For ten days I lay in that little cell, prisoned with the big
Northman. At my first inspection of the place, I saw that there was no
possibility of escape, for the walls were of smooth stone, and the only
opening in them was that of a two-inch pipe that served to ventilate
the cell. There was no window, as we think of it, yet the room was
light enough in the daytime, for as the sun rose, the side of the cell
facing on the building's outer wall became invisible, allowing plenty
of light to enter. This explained a fact that had puzzled me, the
absence of windows on the exteriors of the cylindrical buildings of the
city. Evidently the people of the city treated the outside walls of
their buildings in such a manner that in daylight they were invisible
from the inside, while perfectly opaque when viewed from without.
I had other evidence of the scientific attainments of these people in
the food that was furnished us twice each day. That food was nothing
but a clear golden liquid, with a slight oily flavor but otherwise
tasteless. Yet I found that it contained all the food-elements
necessary for the human body, since in all my time in this strange city
I had no other food, and never felt need of any other.
I found my cell-mate a dull enough companion. He was morose and fierce
in disposition, and very suspicious of me. I think that he considered
me a spy. I found that he knew a little English, a strange, archaic
English, but enough for us to carry on a broken conversation. To all my
eager questions, though, the fellow replied with a cold stare. By this
time I felt convinced that Lantin and I had found in this city the home
of the Raider, since the fact of Denham's presence and that of these
other men of many times and races admitted of no other explanation.
Yet when I asked the Norseman how he had come here, or if he had ever
seen the Raider, he kept to a gloomy silence, and I cursed my luck in
being confined with such a suspicious companion.
One service, though, he did do for me, and that was to teach me the
strange language used by the guards and masters of the city around me.
That tongue, I learned, was the Kanlar tongue, while the bright-haired
master-race of the city were Kanlars. The language itself was not
hard to learn, and in the long hours I lay imprisoned I acquired
considerable facility in expressing myself in it.
Sometimes, too, the Norseman would break his silence, and growing
excited with his own words, would tell me long, interminable stories of
the wild adventures he had taken part in, the shield-ringed ships that
he had sailed in, to leave fire and death along peaceful coasts, the
long list of men he had slaughtered. His cold eyes burned as he related
tales of butchery that appalled me, but when I ventured to interject
a single question he would regard me stonily and then relapse into
silence again.
The days went by, and through the transparent wall I watched night give
way to dawn, dawn to noon, and noon to dusk and night. Much I thought
of Lantin in those days. I wondered what fate had been his in the
gigantic central building, whether he was alive or dead. Wondered, too,
if I would ever find that out, for it was evident that we were being
reserved for another gladiatorial battle, and I was not confident of
coming through again unscathed.
One thing occurred, in those days of imprisonment, which still makes
me shudder, sometimes, at the memory of it. The transparent side of
our cell faced a smooth expanse of green lawn, with gardens beyond it,
and most of my time I spent lounging against it, looking out. Very
few people passed by there, now and then a few slaves, but scarcely
ever any of the Kanlar people. So on the eighth day of my confinement,
when I saw a slave approaching from a distance, I moved over to the
invisible wall and watched him.
He was carrying a tool that looked much like a common garden-hoe,
and walked toward me with that stiff, rigid movement that marked the
white-robed slaves. He came closer, I glanced at his face, then reeled
back against the side of the cell. For it was Talerri!
It was the Italian I had killed eight days before, garbed as a slave
and walking with the same inhuman, puppetlike motion that all these
strange servants used. He came closer toward me, so that I could see
his staring eyes, then, with an angular movement, he turned aside and
passed from view along the building's side.
For hours I puzzled over it, rejecting with a certain panic fear the
one explanation that came to mind. I knew that I had killed the Italian
that night, for my sword had pierced clean through his heart. Yet here
he was, working as a slave for the Kanlars. And what of the other
slaves, then, these rigid, staring-eyed figures? Were they too--?
For hours I speculated on the thing, but could find no rational
explanation for it, nor would the Norseman enlighten me. Finally I gave
it up as a mystery beyond me, and strove to banish it from my mind.
Two more days dragged out, days that were like weeks to me. I felt that
I must soon go mad, if I were longer imprisoned. And then, sharply
ending the monotony of dreary hours, there came a summons, a summons
that in the end proved to be a call to an adventure utterly undreamed
of by Lantin or myself.
_CHAPTER 10_