. One of them came over and spoke to Torbu, who looked my
way, hand on dagger hilt.
"What's this?" I said. "Where I go, my men go."
"There is the matter of caste," said my pink-caped greeter. "Packs of
retainers are not ushered _en masse_ into the presence of Lord
Ommodurad, Owner of Owners."
I thought that one over and failed to come up with a plausible
loop-hole.
"Okay, Torbu," I said. "Keep the boys together and behave yourselves.
I'll see you in an hour. Oh, and see that Itzenca gets made comfy."
The beetle man snapped a few orders, then waved me toward the palace
with the slightest bow I ever saw. A six-man guard kept me company up
the steps and into the Great Pavilion.
I guess I expected the usual velvet-draped audience chamber or
barbarically splendid Hall, complete with pipers, fools, and ceremonial
guards. What I got was an office, about sixteen by eighteen,
blue-carpeted and tasteful ... but bare-looking. I stopped in front
of a block of blue-veined grey marble with a couple of quill pens in
a crystal holder and, underneath, leg room for a behemoth, who was
sitting behind the desk.
He got to his feet with all the ponderous mass of Nero Wolfe but a lot
more agility and grace. "You wish?" he rumbled.
"I'm Owner Drgon, ah ... Great Owner," I said. I'd planned to give my
host the friendly-but-dumb routine. I was going to find the second part
of the act easy. There was something about Ommodurad that made me
feel like a mouse who'd just changed his mind about the cheese. Qohey
had been big, but this guy could crush skulls as most men pinch peanut
hulls, and in his eyes was the kind of remote look that came of three
millennia of not even having to mention the power he asserted.
"You ignore superstition," observed the Big Owner. He didn't waste many
words, it seemed. Gope had said he was the silent type. It wasn't a bad
lead; I decided to follow it.
"Don't believe in 'em," I said.
"To your business then," he continued. "Why?"
"Just been chosen Owner at Bar-Ponderone," I said. "Felt it was only
fitting that I come and do obeisance before Your Grace."
"That expression is not used."
"Oh." This fellow had a disconcerting way of not getting sucked in.
"Lord Ommodurad?"
* * * * *
He nodded just perceptibly, then turned to the foremost of the herd who
had brought me in. "Quarters for the guest and his retinue." His eyes
had already withdrawn, like the head of a Galapagos turtle into its
enormous shell, and were remote, in contemplation of eternal verities.
I piped up again.
"Ah, pardon me." The piercing stare of Ommodurad's eyes was on me
again. "There was a friend of mine--swell guy, but impulsive. It seems
he challenged the former Owner of Bar-Ponderone...."
Ommodurad did no more than twitch an eyebrow but suddenly the air was
electric. His stare didn't waver by a millimeter but the lazy slouch
of the six guards had altered to sprung steel. They hadn't moved but
I felt them now all around me and not a foot away. I had a sinking
feeling that I'd gone too far.
"--so I thought maybe I'd crave Your Excellency's help, if possible,
to locate my pal," I finished weakly. For an interminable minute the
Owner of Owners bored into me with his eyes. Then he raised a finger a
quarter of an inch. The guards relaxed.
"Quarters for the guest and his retinue," repeated Ommodurad. He
withdrew then ... without moving. I was dismissed.
I went quietly, attended by my hulking escort.
I tried hard not to let my expression show any excitement, but I was
feeling plenty.
Ommodurad was close-mouthed for a reason. I was willing to bet that he
had his memories of the Good Time intact.
Instead of the debased modern dialect that I'd heard everywhere since
my arrival, Ommodurad spoke flawless Old Vallonian.
* * * * *
It was 27 o'clock and the Palace of Sapphires was silent. I was alone
in the ornate bed chamber the Great Owner had assigned me. It was a
nice room but I wouldn't learn anything staying in it. Nobody had said
I was confined to quarters. I'd do a little scouting and see what I
could pick up, if anything. I slung on the holster and .38 and slid
out of the darkened chamber into the scarcely lighter corridor beyond.
I saw a guard at the far end; he ignored me. I headed in the opposite
direction.
None of the rooms were locked. There was no arsenal at the Palace
and no archives that lesser folk than the Great Owner could use with
profit. Everything was easy of access. I guessed that Ommodurad rightly
counted on indifference to keep snoopers away. Here and there guards
eyed me as I passed along but they said nothing.
I saw again by Cintelight the office where Ommodurad had received me
and near it an ostentatious hall with black onyx floor and ceiling,
gold hangings, and ceremonial ringboard. But the center of attraction
was the familiar motif of the concentric circles of the Two Worlds,
sketched in beaten gold across the broad wall of black marble behind
the throne. Here the idea had been elaborated on. Outward from both the
inner and outer circles flamed waving lines of sunburst, and at dead
center a boss, like a sword hilt in form, chased in black and gold,
erupted a foot from the wall. It was the first time I'd seen the symbol
since I'd arrived on Vallon. I found it strangely exciting--like a
footprint in the sand.
I went on, and came into a purple-vaulted hall where I saw a squad of
guards, the same six who'd kept me such close company earlier in the
day. They were drawn up at parade rest, three on each side of a massive
ivory door. Somebody lived in safety and splendor on the other side.
Six sets of hard eyes turned my way. It was too late to duck back out
of sight. I trotted up to the first of the row of guards. "Say, fella,"
I stage-whispered, "where's the ah--you know."
"Every bed chamber is equipped," he said gruffly, raising his sword and
fingering its tip lovingly.
"Yeah? I never noticed." I moved off, looking chastened.
* * * * *
On the ground floor I found Torbu and his cohort quartered in a
barrack-room off the main entry hall. They had gotten hold of a few
pipes of melon wine and were staging a small party with the help of
several upstairs maids.
"We're still in enemy territory," I reminded Torbu. "I want every man
ready. So save some of that booze for tomorrow."
"No fear, boss," said Torbu. "All my bullies got a eye on the door and
a hand on a knife-hilt."
"Have you seen or heard anything useful?"
"Naw. These local dullards fall dumb at the first query."
"Keep your ears cocked. I want at least two men awake and on the alert
all night."
"You bet, noble Drgon."
I judged distances carefully as I went back up the two flights to my
own room. Inside I dropped into a brocaded easy chair and tried to add
up what I'd seen.
First: Ommodurad's apartment, as nearly as I could judge, was directly
over my own, two floors up. That was a break--or maybe I was where I
was for easier surveillance. I'd skip that angle, I decided. It tended
to discourage me and I needed all the enthusiasm I could generate.
Second: I wasn't going to learn anything useful trotting around
corridors. Ommodurad wasn't the kind to leave traces of skullduggery
lying around where the guests would see them.
And third: I should have known better than to hit this fortress with
two squads and a .38 in the first place. Foster was here; Qohey had
said so and the Great Owner's reaction to my mention of him confirmed
it. What was it about Foster, anyway, that made him so interesting to
these Top People? I'd have to ask him that when I found him. But to do
that I'd have to leave the beaten track.
I went to the wide double window and looked up. A cloud swept from
the great three-quarters face of Cinte, blue in the southern sky, and
I could see an elaborately carved facade ranging up past a row of
windows above my own to a railed balcony bathed in a pale light from
the apartment within. If my calculations were correct that would be
Ommodurad's digs. The front door was guarded like an octogenarian's
harem but the back way looked like a breeze.
I pulled my head back in and thought about it. It was risky ... but
it had that element of the unexpected that just might let me get away
with it. Tomorrow the Owner of Owners might have thought it through
and switched me to another room ... or to a cell in the basement. Then
too, wall-scaling didn't occur to these Vallonians as readily as it did
to a short-timer from Earth. They had too much to lose to risk it on a
chancy climb.
Too much thinking is never a good idea when your pulse is telling you
it's time for action. I rolled a heavy armoire fairly soundlessly over
the deep-pile carpet and lodged it against the door. That might slow
down a casual caller. I slipped the magazine out of the automatic,
fitted nine greasy brass cartridges into it, slammed it home, dropped
the pistol back in the holster. It had a comforting weight. I buttoned
the strap over it and went back to the window.
* * * * *
The clouds were back across Cinte's floodlight; that would help. I
stepped out. The deep carving gave me easy handholds and I made it to
the next window sill without even working up a light sweat. Compared
with my last climb, back in Lima, this was a cinch.
I rested a minute, then clambered around the dark window--just in case
there was an insomniac on the other side of the glass--and went on up.
I reached the balcony, had a hairy moment as I groped outward for a
hold on the smooth floor-tiling above ... and then I was pulling up and
over the ornamental iron work.
The balcony was narrow, about twenty feet long, giving on half a dozen
tall glass doors. Three showed light behind heavy drapes, three were
dark. I moved close, tried to see something past the edge of the
drapes. No go. I put an ear to the glass, thought maybe I heard a
sound, like a distant volcano. That would be Ommodurad's brass rumble.
The bear was in his cave.
I went along to the dark doors and on impulse tried a handle. It
turned and the door swung in soundlessly. I felt my pulse pick up a
double-time beat. I stood peering past the edge of the door into the
ink-black interior. It didn't look inviting. In fact it looked as
repellent as hell. Even a country boy like me could see that to step
into the dragon's den without even a zippo to spot the footstools with
would be the act of a nitwit.
I swallowed hard, got a firm grip on my pistol, and went in.
A soft fold of drapery brushed my face and I had the pistol out and
my back to the wall with a speed that would have made Earp faint with
envy. My adrenals gave a couple of wild jumps and my nervous system
followed with a variety of sensations, none pleasant. I could hear
Ommodurad's voice better now, muttering beyond the partition. If I
could make out what he was saying....
I edged along the wall, found a heavy door, closed and locked. No help
there. I felt my way further, found another door. Delicately I tried
the handle.
A closet, half filled with racked garments. But I could hear more
clearly now. Maybe it was a double closet with communicating doors to
both the room I was in and the next one where the Great Owner was still
rambling on. Apparently something had overcome his aversion to talking.
There were pauses that must have been filled in by the replies of
somebody else who didn't have the vocal timbre Ommodurad did.
I felt my way through the hanging clothing, felt over the closet walls.
I was out of luck: there was no other door. I put an ear to the wall. I
could catch an occasional word:
"... ring ... Okk-Hamiloth ... vaults...."
* * * * *
It sounded like something I'd like to hear more about. How could I get
closer? On impulse I reached up, touched a low ceiling ... and felt a
ridge like the trim around an access panel to a crawl-space.
I crossed my fingers, stood on tip-toe to push at the panel. Nothing
moved. I felt around in the dark, encountered a low shelf covered with
shoes. I investigated; it was movable. I eased it aside a foot or two,
piled the shoes on the floor, and stepped up.
The panel was two feet long on a side, with no discernible hinges or
catch. I pushed some more, then gritted my teeth and heaved. There was
a startlingly loud Crack! and the panel lifted. I blinked away the dust
that settled in my eyes, reached to feel around within the opening,
touched nothing but rough floor boards.
I cocked my head, listening. Ommodurad had stopped talking and another
voice said something. Then there was a heavy thump, the clump of feet,
and a metallic sound. After a moment the Great Owner's voice came
again ... and the other voice answered.
I stretched, grabbed the edge of the opening, and pulled myself up. I
leaned forward, got a leg up, and rolled silently onto the rough floor.
Feeling my way, I crawled, felt a wall rising, followed it, turned a
corner.... The voices were louder, quite suddenly. I saw why: there
was a ventilating register ahead, gridded light gleaming through it. I
crept along to the opening, lay flat, peered through it and saw three
men.
Ommodurad was standing with his back to me, a giant figure swathed to
the eyes in purple robes. Beside him a lean red-head with a leg that
had been broken and badly set stood round-shouldered, clutching a rod
of office. The third man was Foster.
* * * * *
Foster stood, legs braced apart as though to withstand an earthquake,
hands manacled before him. He looked steadily at the red-head, like a
man marking a tree for cutting.
"I know nothing of these crimes," he said.
Ommodurad turned, swept out of sight. The red-head motioned. Foster
turned away, moving stiffly, passed from my view. I heard a door
open and close. I lay where I was and tried to sort out half a dozen
conflicting impulses that clamored for attention. I finally decided it
might do some good to gather more information. It had been bad luck
that I had arrived at my peephole a few minutes too late to hear what
the interview had been all about. But I might still make use of my
strategic advantage.
I felt over the register, found fasteners at the corners. They lifted
easily and the metal grating tilted back into my hands. I laid it
aside, poked my head out. The room was empty, as far as I could see.
It was time to take a few chances. I reversed my position, let my legs
through the opening, and dropped softly to the floor. I reached back up
and managed to prop the grating in position--just in case.
It was a fancy chamber, hung in purple and furnished for a king. I
poked through the pigeon-holes of a secretary, opened a few cupboards,
peered under the bed. It looked like I wasn't going to find any useful
clues lying around loose.
I went to the glass doors to the balcony, unlocked one and left it
ajar--in case I wanted to leave in a hurry. There was another door
across the room. I went over and tried it: locked.
That gave me something definite to look for: a key. I rummaged some
more in the secretary, then tried the drawer in a small table beside a
broad couch and came up with a nice little steel key that looked like
maybe....
I tried it. It was. Luck was still coming my way. I pushed open the
door, saw a dark room beyond. I felt for a light switch, flicked it on,
pushed the door shut behind me.
* * * * *
The room looked like the popular idea of a necromancer's study. The
windowless walls were lined with shelves packed with books. The high
black-draped ceiling hung like a hovering bat above the ramparted
floor of bare, dark-polished wood. Narrow tables choked with books and
instruments stood along a side of the chamber and at the far end I saw
a deep-cushioned couch with a heavy dome-shaped apparatus like a beauty
shop hair-dryer mounted at one end. I recognized it: it was a memory
reinforcing machine, the first I had seen on Vallon.
I crossed the room and examined it. The last one I had seen--on the
far-voyager in the room near the library--had been a stark utility
model. This was a deluxe job, with soft upholstery and bright metal
fittings and more dials and idiot lights than a late model Detroit
status symbol. This solved one of the problems that had been hovering
around the edge of my mind. I had fetched Foster's memory back to him
but without a machine to use it in, it was just a tantalizing souvenir.
Now all I had to do was sneak him away from Ommodurad, make it back
here....
All of a sudden I felt tired, vulnerable, helpless and all alone.
What was Ommodurad's interest in Foster? Why did he hide away here,
keeping the rest of Vallon away with rumors of magic and spells? What
connection did he have with the disaster that had befallen the Two
Worlds--now reduced to One, and a poor one at that.
And why was I, a plain Joe named Legion, mixed up in it right to the
eyebrows, when I could be sitting safe at home in a clean federal pen?
The answer to the last one wasn't too hard to recite: I had had a pal
once, a smooth character named Foster, who had pulled me back from
the ragged edge just when I was about to make a bigger mistake than
usual. He had been a gentleman in the best sense of the word, and he
had treated me like one. Together we had shared a strange adventure
that had made me rich and had showed me that it was never too late to
straighten your back and take on whatever the Fates handed out.
I had come running his way when trouble got too thick back home. And
I'd found him in a worse spot than I was in. He had come back, after
the most agonizing exile a man had ever suffered, to find his world
fallen back into savagery, and his memory still eluding him. Now he was
in chains, without friends and without hope ... but still not broken,
still standing on his own two feet....
But he was wrong on one point: he had one little hope. Not much: just
a hard-luck guy with a penchant for bad decisions, but I was here and
I was free. I had my pistol on my hip and a neat back way into the
Owner's bedroom, and if I played it right and watched my timing and had
maybe just a little luck, say about the amount it took to hit the Irish
Sweepstakes, I might bring it off yet.
Right now it was time to return to my crawl-space. Ommodurad might come
back and talk some more, tip me off to a vulnerable spot in the armor
of his fortress. I went to the door, flicked off the light, turned the
handle ... and went rigid.
* * * * *
Ommodurad was back. He pulled off the purple cloak, tossed it aside,
strode to a wall bar. I clung to the crack of the door, not daring to
move even to close it.
"But my lord," the voice of the red-head said, "I trow he remembers--"
"Not so," Ommodurad's voice rumbled. "On the morrow I strip his mind to
the bare clean jelly...."
"Let me, dread lord. With my steel I'll have the truth o' him."
"Such a one as he your steel has never known!" the bass voice snarled.
"Great Owner, I crave but one hour ... tomorrow, in the Ceremonial
Chamber. I shall environ him with the emblems of the past--"
"Enough!" Ommodurad's fist slammed against the bar, made glasses jump.
"On such starveling lackwits as you a mighty empire hangs. It is a
crime before the Gods and on his head I lay it." The Owner tossed off a
glass. "I grant thy boon. Now begone, babbler of folly."
The red-head ducked, grinning, disappeared.
The big man threw off his clothes then. He clambered up on the wide
couch, touched a switch somewhere, and the room was dark. Within five
minutes I heard the heavy breathing of deep sleep.
I had found out one thing anyway: tomorrow was Foster's last day. One
way or another Ommodurad and the red-head between them would destroy
him. That didn't leave much time. But since the project was already
hopeless it didn't make much difference.
I had a choice of moves now: I could tip-toe across to the register
and try to wiggle through it without waking up the brontosaurus on
the bed ... or I could try for the balcony door a foot from where he
slept ... or I could stay put and wait him out. The last idea had the
virtue of requiring no immediately daring adventures. I could just curl
up on the floor, or, better still, on the padded couch....
* * * * *
A weird idea was taking shape in my mind. I felt in my pocket, pulled
out the two small cylinders that represented two men's memories of
hundreds of years of living. One belonged to Foster, the one with the
black and golden bands, but the other was the property of a stranger
who had died three thousand years ago, out in space....
This cylinder, barely three inches long, held all the memories of a man
who had been Foster's confidant when he was Qulqlan, a man who knew
what had happened aboard the ship, what the purpose of the expedition
had been, and what conditions they had left behind on Vallon.
I needed that knowledge. The cylinder could tell me plenty, including,
possibly, the reason for Ommodurad's interest in Foster.
It was simple to use. I merely placed the cylinder in the receptacle
in the side of the machine, took my place, lowered the helmet into
position ... and in an hour or so I would awaken with another man's
memories stored in my brain, to use as I saw fit.
It would be a crime to waste the opportunity. The machine I had found
here was probably the only one still in existence on Vallon. I had
blundered my way into the one room in the palace that could help me in
what I had to do; I had been lucky.
I went across to the soft cushioned chair, spotted the recess in its
side, and thrust the plain cylinder into it.
I sat on the couch, lay back, reached up to pull the head-piece down
into position, against my skull....
There was an instant of pain--like a pre-frontal lobotomy performed
without anesthetic.
Then blackness.
* * * * *
_I stood beside the royal couch where Qulqlan the Rthr lay and I saw
that this was the hour for which I had waited long, for the Change was
on him...._
_The time-scale stood at the third hour of the Death watch; all
aboard slept save myself alone. I must move swiftly and at the Dawn
watch show them the deed well done._
_I shook the sleeping man, him who had once been the Rthr--king no
more, by the law of the Change. He wakened slowly, looked about him,
with the clear eyes of the newborn._
_"Rise," I commanded. And the king obeyed._
_"Follow me," I said. He made to question me, after the manner of
those newly wakened from their Change. I bade him be silent. Like a
lamb he came and I led him through shadowed ways to the cage of the
Hunters. They rose, keen in their hunger, to my coming, as I had
trained them._
_I took the arm of Qulqlan and thrust it into the cage. The Hunters
clustered, taking the mark of their prey. He watched, innocent eyes
wide._
_"That which you feel is pain, mindless one," I spoke. "It is a
thing of which you will learn much in the time before you." Then they
had done, and I set the time catch._
_In my chambers I cloaked the innocent in a plain purple robe and
afterward led him to the cradle where the life boat lay...._
_And by virtue of the curse of the Gods which is upon me one was
there before me. I waited not but moved as the haik strikes and took
him fair in the back with my dagger. I dragged his body into hiding
behind the flared foot of a column. But no sooner was he hidden well
away than others came from the shadows, summoned by some device I know
not of. They asked of the Rthr wherefore he walked by night, robed in
the colors of Ammaerln of Bros-Ilyond. And I knew black despair, that
my grand design foundered thus in the shallows of their zeal._
_Yet I spoke forth, with a great show of anger, that I, Ammaerln,
vizier and companion to the Rthr, did but walk and speak in confidence
with my liege lord._
_But they persisted, Gholad foremost among them. And then one saw the
hidden corpse and in an instant they ringed me in._
* * * * *
_Then did I draw the long blade and hold it at the throat of Qulqlan.
"Press me not, or your king will surely die," I said. And they feared
me and shrank back._
_"Do you dream that I, Ammaerln, wisest of the wise, have come for
the love of far-voyaging?" I raged. "Long have I plotted against this
hour; to lure the king a-voyaging in this his princely yacht, his
faithful vizier at his side, that the Change might come on him far from
his court. Then would the ancient wrong be redressed._
_"There are those men born to rule as inevitably as the dream-tree
seeks the sun--and such a one am I! Long has this one, now mindless,
denied to me my destiny. But behold: I, with a stroke, shall set things
aright._
_"Below us lies a green world, peopled by savages. Not one am I to
take blood vengeance on a man newborn from the Change. Instead I shall
set him free to take up his life there below. May the Fates lead him
again to royal state if that be their will--"_
* * * * *
_But there were naught but fools among them and they drew steel. I
cried out to them that all, all should share!_
_But they heeded me not but rushed upon me. Then did I turn to
Qulqlan and drive the long blade at his throat, but Gholad threw
himself before him and fell, impaled in the throat. Then they pressed
me and I did strike out against three who hemmed me close, and though
they took many wounds they persisted in their madness, one leaping in
to strike and another at my back, so that I whirled and slashed at
shadows who danced away._
_In the end I hunted them down in those corners whither they had
dragged themselves and each did I put to the sword. And I turned at
last to find the Rthr gone and some few with him, and madness took me
that I had been gulled like a tinker by common men._
_In the chamber of the memory couch would I find them. There they
would seek to give back to the mindless one that memory of past glories
which I had schemed so long to deny him. Almost I wept to see such
cunning wasted. Terrible in my wrath I came upon them there. There were
but two and, though they stood shoulder in the entry way, their poor
dirks were no match for my long blade. I struck them dead and went to
the couch, to lay my hand on the cylinder marked with the vile gold
and black of Qulqlan, that I might destroy it and, with it, the Rthr,
forever--_
_And I heard a sound and whirled about. A hideous figure staggered to
me from the gloom and for an instant I saw the flash of steel in the
bloody hand of the accursed Gholad whom I had left for dead. Then I
knew cold agony between my ribs...._
* * * * *
_Gholad lay slumped against the wall, his face greenish above the
blood-soaked tunic. When he spoke air whistled through his slashed
throat._
_"Have done, traitor who once was honored of the king," he whispered.
"Have you no pity for him who once ruled in justice and splendor at
High Okk-Hamiloth?"_
_"Had you not robbed me of my destiny, murderous dog," I croaked,
"that splendor would have been mine."_
_"You came upon him helpless," gasped Gholad. "Make some amends now
for your shame. Let the Rthr have his mind, which is more precious than
his life."_
_"I but rest to gather strength. Soon will I rise and turn him from
the couch. Then will I die content."_
_"Once you were his friend," Gholad whispered. "By his side you
fought, when both of you were young. Remember that ... and have pity.
To leave him here, in this ship of death, mindless and alone...."_
_"I have loosed the Hunters!" I shrieked in triumph. "With them will
the Rthr share this tomb until the end of time!"_
_Then I searched within me and found a last terrible strength and
I rose up ... and even as my hand reached out to pluck away the mind
trace of the king I felt the bloody fingers of Gholad on my ankle, and
then my strength was gone. And I was falling headlong into that dark
well of death from which there is no returning...._
* * * * *
I woke up and lay for a long time in the dark without moving, trying
to remember the fragments of a strange dream of violence and death. I
could still taste the lingering dregs of some bitter emotion. For a
moment I couldn't remember what it was I had to do; then with a start
I recalled where I was. I had lain down on the couch and pulled the
head-piece into place--
It hadn't worked.
I thought hard, tried to tap a new reservoir of memories, drew a blank.
Maybe my Earth-mind was too alien for the Vallonian memory-trace to
affect. It was another good idea that hadn't worked out. But at least
I had had a good rest. Now it was time to get moving. First: to see if
Ommodurad was still asleep. I started to sit up--
Nothing happened.
I had a moment of vertigo, as my inner ear tried to accommodate to
having stayed in the same place after automatically adjusting to my
intention of rising. I lay perfectly still and tried to think it
through.
I had tried to move ... and hadn't so much as twitched a muscle. I
was paralyzed ... or tied up ... or maybe, if I was lucky, imagining
things. I could try it again and next time--
I was afraid to try. Suppose I tried and nothing happened--again? This
was ridiculous. All I had to do was sit up. I--
Nothing. I lay in the dark and tried to will an arm to move, my head
to turn. It was as though I had no arm, no head--just a mind, alone
in the dark. I strained to sense the ropes that held me down; still
nothing. No ropes, no arms, no body. There was no pressure against me
from the couch, no vagrant itch or cramp, no physical sensation. I was
a disembodied brain, lying nestled in a great bed of pitch-black cotton
wool.
Then, abruptly, I was aware of myself--not the gross mechanism of
clumsy bone and muscle, but the neuro-electric field generated within
the massive structure of a brain alive with flashing currents and a
lightning interplay of molecular forces. A sense of orientation grew. I
occupied a block of cells ... here in the left hemisphere. The mass of
neural tissue loomed over me, gigantic. And "I" ... "I" was reduced to
the elemental ego, who possessed as a material appurtenance "my" arms
and legs, "my" body, "my" brain.... Relieved of outside stimuli I was
able now to conceptualize myself as I actually was: an insubstantial
state existing in an immaterial continuum, created by the action of
neural currents within the cerebrum, as a magnetic field is created in
space by the flow of electricity.
And I knew what had happened. I had opened my mind to invasion by alien
memories. The other mind had seized upon the sensory centers, driven me
to this dark corner. I was a fugitive within my own skull.
For a timeless time I lay stunned, immured now as the massive stones
of Bar-Ponderone had never confined me. My basic self-awareness still
survived, but was shunted aside, cut off from any contact with the body
itself.
With shadowy fingers of imagination I clawed at the walls surrounding
me, fought for a glimpse of light, for a way out.
And found none.
* * * * *
Then, at last, I began again to think.
I must analyze my awareness of my surroundings, seek out channels
through which impulses from sensory nerves flowed, and tap them.
I tried cautiously; an extension of my self-concept reached out with
ultimate delicacy. There were the ranked infinities of cells, there
the rushing torrents of gross fluid, there the taut cables of the
interconnecting web, and there--
Barrier! Blank and impregnable the wall reared up. My questing tendril
of self-stuff raced over the surface like an ant over a melon, and
found no tiniest fissure.
I withdrew. To dissipate my forces was senseless. I must select a point
of attack, hurl against it all the power of my surviving identity.
The last of the phantom emotions that had clung--for how long?--to the
incorporeal mind field had faded now, leaving me with no more than
an intellectual determination to reassert myself. Dimly I recognized
this sign of my waning sense of identity but there was no surge of
instinctive fear. Instead I coolly assessed my resources--and almost at
once stumbled into an unused channel, here within my own self-field.
For a moment I recoiled from the outer configuration of the stored
patterns ... and then I remembered.
I had been in the water, struggling, while the Red soldier waited,
rifle aimed. And then: a flood of data, flowing with cold, impersonal
precision. And I had deftly marshalled the forces of my body to survive.
And once more: as I hung by numbed fingers under the cornice of the
Yordano Tower, the cold voice had spoken.
And I had forgotten. The miracle had been pushed back, rejected by the
conscious mind. But now I knew: this was the knowledge that I had
received from the background briefing device that I had used in my
island strong-room before I fled. This was the survival data known to
all Old Vallonians of the days of the Two Worlds. It had lain here,
unused; the secrets of superhuman strength and endurance ... buried by
the imbecile censor-self's aversion to the alien.
* * * * *
But the ego alone remained now, stripped of the burden of neurosis,
freed from subconscious pressures. The levels of the mind were laid
bare, and I saw close at hand the regions where dreams were born,
the barren sources of instinctive fear-patterns, the linkages to the
blinding emotions; and all lay now under my overt control.
Without further hesitation I tapped the stored Vallonian knowledge,
encompassed it, made it mine. There again I approached the barrier,
spread out across it, probed in vain--
"... _vile primitive_...."
The thought thundered out with crushing force. I recoiled, then renewed
my attack, alert now. I knew what to do.
I sought and found a line of synaptic weakness, burrowed at it--
"... _intolerable_ ... _vestigial_ ... _erasure_...."
I struck instantly, slipped past the impervious shield, laid firm hold
on the optic receptor bank. The alien mind threw itself against me, but
too late. I held secure and the assault faded, withdrew. Cautiously I
extended my interpretive receptivity. There was a pattern of pulses,
oscillations in the lambda/mu range. I tuned, focussed--
Abruptly I was seeing. For a moment my fragile equilibrium tottered,
as I strove to integrate the flow of external stimuli into my bodiless
self-concept. Then a balance was struck: I held my ground and stared
through the one eye I had recaptured from the usurper.
And I reeled again!
Bright daylight blazed in the chamber of Ommodurad. The scene shifted
as the body moved about, crossing the room, turning.... I had assumed
that the body still lay in the dark but instead, it walked, without my
knowledge, propelled by a stranger.
The field of vision flashed across the couch. Ommodurad was gone.
I sensed that the entire left lobe, disoriented by the loss of the
eye, had slipped now to secondary awareness, its defenses weakened. I
retreated momentarily from my optic outpost, laid a temporary traumatic
block across the access nerves to keep the intruder from reasserting
possession, and concentrated my force in an attack on the auricular
channels. It was an easy rout. I seized on the nerve trunk, then
instantly reoccupied the eye, co-ordinated its impressions with those
coming in along the aural nerves ... and heard my voice mouth a curse.
* * * * *
The body was standing beside a bare wall with a hand laid upon it. In
the wall a recess partly obscured by a sliding panel stood empty.
The body turned, strode to a doorway, emerged into a gloomy
violet-shadowed corridor. The glance flicked from the face of one guard
to another. They stared in open-mouthed surprise, brought weapons up.
"You dare to bar the path to the Lord Ammaerln?" My voice slashed at
the men. "Stand aside, as you value your lives."
And the body pushed past them, strode off along the corridor. It passed
through a great archway, descended a flight of marble stairs, came
along a hall I had seen on my tour of the Palace of Sapphires and into
the Onyx Chamber with the great golden sunburst that covered the high
black wall.
In the Great Owner's chair at the ringboard Ommodurad sat scowling at
the lame courtier whose red hair was hidden now under a black cowl.
Between them Foster stood, the heavy manacles dragging at his wrists.
Ommodurad turned; his face paled, then flushed dark rose, teeth bared.
The gaze of my eye fixed on Foster. Foster stared back, a look of
incredulity growing on his face.
"My Lord Rthr," my voice said. The eye swept down and fixed on the
manacles. The body drew back a step, as if in horror.
"You overreach yourself, Ommodurad!" my voice cried harshly.
Ommodurad stepped toward me, his immense arm raised.
"Lay not a hand on me, dog of a usurper!" my voice roared out. "By the
Gods, would you take me for common clay!"
And, unbelievably, Ommodurad paused, stared in my face.
"I know you as the upstart Drgon, petty Owner," he rumbled. "But I trow
I see another there behind your pale eyes."
"Foul was the crime that brought me to this pass," my voice said.
"But ... know that your master, Ammaerln, stands before you, in the
body of a primitive!"
"Ammaerln...!" Ommodurad jerked as though he had been struck.
My body turned, dismissing him. The eye rested on Foster.
"My liege," my voice said unctuously. "I swear the dog dies for this
treason--"
"It is a mindless one, intruder," Ommodurad broke in. "Seek no favor
with the Rthr, for he that was Rthr is no more. You deal with me now."
My body whirled on Ommodurad. "Give a thought to your tone, lest your
ambitions prove your death!"
* * * * *
Ommodurad put a hand to his dagger. "Ammaerln of Bros-Ilyond you may
be, or a changeling from dark regions I know not of. But know that this
day I hold all power in Vallon."
"And what of this one who was once Qulqlan? What consort do you
hold with him you say is mindless?" I saw my hand sweep out in a
contemptuous gesture at Foster.
"An end to patience!" the Great Owner roared. He started toward my body.
"Does the fool, Ommodurad, forget the power of the great Ammaerln?"
my voice said softly. And the towering figure hesitated once more,
searching my face. "The Rthr's hour is past ... and so is yours,
bungler and fool. Your self-delusion is ended." My voice rose in a
bellow: "Know that I ... Ammaerln, the great ... have returned to rule
at High Okk-Hamiloth...."
He threw back his head, and laughed a choked throaty laugh that was
half sob.
"Know, demon, or madman, or ancient prince of evil: for thirty
centuries have I brooded alone, sealed from an empire by a single key!"
I felt the shock rack through and through the invader mind. This was
the opportunity I had hoped for. Quick as thought I moved, slashed at
the wavering shield, and was past it--
Upon the mind-picture of Foster's face was now superimposed another:
that of Qulqlan, Rthr of all Vallon, ruler of the Two Worlds!
And other pictures, snatched from the intruder mind, were present now
in the Earth-consciousness of me, Legion:
the vaults, deep in the rock under the fabled city of Okk-Hamiloth,
where the mind-trace of every citizen was stored, sealed by the Rthr
and keyed to his mind alone;
Ammaerln, urging the king to embark on a far-voyage, stressing the
burden of government, tempting him to bring with him the royal
mind-trace;
Qulqlan's acquiescence and Ammaerln's secret joy at the advancement of
his scheme;
the coming of the Change for the Rthr, aboard ship, far out in space,
and the vizier's bold stroke;
and then the fools who found him at the lifeboat ... and the loss of
all, all....
There my own lived memories took up the tale: the awakening of Foster,
unsuspecting, and his recording of the mind of the dying Ammaerln; the
flight from the Hunters; the memory-trace of the king, that lay for
three millennia among neolithic bones until I, a primitive, plucked
it from its place; and the pocket of a coarse fibre garment where the
cylinder lay now, on a hip of the body I inhabited and as inaccessible
to me as if it had been a million miles away.
But there was a second memory-trace--Ammaerln. I had crossed a galaxy
to come to Foster, and with me, locked in an unmarked pewter cylinder,
I had brought Foster's ancient nemesis.
I had given it life, and a body.
Foster, once Rthr, had survived against all logic and had come back
from the dead: the last hope of a golden age....
To meet his fate at my hands.
* * * * *
"Three thousand years," I heard my voice saying. "Three thousand years
have the men of Vallon lived mindless, with the power that was Vallon
locked away in a vault without a key. And now, you think to force this
mind--that is no mind--to unseal the vault?"
"I know it for a hopeless task," Ommodurad said. "At first I
thought--since he speaks the tongue of old Vallon--that he dissembled.
But he knows nothing. This is but the dry husk of the Rthr ... and I
sicken of the sight. I would fain kill him now and let the long farce
end."
"Not so!" my voice cut in. "Once I decreed exile to the mindless one.
So be it!"
The face of Ommodurad twisted in its rage. "Your witless chatterings! I
tire of them."
"Wait!" my voice snarled. "Would you put aside the key?"
There was a silence as Ommodurad stared at my face. I saw my hand rise
into view. Gripped in it was Foster's memory-trace.
"The Two Worlds lie in my hand," my voice spoke. "Observe well the
black and golden bands of the royal memory-trace. Who holds this key is
all-powerful. As for the mindless body yonder, let it be destroyed."
Ommodurad locked eyes with mine. Then, "Let the deed be done," he said.
The red-head drew a long stiletto from under his cloak, smiling. I
could wait no longer....
Along the link I had kept through the intruder's barrier I poured the
last of the stored energy of my mind. I felt the enemy recoil, then
strike back with crushing force. But I was past the shield.
As the invader reached out to encircle me I shattered my unified
forward impulse into myriad nervous streamlets that flowed on, under,
over, and around the opposing force; I spread myself through and
through the inner mass, drawing new power from the trunk sources.
Now! I struck for the right optic center, clamped down with a death
grip.
The enemy mind went mad as the darkness closed in. I heard my voice
scream and I saw in vivid pantomime the vision that threatened the
invader: the red-head darting, the stiletto flashing--
And then the invading mind broke, swirled into chaos, and was gone....
* * * * *
I reeled, shocked and alone inside my skull. The brain loomed, dark and
untenanted now. I began to move, crept along the major nerve paths,
reoccupied the cortex--
[Illustration: "I reeled, shocked and alone inside my skull. The brain
loomed, dark and untenanted now."]
Agony! I twisted, felt again with a massive return of sensation my
arms, my legs, opened both eyes to see blurred figures moving. And in
my chest a hideous pain....
I was sprawled on the floor, I lay gasping. Sudden understanding came:
the red-head had struck ... and the other mind, in full rapport with
the pain centers, had broken under the shock, left the stricken brain
to me alone.
As through a red veil I saw the giant figure of Ommodurad loom, stoop
over me, rise with the royal cylinder in his hand. And beyond, Foster
strained backward, the chain between his wrists garroting the red-head.
Ommodurad turned, took a step, flicked the man from Foster's grasp and
hurled him aside. He drew his dagger. Quick as a hunting cat Foster
leaped, struck with the manacles ... and the knife clattered across the
floor. Ommodurad backed away with a curse, while the red-head seized
the stiletto he had let fall and moved in. Foster turned to meet him,
staggering, and raised heavy arms.
I fought to move, got my hand as far as my side, fumbled with the
leather strap. The alien mind had stolen from my brain the knowledge of
the cylinder but I had kept from it the fact of the pistol. I had my
hand on its butt now. Painfully I drew it, dragged my arm up, struggled
to raise the weapon, centered it on the back of the mop of red hair,
free now of the cowl ... and fired.
Ommodurad had found his dagger. He turned back from the corner where
Foster had sent it spinning. Foster retreated until his back was at the
wall: My vision grew dimmer. The great gold circles of the Two Worlds
seemed to revolve, while waves of darkness rolled over me.
But there was a thought: something I had found among the patterns in
the intruder's mind. At the center of the sunburst rose a boss, in
black and gold, erupting a foot from the wall, like a sword hilt....
The thought came from far away. The sword of the Rthr, used once, in
the dawn of a world, by a warrior king but laid away now, locked in its
sheath of stone, keyed to the mind-pattern of the Rthr, that none other
might ever draw it to some ignoble end.
A sword, keyed to the basic mind-pattern of the king....
* * * * *
I drew a last breath, blinked back the darkness. Ommodurad stepped past
me, knife in hand, toward the unarmed man.
"Foster," I croaked. "The sword...."
Foster's head came up. I had spoken in English; the syllables rang
strangely in that outworld setting. Ommodurad ignored the unknown words.
"Draw ... the sword ... from the stone!... You're ... Qulqlan ...
Rthr ... of Vallon."
I saw him reach out, grasp the ornate hilt. Ommodurad, with a cry,
leaped toward him--
The sword slid out smoothly, four feet of glittering steel. Ommodurad
stopped, stared at the manacled hands gripping the hilt of the fabled
blade. Slowly he sank to his knees, bent his neck.
"I yield, Qulqlan," he said. "I crave the mercy of the Rthr."
Behind me I heard thundering feet. Dimly I was aware of Torbu raising
my head, of Foster leaning over me. They were saying something but I
couldn't hear. My feet were cold, and the coldness crept higher. The
winds that swept through eternity blew away the last shred of ego and I
was one with darkness....
Epilogue
I awoke to a light like that of a morning when the world was young.
Gossamer curtains fluttered at tall windows, through which I saw a
squadron of trim white clouds riding in a high blue sky.
I turned my head, and Foster stood beside me, dressed in a short white
tunic.
"That's a crazy set of threads, Foster," I said, "but on your build it
looks good. But you've aged; you look twenty-five if you look a day."
Foster smiled. "Welcome to Vallon, my friend," he said in English.
"Vallon," I said. "Then it wasn't all a dream?"
"Regard it as a dream, Legion. Your life begins today." Someone came
forward from behind Foster.
"Gope," I said. Then I hesitated. "You are Gope, aren't you?" I said in
Vallonian.
He laughed. "I was known by that name once," he said, "but my true name
is Gwanne."
My eyes fell on my legs. I saw that I was wearing a tunic like
Foster's except that mine was pale blue.
"Who put the dress on me?" I asked. "And where's my pants?"
"This garment suits you better," said Gope. "Come. Look in the glass."
I got to my feet, stepped to a long mirror, glanced at the reflection.
"It's not the real me, boys," I started. Then I stared, open-mouthed.
A Hercules, black-haired and clean-limbed, stared back. I shut my
mouth ... and his mouth shut. I moved an arm and he did likewise. I
whirled on Foster.
"What ... how ... who...?"
"The mortal body that was Legion died of its wounds," he said, "but the
mind that was the man was recorded. We have waited many years to give
that mind life again."
I turned back to the mirror, gaped. The young giant gaped back. "I
remember," I said. "I remember ... a knife in my guts ... and a
red-headed man ... and the Great Owner, and...."
"For his crimes," told Gope, "he went to a place of exile until the
Change should come on him. Long have we waited."
* * * * *
I looked again and now I saw two faces in the mirror and both of them
were young. One was low down, just above my ankles, and it belonged to
a cat I had known as Itzenca. The other, higher up, was that of a man
I had known as Ommodurad. But this was a clear-eyed Ommodurad, just
under twenty-one.
"Onto the blank slate we traced your mind," said Gope.
"He owed you a life, Legion," Foster said. "His own was forfeit."
"I guess I ought to kick and scream and demand my original ugly puss
back," I said slowly, studying my reflection, "but the fact is, I like
looking like Mr. Universe."
"Your earthly body was infected with the germs of old age," said
Foster. "Now you can look forward to a great span of life."
"But come," said Gope. "All Vallon waits to honor you." He led the way
to the tall window.
"Your place is by my side at the great ringboard," said Foster. "And
afterwards: all of the Two Worlds lie before you."
I looked past the open window and saw a carpet of velvet green that
curved over foothills to the rim of a forest. Down the long sward I
saw a procession of bright knights and ladies come riding on animals,
some black, some golden palomino, that looked for all the world like
unicorns.
My eyes travelled upward to where the light of a great white sun
flashed on blue towers. And somewhere in the distance trumpets sounded.
"It looks like a pretty fair offer," I said.