Like a monster flashing jewel, Plastica hovered over
Neptune. And burning at its heart like the malignant
sparkle of a gem was the blazing hate of millions of
slaves, ready to flare into raging battle at the ringing
tocsin of Vyrl Guerlan, the man without a country.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The vast globe of transparent plastic, infinitely stronger than the
most powerful columbium steel, hung suspended in space, ablaze in
brilliant pyrotechnics of light. And as cold and impersonal as the laws
of the empire it ruled.
Within it was the City of the Inner Circle. Patterned after the City
of Plastica itself, it rose within the globe in graduated tiers, but
unlike Plastica, there were no graduations of caste--they were all
Protectors, these scientists of the Inner Circle, and above them ruled
the legendary figure of _His Benevolence_, the "Protector in Chief."
Six thousand feet below, the turbulent ocean tossed restlessly as
if resentful of the awful pressure of the stupendous anti-gravity
beams that kept the glittering sphere in space--sacred, inviolate,
invulnerable. Above the ocean's shoreline, set amidst low hills, rose
Plastica, entirely enclosed in a shell of the same transparent plastic,
and rising tier on tier--each one a small world unto itself, and each
barred from communication with other tiers. Here the millions toiled
and loved and died ... and entered the portals of Blessed Sleep.
In the vast reaches of Neptune, only this continent--Adamic, was
livable, thanks to immense volcanic valleys where constant volcanic
activity of titanic proportions maintained a temperate atmosphere in
contrast to the frigid, desolate continents to the north and west. And
dotting the valley of Plastica like transparent beehives, the twelve
jewels of the diadem--twelve cities where five million human beings
dwelt in each, formed the empire of sixty million descendants of the
original immigrants who chose to follow the Council in their flight
from Venus.
There was no other sign of man, except among the virgin forests of the
volcanic valleys, where the Irreconcilables who fled the rigid laws of
the Protectors, carried on a precarious existence, assailed by fierce
wild beasts of prey, and hunted for sport with lances and long-swords
by the members of the Inner Circle, and the Scientists of the first
order. Burdened by the awful gravity of the great planet, and without
adequate arms to defend themselves, they were doomed quarry.
Within the capital, Plastica, and in each of the twelve cities, each
individual life had a definite pattern known only to the members of
the Inner Circle. Any deviation from that pattern brought instant
retribution. There was no appeal, for each judgment was based on
cold, inexorable law. Ever since the great exodus from Earth, when
the original Council had fled Terra, and forced colonies on Mars and
Venus, and later after their disastrous war with Europa, the Council
itself had been given the alternative of leaving the inner planets
or being executed, the members of the Council had colonized Neptune
with millions who unable to live without the "controls" had chosen to
accompany them into space. As the centuries passed and a new ruler of
the Council had been elected, changes had occurred in the laws, methods
had been perfected, until now, all Neptune was ruled by the City in the
Flaming Sphere, and to the millions in Plastica and the other great
cities, the Protectors (as they now styled themselves), had become
legendary figures. The Law was supreme. And behind the Law, was the
"Blessed Sleep."
* * * * *
In the fabulous hall of the palace, where the reeling torches in relief
threw faces of ink and of gold, there was a sudden silence as an
unearthly voice rose limpid, supernally lovely, in a single ululating
note. It was as if a gargoyle were singing with the voice of an angel.
But the bizarre assemblage of jaded, pleasure-sated "Protectors" of
the _Inner Circle_ had no eyes for the cadaverous Minister of Justice,
whose distorted features seemed uglier as he directed a stream of
modulated notes upward toward the gigantic doors at the top of jewelled
stairs. All eyes peering through the slits of black and golden masks
that completely hid their faces, were directed at the great red doors,
shining like gigantic, square cut rubies under the primitive light of
resinous torches. Every detail of the masquerade was perfection itself,
copying faithfully the conditions of primitive ages thousands of years
past. The magnificent costumes of the guests harked back to pirates and
slave-dealers, to vanished kings and oriental potentates. Back to an
era when humanity was young, as if these scientists who had the command
of miracles at their finger-tips, had wearied of their scientific
perfection.
Bejamel, Minister of Justice, had conceived the idea, and His
Benevolence had approved. From the current "favorite" of His
Benevolence, to the newest neophyte of the Inner Circle, the Masquerade
had immediately become a command performance.
Only one thing they had no need to imitate, one thing that harked back
to the darkest annals of Terra and surpassed anything that Planet had
ever known--their utterly ruthless intrigues for the favor of His
Benevolence. Assassinations were a commonplace, besides it provided a
constant incentive to the Scientists of the First Order, for from them
were chosen the fortunate ones who filled the vacancies of the Inner
Circle.
The audience gave a vast sigh, like a susurrating breeze, as the
ponderous doors began to open under the exact tonal vibration of
Bejamel's voice, for Bejamel, Minister of State, was the only one
who could open those doors, aside from the "Protector in Chief"
himself. Within the inner chamber nothing was discernible as the doors
opened--nothing but a vast radiance intolerable to their eyes. As if
a command had been given, all of them kneeled with bowed heads. At
last, Bejamel's ululating chant ceased and when they looked again, the
jewelled door had closed, but on the dais at the top of the stairs
immediately above them reclined a figure--a monstrous figure of man,
whose sharp, pale-yellow eyes gazed at them with bored contempt from
amid folds of bulging flesh.
"Benevolence!" The roar of thousands of voices rose in servile tribute,
and left hands were flung upwards, fingers extended in salute. His
Benevolence looked them over with cold, cruel eyes that seemed to miss
no detail, and a little smile extended the bulbous lips. Languidly he
waved a massive hand to the masqueraders, noting that none had achieved
the bejewelled opulence of his Mandarin's costume, and instantly
the revelry burst into tumult. The corps of exquisite dancers until
now frozen in motionless attitudes, began a series of provocative
movements, while barbaric drums and percussion instruments wove a theme
of madness and desire. Over all, the shrill _passionata_ of the reeds
and strings winged insistently to combine in a diabolic pattern that
plucked at raw nerves and bared hidden jealousies and hates and bared
the instincts of the jungle, red in tooth and claw.
A group of dancers weaving and undulating in the suggestive rhythms
of the Venusian "_Vuda_" passed like an uncoiling serpent before the
august dais and burst into bacchanalian frenzy before the sardonic
yellow eyes of His Benevolence. The fantastic splendor of the scene
was heightened by the young, supple bodies of the most beautiful girls
in the empire, the Virgins of the Sacred Flame, chosen yearly for that
sacred trust.
* * * * *
"Well," an impassive voice inquired of a tall, dark-haired _guest_ who
stood in the side-lines, stiff and uncertain, his conventional black
mask too small to hide the firm, square-cut mouth, his blue-black mane
of shoulder-length hair betraying him as a newcomer lacking as it did
the curled and perfumed artistry of the other guests.
"I suppose it's superfluous to ask your reactions to your first visit
to the mysteries of our City." The faint laughter that accompanied
the words brought a flush to the cheeks of the newcomer, fortunately
covered by the mask.
"How did you know I was a newcomer?" The youth inquired in turn.
"Simple," the cold, impassive voice replied. "You have no jewels save
that ring of a scientist of the First Order you're trying to conceal.
Your costume's far too simple.... When do you begin your probationary
period for the Inner Circle?" The speaker was below medium height,
slender as a sheathed rapier, and dressed in a single garment of
tight-fitting silk literally emblazoned in diamonds of the first water.
His square-cut mane of red-gold hair was starred with myriad blue and
red and yellow flashing stones, but the face was thoroughly hidden by
the golden mask.
"Tomorrow!" The words were spoken with a vast regret. "I'm afraid I
don't quite understand.... I hadn't expected this. Why I thought Sacred
City was a heaven of achievement of ..." he stopped as if words failed
him.
"Go on!" The sexless voice had a hint of mockery in its depths now.
"This is merely a preamble." He waved a marvelously slender hand in the
direction of the revellers. "Later ... but then, I always manage to
slip away before the real feast commences. If you wish, you may come
with me."
"But who are you? I might as well tell you who am I," the youth began,
but his unknown acquaintance waved his words aside with a gesture.
"I know who you are--scientist of the First Order Guerlan, as for me,
it does not matter who I am--you will see me again ... soon." He turned
to leave.
"Wait!" Guerlan exclaimed. "Take me with you out of this ... this
welter of vice and ..." words failed him in his disgust.
"Traitor ... Blasphemer!" A hoarse cry of rage rose above the music
and tumult. The swirling dancers split asunder as if a giant's hand
had flung them back. In the center of the cleared space, Guerlan found
himself facing a stocky, powerful figure of a man, costumed in the
ancient garments of a Pirate, eyes gleaming through the slits of
his golden mask. In his hand he hefted a long columbium sword with
bejewelled hilt. "Draw, vermin!" He taunted the dazed youth. "Draw
before I spit you on my sword like a spider!"
On the dais, still reclining as he gulped superb white grapes, His
Benevolence had begun to show signs of interest for the first time. The
veil of boredom had left his yellow eyes, an expectant grin split his
lips hungrily. Here was an unscheduled diversion of the first order.
Guerlan wore a long, thin rapier for a weapon, it had come with the
costume, or he'd never have thought of wearing it--nothing like this
fantastic nightmare could possibly have occurred to him. "Why did they
have to choose me!" He groaned inwardly. But with a swift movement
he drew the blade and stood _en garde_. He sensed dimly that it was
a true weapon, flexible and needle-sharp, not a costume-toy. And
once he had it in his hand, all his relentless, austere training in
fencing and sword-play came flooding in his mind. It was not considered
sportsmanlike to hunt Irreconcilables with atmo-pistols, only swords
and spears were used--but the end was the same for the defenseless
rebels.
Dimly Guerlan was aware of the dispassionate voice whispering in his
ear, "Watch out for tricks ... and win! The penalty will be far less
severe."
Guerlan wondered if his unknown acquaintance of the frigid voice meant
that his rebellious words had reached the awesome figure on the dais,
and that by winning he might be shown mercy. But he had no more time to
think irrelevant thoughts, for with a cry of drunken fury, his accuser
struck without preamble, slashing downward in a mighty blow calculated
to have cloven anything in two. But Guerlan smiled contemptuously at
the transparent maneuver; he merely shifted sideways and flicked his
rapier, and the sword slid harmlessly along the shining columbium
steel rapier. But the pseudo-pirate had no intentions of giving up
the initiative, he whirled the saber over his head and again brought
it down in a glancing blow that would have sheared through Guerlan,
and the young scientist again parried it with such precision that the
razor-sharp blade slid off singing to one side.
* * * * *
It was a superb struggle, and His Benevolence had directed his palace
minions to clear space for his unobstructed view. He now held a
gigantic uncut, but polished diamond to one eye, which he alternated
with an emerald and then a ruby, watching the battle through various
colors. An immense golden platter of viands and fruits slowly
disappeared down his capable maw.
Suddenly Guerlan closed in. His rapier flashed with vertiginous speed,
flicking in and out, so rapidly that it barely seemed to touch the
brawny forearm of his attacker, but when it came away it left a flowing
gash from elbow to wrist. With a bellow of humiliation and rage, the
pirate-costumed scientist lunged with a tremendous slash, but his
sword-point speared the air and before he could recover his balance,
Guerlan drove his rapier deep into the fleshy shoulder.
His attacker was silent now, an ominous rage contorted the brutal face
from which he'd torn the golden mask. He had but one single idea, to
kill and kill quickly. Laughter and jeering shouts rose around him.
As did the acrid odor of blood mingling with the exotic fragrances
that cloyed the atmosphere ... his own blood! His reaction to the
audible scorn of the other inner circle scientists was instantaneous.
He came in whirling his saber until it was like a silver vortex, then
he brought it down in a savage slash to shear Guerlan's head off his
shoulders. But the youth leaped back, engaging the Pirate's sword at
the same time and with a strange flicking motion accomplished faster
than the eye could catch, he twisted suddenly at a precise instant and
sent his attacker's sword flying through the silent hall.
It was an all but forgotten, ancient Italian trick whose origins were
lost. But the Scientist of the Inner Circle, sweating under his gaudy
pirate's costume knew nothing about Italian fencing tricks--he only
knew that one moment he'd thought to shear his opponent's head off his
shoulders and the next he was disarmed. A look of sheer horror came
into his blood-flecked eyes and next an uncontrollable scream escaped
his lips. That sealed his doom. Guerlan saluted and made no motion to
finish him. But from the fabulous dais where the jeweled stairs were
like a flowing stream of fire, a mocking, infinitely sardonic laugh
chilled every scientist present in that room.
"Our unfortunate brother is afraid, he is tired, is he not Bejamel?
After such an ordeal he deserves sleep ... soothing 'Blessed Sleep!'"
Again that demoniac, perversely cruel cachinnation that travestied
laughter, while the scientist, grovelling now, babbled in a frenzy of
appeals for a mercy that didn't exist. He was led screaming to a side
door and then once more there was silence in the hall.
"Bring the rebel!" Once more it was the voice of His Benevolence,
purring now, silky, filled with anticipatory pleasure. But Guerlan
needed no one to bring him before the dreaded presence. He walked calm
and erect to what he sensed would be his death. He knew that from
this soulless being he could expect no justice--nothing but death.
But there was to be a surprise in store for him. His Benevolence was
an adept at ringing the changes of torture on a human soul, and this
was a magnificent occasion. "We have heard you disapprove of us?" His
Benevolence's voice was light, cheerful, there was no hint of danger in
the silky tones. But Guerlan knew. That partly developed extra-sensory
perception that was a part of his heritage was prenaturally alert now.
He was not fooled.
"I expressed a misunderstanding, Your Benevolence," Guerlan bowed
and slowly took off his mask. Above the wide-spaced deep-green eyes,
flashing like tourmalines, a tiny tattooed six-pointed star seemed to
tremble with the pulsing of a vein.
"You see, Bejamel? I told you that 'Perceptives' would never do, yet
you so persuasively sold me the idea of how useful they could be if
their extra-sensory perceptive powers were developed." He sighed. "It's
that genius of yours for intrigue.... But it has failed. We can allow
no dissidents to enter the mysteries of the inner circle, Bejamel!"
"I kneel before your Benevolence," Bejamel's gargoyle features were
painfully contorted as he tried to grovel. "In my zeal for service to
your Magnificence, I have failed, but there's always the Blessed Sleep
for this blasphemer, O Symbol of Charity!" He finished ominously and
pondered what a jewel of a victim he would make.
* * * * *
But His Benevolence gave Bejamel a look of such cold, devastating evil,
that _he_ should dare to offer a solution, that the cadaverous Minister
of Justice seemed to shrink, pale and desperate, against the wall of
scientists who watched avidly the _miseen scène_.
"No mercy, no finesse." His Benevolence again was wearing the mask of
merciful forgiveness. "No Bejamel--not the Chamber of Blessed Sleep,
just ..." and he held up two fingers weighted with jewels. Then he
turned to Guerlan.
"My son!" Guerlan flinched. "Having been offered the sacred honor of
entering the Inner Circle, you failed to understand your first test
of the lesser mysteries ... all this ... this pitiful show of human
frailty and weakness, this odious travesty on the sins of the flesh,
was staged to test you. And you." A world of sadness seemed to darken
His Benevolence's voice, "and you condemned us! Instead of seeing it as
a mere test, and valuing it for what it was worth, you believed that
we were such monsters of hypocrisy as to entertain such lives." He
wagged his head from side to side in inexpressible disappointment and
grief. "I would pardon you from the depths of my heart, but The Law is
inexorable--I can but soften the harshness of your retribution.
"And so, my son," he held up two fingers again, "you not only are
barred from entering the sacred inner circle, but are demoted from
scientist of the first, to that of the second order. There is one
plastic center where a problem has not been solved. Achieve its
solution and you will be promoted to your original place, and
perhaps ... perhaps as you grow older, you may again be considered for
the priceless boon, the blessed destiny you have lost tonight."
A brooding sadness mantled the obese face, lending it dignity and a
transitory greatness. The soft echoes of the august voice ceased, and
Guerlan found himself being led by members of the Inner Circle Guard
back to the atomo-plane that had brought him here from Plastica. He
was too dazed to think, a vast, anguished feeling of defeat and shame
filled his mind, the words of His Benevolence whom he had dared to
doubt, were etched in acid in his brain. But, deep in the recesses of
his consciousness, something mocking, something not quite articulate,
struggled to plant in his chaotic thoughts, the swiftly growing seeds
of doubt.
Behind him, had he only been there to see and hear, a cataract of
laughter had engulfed the great Hall, and His Benevolence, surrounded
by his favorites and the most magnificently beautiful girls of the
empire, shook in paroxysms of mocking laughter.
But Guerlan knew nothing of this. His muscles ached from the battle and
his brain was awhirl. Once out in space again, he noted that a great
storm was in progress.
Hurtling under guard through the stormy reaches of space, he idly
watched through the plane's transparent dome how lightning danced
a drunken saraband. But although Guerlan strove to re-direct his
thoughts, the echoes of His Benevolence's voice were like a sunset gun
in his brain--final, incontestable, a sentence to the obscurity of the
Second Order, and problems ... he had mentioned a specific problem. And
Guerlan remembered with chill apprehension the sentence for failure to
solve problems in the second order. Three failures brought a warning,
five a probation and the sixth ... final judgment.
The upper air of the First Level, reserved for the Scientists of the
First Order, had the exhilarating quality of Burgundy. As far as
Guerlan's eyes could reach, the opaline and prismatic domes of the
First Level's exquisite structures extended in every direction. The
light was soft and caressing, thanks to the illumination and climate
conditioning of the mammoth Weather Stations. A soft, lilting melody
reminiscent of the ancient ballets of another age of centuries past,
was like a ripple of melodic laughter, enhancing a background of
ineffable peace. But Guerlan knew how illusory all this was for him.
Only enough time--a few hours to arrange his affairs and move to the
Second Level had been granted him. A profound pang of regret was like a
dull ache in his heart.
He had been trained from childhood to be a scientist of the First
Order, his mental coordinates had warranted it. So he had never seen
any other level but the First. Vaguely he had heard of that Second
level where spartan simplicity was a virtue, luxury-less, where
toil was constant, and thinking--a dangerous luxury, except where
work-problems were concerned. And the columbium steel band around his
young heart seemed to constrict more and more. Quickly he finished
packing his personal possessions. Nothing else was allowed him--a
sentence of demotion entailed complete personal loss.