Professor Ederson was small but wiry, and it took him but a moment to
squirm from the grasp of the Lunite who had seized him from behind after
he dropped a note addressed to General Fu Yen from the bridge of the
flying globe. Turning, he beheld Lin Ching, his features contorted with
rage. He whipped out a sword, and in his great anger would surely have
beheaded the professor then and there, had not Kwan Tsu Khan appeared on
the scene and seized his sword arm from behind.
“What’s this, Lin Ching?” he asked. “Has the prisoner attempted to
escape, that you threaten his life?”
“Worse than that, my lord Kwan Tsu Khan,” replied Lin Ching. “The
miserable worm just dropped something to someone in the crowd and
refuses to tell me what it was.”
“I refused nothing,” cut in the professor. “This man came up behind me
and, seizing me by the neck, shook me. As I dislike being shaken, I
twisted from his grasp.”
“Perhaps then, you will tell _me_ what it was that you dropped to the
person in the crowd.” said Kwan Tsu Khan.
“To be sure,” replied the professor. “I dropped a note, written to a
friend of mine who lives here.”
“And what did the note say?”
“That,” replied the professor, “is strictly my business.”
“I will make it _my_ business to find out when I have more time,” said
Kwan Tsu Khan with his suave smile. “In the meantime, Lin Ching, put the
prisoner where he can send no more notes. I go, now, to confer with our
allies.”
Lin Ching bowed and grinned. Then he pointed with his sword to the
diamond-shaped door behind him.
“Enter, Am-Er-I-Khan,” he commanded, “and follow the passageway until I
bid you halt.”
The professor did as he was told, and was eventually stopped before a
door near the opposite side of the globe.
Taking a bunch of keys from his belt pouch, Lin Ching unlocked the door,
then bade his prisoner enter.
The savant found himself in a small, windowless room, faintly
illuminated by a tiny dome light overhead. In the center of the room was
a chair, suspended on powerful coil springs. Other springs connected it
to the floor, and still others to the walls on four sides.
“Be seated,” ordered Lin Ching.
No sooner had the professor seated himself in the chair than his captor
proceeded to strap him down securely. His hands were so fastened to the
arms of the chair that he was unable to reach the fastenings of the
straps which held his body, legs and feet.
Having completed his work, Lin Ching stood back with arms akimbo and
grinned.
“His lordship will make you glad to talk when he returns,” he said. “In
the meantime I wish you pleasant and profound meditations.”
With that, he stepped out and closed and locked the door. A moment later
the dome light snapped off, and the savant was left, alone and helpless,
in total darkness.
How long he hung there in his suspended chair in complete silence the
professor had no means of knowing. Suddenly, however, sounds came to him
which indicated that projectiles of some sort were striking the outer
shell of the craft. Despite his predicament, he smiled to himself in the
darkness, for this was, he felt sure, the reply of his friend, General
Fu Yen to his hastily written note.
He felt the craft dart suddenly upward a short time thereafter, and was
thankful for the coiled springs which surrounded his chair. Had they not
been there to absorb the shock, he would have been badly injured if not
killed outright by so sudden a movement of the globe.
For some time he could sense the quick movements of the craft hither and
thither, while projectiles rattled intermittently against its armor.
Then it settled down to a swift sustained flight and the bombardment
ceased.
The even flight was maintained for several hours. Then projectiles
rattled once more against the shell of the craft. This second
bombardment lasted for perhaps five minutes. Then the globe shot
suddenly upward with such terrific speed that, protected though he was
by the coiled springs, the professor lost consciousness.
When he regained his senses once more, the savant was being unstrapped
from his chair by Lin Ching. Another Lunite was holding a bottle of some
pungent smelling liquid beneath his nostrils. The sharp fumes smarted
them, and he jerked his head back to escape the pain, whereupon Lin
Ching smiled.
“So you flinch at the smell of _sarvadine_, ah, Am-Er-I-Khan? It will be
a pleasure to watch you when the real torture begins.”
“Where are we?” asked the professor, noticing that the motion of the
globe had ceased.
“In Peilong, the capitol city of His Imperial Majesty, P’an-ku,” replied
Lin Ching.
“Excellent!” exclaimed the professor, whereupon Lin Ching, dumfounded,
prodded him with his sword and ordered him to get out into the
passageway and keep moving.
At his first step he bumped his head on the ceiling, then fell to the
floor in a heap. Convinced that he was indeed on the moon, by this
demonstration of the lessened gravity pull, he carefully got up, and
made his way forward with a peculiar, toddling gait that seemed to amuse
his captors.
As he emerged from the diamond-shaped doorway in the shell of the craft,
he saw that the great globe had settled into a circular depression in
the level floor of a great dock made to contain its lower half. All
around him similar depressions were occupied by craft of exactly the
same size and type. It seemed that P’an-ku had a quite formidable
armada.
Standing on the dock with several other round-bodied Lunites was Kwan
Tsu Khan, his face bandaged and one arm in a sling. With him there also
stood another, slender of figure, whom the professor instantly
recognized.
“Dr. Wu!” he exclaimed in surprise. “How did you get here?”
“I had the honor of being your fellow passenger, professor,” replied the
Chinaman, bowing slightly.
“Come! Over the railing, worm!” grated Lin Ching, with another prod of
his sword.
The professor quickly vaulted the railing, alighting on the dock.
“You will feed the Am-Er-I-Khan, Lin Ching,” commanded Kwan Tsu Khan,
after the latter had followed his prisoner over the railing. “I will
send for him later.” Then he turned and walked away, chatting amiably
with Dr. Wu, while the other Lunites followed at a respectful distance
behind.
The savant was conducted off the docks, which were lighted by globes
suspended from the arched ends of gracefully constructed lamp posts. He
could not determine the nature of the light, which was yellow in color,
and seemed to come from a liquid with which the globes were filled. Far
above him, he caught glimpses of the rugged top of the great arched
cavern in which the lunar city was situated, particularly at points
where white stalactites reflected the light from the globes below.
After leaving the docks, he threaded many narrow and crooked streets.
The houses, which were set closely together, were mostly octagonal or
cylindrical in shape, and the popular fashion in doors and windows
seemed to be the diamond shape—one hinge only at the left corner of the
diamond, and one catch at the right. The roofs were sharply pointed, and
were either of yellow metal or heavy stone. He wondered why roofs should
be needed at all in an underground city, and especially roofs of such
heavy construction, until he saw a fragment of a stalactite fall on one
of the metal roofs and glance off, alighting in the street not far from
a group of round-bodied Lunites.
The lighting system in the city was the same as at the docks—endless
rows of suspended globes containing a substance which radiated yellow
light.
Presently the professor and his captor emerged from the narrow streets
and entered a broad open park, or plaza, planted with luminous trees and
shrubs of variegated forms and hues. Standing in the center of this park
was a huge building, octagonal in shape, and crowned with a narrower,
pagoda-like structure, the point of which reached nearly to the pendant
stalactites on the arched vault above. The lower part of the building
was of red stone, but the upper part was of burnished yellow metal
surrounded by rings of yellow globes and reflecting their light with
such brilliance as to light up a considerable portion of the city as
well as the upper reaches of the cavern.
The professor was hustled into a door at the ground level of this
building, and down a spiral ramp into a dimly lighted room where a
number of men, some of the round-bodied yellow race, and others of the
white lunar race, were chained by collars around their necks to rings in
the wall. He was promptly clapped into a vacant place, and a burly
jailer whose touch was far from gentle, snapped and locked a metal
collar around his neck.
“You will feed this contemptible maggot,” said Lin Ching to the jailer.
“Then report to me.”
The burly fellow saluted, and Lin Ching withdrew. Presently the jailer
went out and returned with a bowl and a cup which he set before the
professor. The bowl contained some chunks of stewed fungus of a leathery
texture though not unpleasant flavor, and the cup, water with a slightly
alkaline taste.
The savant was both hungry and thirsty, and disposed of his meagre
rations with gusto before Lin Ching came to him.
“Now, O pestilent spawn of a grub,” said Lin Ching, seizing the
professor’s neck chain which the jailer had unfastened from the wall,
and giving it a vicious jerk, “we will learn the fate of one who defies
the servants of the mighty P’an-ku.”
After being dragged up the spiral ramp and half choked from the pressure
of his metal collar, Professor Ederson was hustled through a maze of
hallways and passageways to a place where Kwan Tsu Khan stood before a
great, diamond-shaped doorway, guarded by two armored warriors who
carried spears with heads like long-toothed buzz saws, while from the
belt of each there depended a sword on the left and a ray-projector on
the right.
The Khan waited until a brilliantly robed major domo bade him enter—then
took the prisoner’s chain from the hands of Lin Ching and led him into a
large, brilliantly lighted audience chamber, the walls of which were
magnificently decorated with gaudily colored bas-reliefs of hunting and
battle scenes in which the round-bodied moon men and strange animals and
dragons figured conspicuously.
Seated on a massive cushioned throne, placed on a raised platform at the
far end of the room, his great round belly cradled between his spindly
knees, was P’an-ku, ruler of the yellow skinned moon men. Standing to
the right and left of the dais were guards, richly clad courtiers, and
liveried attendants.
The Khan slowly led his prisoner to a place before the throne. Then,
dropping to his knees, he pressed his forehead and the palms of his
hands to the floor.
“Rise, Kwan Tsu Khan,” said P’an-ku. “What have you here?”
“I have brought you the first captive of war from Du Gong, O Lord of the
Universe,” replied Kwan Tsu Khan.
“You are slightly in error, Kwan Tsu Khan,” replied P’an-ku, twisting
one end of his drooping moustache, and leering. “You have brought the
_second_ prisoner of war from Du Gong. The first is already chained in
our deepest dungeon for such time as we care to keep him there, while
devising a lingering death suitable to his case.”
“A prisoner from Du Gong? Your humble servant craves indulgence, for he
fails to understand, O King of the Age.”
“It does not matter,” replied P’an-ku. “We will attend to the prisoner
before us. Your report can wait, although I observe that you have been
wounded, and that two of the other observer globes have not returned.
Let us dispose of this prisoner, first. Who is he?”
“The miserable microbe, who calls himself Am-Er-I-Khan, fell on the
bridge of our globe from a ship of Du Gong which we destroyed, and was
taken captive by one of my men. When we had reached the capital of the
land of the descendants of your illustrious ancestor, he dropped a
message to someone in the crowd below the craft. Shortly thereafter,
when we were in conference with the powers of that land, a revolt broke
out in which eleven of our men were slain. Your humble slave barely
escaped with his life, having been left for dead.
“A man of that land who remains loyal to Your Majesty, and who calls
himself ‘Dr. Wu,’ was also left for dead, but being less badly wounded
than your servant, assisted him in getting back to the craft. After
taking vengeance on the revolting city, we departed for the other side
of Du Gong, where—”
“That part of your story can wait, Kwan Tsu Khan,” interrupted P’an-ku.
“I take it that you suspect this Am-Er-I-Khan of having fomented the
revolution in the land of our former allies.”
“Your wisdom, O Sole Vicar of the Great Lord Sun, is as brilliant and as
penetrating as His rays.”
P’an-ku glared down at the professor.
“What have you to say for yourself, Am-Er-I-Khan?” he asked.
“Nothing,” replied the professor.
“You see, O Light of Knowledge, this vile father of many crawling
maggots admits his guilt.”
“I see,” replied P’an-ku. “Ho, Tzien Khan. Take the prisoner to the
torture rooms and give him the death of the many water drops.”
The Lunite designated as Tzien Khan stepped forth and took the
professor’s chain from the hand of Kwan Tsu Khan. Although the grizzled
hairs of his long, stringy moustache and the many wrinkles of his
parchment like countenance betokened great age, he seemed sprightly and
quite muscular. His sadistic grin, as he jerked the prisoner away to
execute the order of the monarch, revealed a single, fang-like tooth in
the upper jaw, and but two below.
Upon hearing his sentence, Professor Ederson had expected the slow,
torturing death of having water dripped on his forehead. He was
surprised, therefore, when he learned the true nature of the Lunite
death of the many water drops.
After being led through a large room filled with many instruments of
torture, and resonant with the shrieks of the victims of the wrath of
P’an-ku, he was conducted to a small anteroom where two men, under the
direction of Tzien Khan, removed his metal collar and seated him in a
heavy metal chair which was bolted to the floor. These two men, as well
as the others whose work it was to torture the prisoners, had their
faces hideously painted with rings and lines of red and blue pigment.
When they had the professor strapped securely in the chair, they
measured his head. Then they went out, and presently returned with a
metal helmet with a ring in the top. The helmet fitted his skull almost
as tightly as if it had been made to order for him, and a metal chin
piece which was fastened beneath the ears on either side was fitted in
place and secured. A metal cable with hooks on each end was next passed
through two stout pulleys suspended from the ceiling, one of which was
directly above his head and the other about three feet in front of it.
One end of the cable was hooked through the ring in his helmet. Then one
of the men lifted a large, cylindrical vessel with a funnel-like opening
and basket-like handle at the top, and hooked it on the other end.
This done, Tzien Khan turned a valve, and a drop of water fell into the
vessel. Noting its fall he watched a small instrument, evidently a
chronometer, which he took from his belt pouch, until a second had
fallen. For some time he continued to adjust the valve, until the
falling drops seemed timed to his liking. Then he dismissed his two
attendants and turned to the professor with his cruel, toothless grin.
“Farewell, O spawn of a slimy worm,” he said. “In your slow and painful
passing, meditate on the folly of opposing your puny will to that of the
Lord of the Universe.”
The professor was unable to make a reply, even had he desired to do so,
for the weight of the vessel had pulled the helmet and chin piece so
high that speech was impossible. The cords of his neck began to pain him
sharply, and he tried to think of something which would take his mind
off the pain.
With the aid of his wrist watch, he calculated that the water was
dripping into the container at the rate of a drop every minute. A dram
an hour. Three ounces in a day. How much weight could the cords and
muscles withstand? How long had he to live?