It was not only a garden of vast dimensions, it was an Eden riotous
with the most exquisite blooms of Venus, and myriad bright-plumaged
birds that sang with a complete abandon that bespoke no instinct of
fear, for they were sacred. In the near distance, the rose and white
crysto-plast temple of the Virgins of the Sacred Flame was a triumph in
architecture, for here within the inviolate garden of His Benevolence
was the sacred shrine.
A muted orchestra was playing, hidden in the foliage, and the
incredible re-creation of sunlight drew an iridescent aureole from the
alabaster fountain that constantly renewed a miniature lake in the
center of the garden.
Rose-colored _Garzas_ and sparkling, blue azurines searched for
tid-bits in the shallows, while a flight of _Albas_, the snowy-white
nightingales of the Volcanic Valley, swept overhead in an ecstasy of
song. It was idyllic, a spot instinct with peace under the soft hand of
beauty.
But near the shore of the small lake, idly moving his hand in the cool
waters, while with the other he stuffed roasted doves into the red,
cruel mouth, His Benevolence listened in ominous silence as the Chief
of the Intermediates made his report. Standing behind the gargantuan
corpulence of the 'Protector in Chief,' Bejamel listened, too, and his
gargoyle's features slowly registered a rising fear that whitened his
repulsive face. It was incredible! Had anyone else dared to make such
a report, he would have instantly banished him or her to the 'Blessed
Sleep.' But the Intermediates, be they either of the warrior class,
and trained to fight to the death, or of the scientist category, were
cold, unemotional beings whose precision could not be questioned. As
for their loyalty--that was under control, for their only _imperative_
was Vanadol, reacting on them curiously instead of drugging them to
sleep--compensating them for their sexlessness with an unearthly
ecstasy. And Vanadol was under absolute Inner Circle control ... under
Bejamel!
"Only three Intermediates escaped alive from the caverns under the
fifth level?" Bejamel inquired incredulously in that magnificent voice
that was a melody in itself.
"Silence!" There was nothing lovely in the harsh command of His
Benevolence. "Bunglers! Should condemn you and your strategists to
the Blessed Sleep, but the quota of jewels is filled.... What do you
plan doing now? Or are you going to let those Irreconcilables become a
cancer on the side of the empire?" His voice became indistinct as he
stuffed golden nectarines into his mouth.
"Magnificence! If your Benevolence permits...." Bejamel's attempt at a
smile was a ludicrous failure. But the sulphuric stare he received for
his pains, left him wordless and pale.
"Proceed!" His Benevolence nodded at the Intermediate. The pale yellow
eyes were blazing.
"Our plans are to destroy the cavern immediately, and utilize our
Intermediate Scientists to ferret out the dissenters for disposal
at your Effulgence's orders." The Chief of the Intermediates replied
calmly, evenly, as if his life were not hanging by the thinnest thread.
He bowed profoundly, and then stood erect, in all the glory of his
golden tunic and platino-plastic helmet.
"Also, a flight of pursuit atomo-planes awaits disorders in every tier
of every city, Your Benevolence!"
"Like over-fed blackbirds," His Benevolence observed scornfully. "They
didn't prevent Guerlan and that unidentified companion of his from
escaping! And that reminds me, Bejamel," his voice changed to a silken
purr. "I thought you had checked the safety coordination of the plastic
centers. Surely, with all the safeguards you reported installed, the
machines supplied you by scientists, and the robot-proctor guard, not
to speak of the selector-controlled tests of the workmen, I still fail
to understand how Guerlan escaped retribution." His lips parted in a
smile of sadistic pleasure, as Bejamel went green.
* * * * *
"And," His Benevolence held up a hand that flashed with a vortex of
prismatic fire from the many jewels, "what has become of your daughter,
Perlac? I seldom see her any more."
"Since Your Benevolence said that her hips were too narrow and her face
too sharp, I banished her from your presence, Effulgence!"
"Well, bring her back!" He snapped in fury. "Sometimes I think you
usurp my authority, Bejamel." His eyes narrowed speculatively, and the
enmity he felt for the Minister of Justice because of the latter's
silent opposition to allowing his daughter to become a Virgin of the
Sacred Flame, smouldered within him.
Bejamel bowed profoundly, but a glint of savage rage shone in his eyes.
"Send the Virgins ... let them sing!" His Benevolence commanded, "and
convey my forgiveness to Estrella; she may enter the presence!"
"Your Benevolence's favorite will rejoice at the magnanimous decision!"
Bejamel replied in a soft murmur that was sheer music. But the
expression on his averted face belied his words.
He hurried away through the foliage of the Venusian Jasmine trees and
the tangles of fragrant Maravillas, until he came to the pavillion of
white _Jadite_, so exquisitely planned that in its white simplicity it
might have been an idealized Greek temple.
"Estrella," he called the moment that he entered. "Hurry, child!" And
seeing her curled on a couch worth a respectable fortune, "_He_ will
see you ... mind you, he's in a vile temper--as capricious as I've ever
seen him. But evidently he has need of you. Soothe him from this evil
mood, or we'll all suffer!" He paused out of breath.
Estrella uncoiled languorously from the Sapphirine couch and stood
lightly swathed in filmiest draperies of spider silk, that revealed
the distracting beauty of her limbs and full, firm breast. The large,
brilliant dark eyes, shadowed by curling lashes were rebellious
and scornful, and the flower-like red mouth mutinous. A cascade of
pale gold hair tumbled curling about the marble shoulders, and sent
gleaming tendrils to the satiny throat, encircled by a necklace
of star-sapphires, rarest of all jewels because of the tremendous
difficulties in creating the star in the depths of the jewel.
"Let _him_ wait ... I have had to wait too long!" she blazed.
"Sheesh! ... even the walls have ears, Star of the Evening! And
remember his saying: 'A favorite in disfavor is a jewel that has
crystallized'. He means that literally; I couldn't bear to see you as a
ruby in his finger ring."
Estrella paled, shrugged her shoulders and dashed out of the pavillion.
Out in the garden, she was like a butterfly in the sunlight, a gorgeous
creature that came to rest at His Benevolence's feet. A choir of
Virgins sang softly and undulated with the rhythm of the music, while
His Benevolence fondled Estrella with one hand and with the other ate.
Meanwhile, in the sumptuous Audience Chamber, a multitude of Protectors
of the Inner Circle, Scientists of the First Order, the Directors of
various cities, and even Intermediate Scientists moved restlessly,
pacing up and down the imposing length of the chamber. Their faces were
pale and anxious; some seemed distraught, rehearsing silently, over and
over in their minds what they had to say.
But among themselves they barely spoke. A careless word, flung in a
moment of anxiety, might be the beginning of a fatal intrigue. They
were taking no chances.
The dour, ascetic visaged Marvalli, Scientist of the Inner Circle and
Chief of Columbia, seemed on the verge of nervous prostration. He
wondered in anguish what would His Benevolence say when he learned
that the warehouses filled with exquisite tropical and semi-tropical
delicacies for his table and that of the Inner Circle, had been
destroyed by a raging holocaust that had left nothing but blackened
cinders, and that the priceless machinery for the Vibroponic farms,
which speeded up the growth and maturity of exotic plants and fruits,
and a multitude of legumes and vegetables, was a twisted, molten
mass--he quaked inwardly and a cold sweat oozed out of his pores.
Vidal, Chief of Plastica had a harrowing report too. Vat after vat of
processing acid had split in halves and flooded moats and safety levels
until the acrid fumes made the Plastic Centers of his city untenable.
Conveyors had been disrupted and even robot-proctors dissolved as if
they'd been made of _papier-mache_. All his efforts at locating the
source of these depredations were in vain. Meanwhile, the plastic
industry in Plastica was paralyzed. That as bad as it was, however,
could be remedied temporarily by the installation of more vats, but an
amazing thing was that even the replacement vats had been found damaged
beyond repair.
* * * * *
But of them all, Weiman, "The Butcher", as he was called, was the most
distraught of all. Never in all the history of Perdura, his beloved
Perdura, where the Neptunian _Bagazo_ plant was processed into the drug
for the amnesiac treatment, had such depredations been committed. A
veritable nightmare of explosions had shattered the intricate machinery
of the processors; the receiving vats of staunchest plastic had been
found in shards and slivers, while the stores of the sacred drug had
disappeared. An emergency order sent to the nurseries where the plants
were grown obtained no response and investigation disclosed that the
nurseries had been destroyed.
It was then he had ordered a search party to go into the semi-tropical
forests far up the valley in search of wild plants and they were met
by a savage mob of Irreconcilables! But not the gravity-burdened,
frightened Irreconcilables he had been used to hunt with lances
and swords, but a grim, determined company of fighters armed with
atomo-pistols and atomo-rifles who exterminated the searching party
except one member, whom they sent back with the insolent warning: "Stay
out of our land!"
The atmosphere of the Audience Chamber was electric. A wave of
rebellion seemed to be sweeping the Empire.
When Bejamel, Minister of Justice, entered the Chamber, there was a
concerted rush to meet him.
"Excellency, I request an audience!" And from another Chief of a City.
"Nay, Excellency.... Mine cannot wait, it's a catastrophe!" "I crave
a hearing...! Your Excellency!" Pandemonium had broken loose in the
chaste precincts of the Audience Hall.
"Peace!" Bejamel shouted above the tumult, and strove to present a
calm exterior. But an icy fear constricted his throat, and his usually
commanding tones of unearthly beauty failed him. Nevertheless he
stemmed somewhat the rising confusion.
"You, Vidal!" Bejamel singled out the Inner Circle Scientist in charge
of Plastica. "Your report."
"I demand Martial Rule, and sufficient troops to insure order," Vidal
gasped. "Plastica's paralyzed. Most of the plastic-acid vats have been
destroyed; conveyors in shambles and robot-proctors disintegrated.
I know of only one weapon capable of shattering Columbium-Plastic
and Bery-Plastic--and do it without a sound. These weapons are
electro-flash, and assigned to the Inner Circle. When an Inner Circle
Scientist loses the one assigned to him, he is under penalty to report
it immediately. I can't conceive how these weapons could have fallen
into the hands of whoever these depredators are, and in sufficient
numbers to wreak such havoc in such a short time!"
"I didn't ask for a diagnosis, and least of all for a cure!" Bejamel
said frigidly. "I asked for symptoms. Your report, Vidal!"
And Vidal gave it, freed from the fear His Benevolence's presence
always inspired, he gave it bitterly, in complete detail.
"And you Marvalli?" Bejamel's voice shook a little despite his efforts
to control it. From Marvalli's expression he feared the worst.
"Columbia has been unable to provide its quota of special foods for
forty-eight hours, and all its reserves have been destroyed." In a
voice filled with foreboding, he told his story, wringing his hands
from time to time, unconscious of doing it.
Weiman was next. He gave a minute account of depredations in Perdura.
"And so," he finished in an anguished voice, "we not only have no
Bagazo for the amnesiac treatment ... we are unable to procure any, and
even if we had it, the machinery is a shambles, Excellency!" His voice
ended in a wail.
On and on the audience continued, each account adding to the
seriousness of the situation. At last Bejamel rose. His face was
inscrutable. "What a gargantuan indigestion His Benevolence is going to
have today," he thought grimly.
"Remain!" He exclaimed peremptorily, and strode in the direction of the
enchanted garden.
* * * * *
He didn't even pause to watch the gyrations and posturings of Virgins
of the Sacred Flame. Brushing aside the tall Intermediates that stood
guard over the recumbent form of His Benevolence, he bowed slightly,
and in a cold, tight voice explained his mission.
"Your Benevolence," his voice never had been lovelier, "the empire is
in open revolt. We are not facing isolated cases of vandalism. Nor the
underground opposition of the Irreconcilables. This is a fiendishly
planned and perfectly executed strategy of destruction. Unless we meet
it with overwhelming force, we lose control of the empire!"
"Don't exaggerate, Bejamel!" His Benevolence snorted disdainfully.
"A few vats have been shattered--others can be made. Bagazo has been
destroyed ... we'll get all we need from the forests, and later have
our chemists synthesize the drug. Just issue the necessary orders, I
can't be bothered now."
Bejamel's smile was feline, and feral lights gleamed in the eyes that
gave him such a gargoylish expression amidst his twisted features.
"No, Effulgence. This calls for a meeting of the Inner Circle. You may
not know it, but hundreds of thousands of amnesiacs, now deprived of
the drug, _remember_! Death to them is a boon, and before they die they
will be sure to take as many of us as possible. And _they are being
armed_!"
"Let a few thousand die!" He exclaimed heartlessly. "They'll pave my
new Hall of Rubies!" But he knew now that Bejamel was not exaggerating.
The great intellect of the evil ruler, had grasped the disastrous
consequences of such a revolt, and instantly he acted.
"Very well, Bejamel. Call the Council. Hold all witnesses for the
session. Meanwhile, mobilize all the Intermediates of the warrior
order, and the Scientists of the first and second orders. Every Inner
Circle Scientist who is still worthy of his rank, and all Inner Circle
Neophytes to be in readiness. Make a survey of robot-proctors, and
coordinate all available defenses. We can at least be ready at a
moment's notice. And, find out how long our present stores of food will
last ... we should have enough for months! Think you can remember all
this?" He purred mockingly.
"To hear your Benevolence is to obey!" Bejamel replied imperturbably.
And left to carry out the orders. A little smile was at the corners of
his mouth, and the feral light was still lambent in his strange green
eyes.
He could hear His Benevolence's harsh tones as the latter told His
Virgins: "Get out!" Only Estrella remained by the side of the obscene
bulk. Bejamel pitied her.
* * * * *
Once back in the Audience Chamber, pandemonium broke loose, but with
a peremptory wave of his hand and the words: "You will remain as
witnesses for a full meeting of the Council tonight," Bejamel quelled
them. He watched them file out with a speculative gaze. "When the sea's
disturbed," he murmured softly, "creatures from the bottom rise to the
top." Then he walked slowly to his own chambers, singing softly to
himself, and it was as if the voice of an angel were issuing from the
throat of a Gargoyle.
Only one thought worried him, and that was the protracted absence of
Perlac. She had been gone for days. Perhaps he had missed her in
his preoccupation with duties of State, he thought. Bejamel shrugged
his thin shoulders and sat down at a jewel-encrusted desk worthy of
an Inner Circle Scientist ransom. Silently he began to write with an
electro-stylus on a sheet of transparent plastic. Nothing showed.
It was to Gualdamar, whom to give the full plenitude of his titles was
Chief Guardian of the City of the Flaming Sphere, The Leader of the
Intermediate Warriors, Chief Strategist, and Scientist of the Inner
Circle.
As Bejamel wrote, he thought with part of his mind of the many minor
revolts that had occurred when the amnesiac treatment failed because of
the defense against the drug that human metabolism built periodically,
but nothing like this had ever happened in the annals of the Empire.
Plastic Inc., as the Inner Circle taught the people to believe, was
part of them, and they rose and fell together. It occurred to Bejamel
that he was very old, it was indecent to thrust such a crisis on his
fading intellect. The thought made his smile acidly. There was nothing
decadent about that Machiavellian mind that enabled him to remain in
power through decades of intrigues, pitfalls and traps, and lately, the
growing enmity of his Benevolence because he would not allow Perlac to
become a chattel of his Obese Effulgence in the Temple of the Sacred
Flame.
He wondered if he would be able to weather this crisis. Still he wrote
swiftly, invisibly on the transparent plastic, and as he did so, the
thought of Venus, great in its first bloom of advanced civilization, of
Europa, transmuted into an Eden by the courage of its Terrans and the
strange unearthly science of the Panadurs. If all else failed, he could
seek sanctuary on either one of these two planets. Mars repelled him,
none of that grim land for his weary bones. But if he had to flee, he
meant to flee along with Perlac, and he had a score to settle before he
went.
When he had finished, he pressed a button, and a robot-proctor entered
noiselessly, received instruction and as quietly disappeared. Bejamel
knew that his robot would deliver the message in person, nothing could
take that plastic message from him short of destruction.
V
"Tonight we attack!" Guerlan persisted uncompromisingly, but his eyes
sought Perlac's and found confirmation in her swift smile. "I offer
the counsel of daring--all or nothing!" A roar of approval greeted his
words, the echoes dwindling down the series of subterranean caverns
that formed a continental link in the bowels of Neptune and was used to
shelter the army of scientists, technicians, analysts, coordinators,
mechanics and workmen. They were now under Columbia's Fifth Level, and
rising to the crysto-plast dome, each tier was now under the domination
of the Irreconcilables.
But Paulan, the Commander in Chief, arose in all the dignity of his
great age. He frowned in disapproval, sighing before he spoke.
"I fear too great an army has been assembled against us, Plastica,
Telluria, Perdura, the eleven remaining cities will have to be
conquered, and remember, since we captured Columbia with comparative
ease while the Inner Circle's Army was engaged in destroying the
caverns beneath Plastica, all the other cities swarm with Intermediates
and the Scientists of the First and Second Circle, not to speak of
those fiends of the Inner Circle themselves. We have converted millions
through the use of the Ethero-Magnum, thanks to our loyal Perlac,
who taught us to use it as the Inner Circle used it to condition the
amnesiacs; we have paralyzed the Plastic Industry; destroyed the
machinery for processing _Bagazo_ into the amnesiac drug, and we
control all the stores of _Bagazo_. We have achieved the arming of
thousands of our followers. Surely, that is a great victory. I feel
that should be enough for the present; besides, the Inner Circle will
want to come to terms with us."
And it was true. Hunger and privation stalked the tiers of the
great cities; chaos reigned. Even the great Plastic centers now had
become a shambles of exploding acid vats; conveyors bore a welter of
half-asphyxiated humanity, gaunt with hunger and the spasms lack of the
amnesiac brought on; transportation was paralyzed, and everywhere the
amnesiacs flared into madness as the effects of the drug wore off; and
in a frenzy of remembrance and need of the drug, they attacked all in
the ranks of scientists, destroying everything they could lay hands on.
Thousands died under the trained precision of the Intermediates, and
Scientists of the First Order, but the casualties they inflicted in the
serried ranks of the Chief Protector were appalling.
"A compromise is not enough!" Guerlan was pitiless. "We have but one
Ether Magnum here in Columbia with which to carry our message to the
Second Level of each city and the workmen of the Third Level. True
we have close to a quarter of a million warriors, but in a war of
attrition, they have the greater resources. Besides," his voice was
acid with scorn, "who wants a compromise? Not I!" His great green eyes
under the long dark lashes flashed fire and the generous, square-cut
mouth was bitter. He pointed an accusing finger at the legion of men
and women that filled to overflowing the immense central cavern.
"You have asked for enough food to insure health in your children
and have been told that synthetic-parturition will take care of your
offspring, as indeed it does, and you never see them again! You who
have asked but a measure of happiness and have been giving all you
possess in energy, loyalty and obedience, and are given in return a
brutalizing drug that robs you of the will to live! You who through
the intrigues and machinations of the Inner Circle have been brutally
thrust into the Second, the Third and even the Fourth Levels without a
trial, without a hearing merely to satisfy the sadistic minds that rule
us from the City of the Sphere.... YOU, would you want a compromise?"
The negative roar that rose in response, shook the lofty ceiling of the
cavern and was like a whirlwind. When it had died down, Paulan stood up
again.
"I resign," he said simply. "Younger hands than mine will have to lead
you. Perhaps you're right, Guerlan, if so, take my place as Commander
in Chief, my son."
For a moment there was silence, and then another multi-throated roar of
approval.
Guerlan was silent before the majestic dignity of the old man, and
something akin to pity welled out of his heart for the great patriarch;
but Perlac was on her feet, her sculptured arms flung above her head
demanding attention from the great multitude.
"I second the nomination!" Her limpid tones carried far.
"And I ... and I ... and I!" Thousands of voices strove to be heard,
down into the farthest reaches of the linked caverns, as those who
could not see, heard through the inter-connecting teleradio.
"Then," Guerlan spoke firmly, almost coldly, "the Council of War is
called to session, we will meet in the Venusian spacer. All troops
stand by for orders."
"Lead, Commander!" exclaimed a rich baritone voice.
It was Carladin, winged, diminutive, proud that the first session of
the Council of War should be held in his magnificent atomo-plane,
the one that had been repaired in the cavern beneath Plastica. He
was proud, too, of Venus' inventive genius in converting the secret
electronic formula of the electro-flash into a magnification of that
weapon, to the size of a cannon, and raised to the sixth power, enough
to practically blast an atomo-plane out of space. As for his special
gift to the cause, that was an ironic touch that only a Venusian mind
was capable of conceiving, for although unbelievably kind, they never
forgave. "Poetic Justice," Carladin had called it, and insisted on the
use of his special gift, even bringing a battalion of Venusians to
handle it.
* * * * *
"Telluria reporting ... Telluria ... Fourth Level cleared. Entrance to
Third Level forced.... Fighting intense ... Telluria...." The voice of
the announcer faded and the magnified face in the telecast dissolved
before their gaze.
Guerlan, Perlac and Carladin listened intently in the control cabin of
the Venusian spacer which hovered like a great bird in the darkness
above Columbia.
The enormous ethero-magnum that occupied a large section of the control
room, came to life again as an ascending whine warned them, it was
Perdura calling:
"Perdura calling ... Perdura ... Commander Guerlan!"
"Come in, Perdura!" Guerlan exclaimed impatiently, his nerves taut from
inaction, but plans had to be observed. "Come in!"
The shifting swirls of light on the telecast became steady and a young,
pale-featured youth could be seen speaking with great intensity.
"We're on the second level, Commander. The defense has been terrific,
they're bringing robots into the battle. One electro-flash cannon
destroyed thus far, but we're pushing forward. No further news."
It was disappointing. In a concerted attack in eleven cities, thousands
of Irreconcilables had emerged from the bowels of Neptune, striking
upwards from the fifth levels of the cities, aided by crazed amnesiacs
who fought with tooth and nail when no weapons were available. But it
was Plastica that worried him most, for here was the strategic city
they must capture at all costs. Unable to control his impatience any
longer, he asked Perlac to contact Plastica. The girl's slender fingers
played over the banked keys, adjusting tiny levers and driving home the
activating selectors. Swirls of magnificent colors flooded the Telecast
screen, while the ascending whine of the complex instrument went beyond
the auditory limits of the human ear; and presently scene after scene
of ghastly destruction showed on the telecast, the fifth level came and
went a shattered welter; the fourth where destruction was appalling
showed great rents in the crysto-plast dome that separated it from
the third. There was fighting still in the second level, as isolated
parties strove to decimate the remaining, fleeing Intermediates;
the fallen forms of robot-proctors littered the conveyors and
inter-connecting avenues, the carnage was incredible.
But it was in the first level itself where the battle without quarter
was now taking place. Divisions of ordine-plastic robots charged
great masses of Irreconcilables, only to be shattered in great waves
as the electro-flash cannon, gift of Venus, disintegrated their
electronic balance. Thousands of lurid flashes from atomo-rifles and
atomo-cannons, laboriously hauled to the first level by the attackers,
belched destruction at buildings laden with Intermediates and Second
Level Scientists; aero-tanks with treads instead of landing gear,
were attempting to settle on the vast first level, their atomo-cannon
slashing at the attackers with great scimitars of lurid blue light.
It was a titanic holocaust that would long live in the annals of the
Universe, for Venus, Mars, Mercury and Europa had their Tele-Magnums
trained on the fantastic struggle.
And then the face of the Commander of the Irreconcilables attacking
Plastica, showed on the Telecast, a great gash over an eye still
oozing a gout of blood that trickled down the left side of his face.
Grim, with an awful determination in his young eyes, the Commander
spoke hoarsely. "Commander Guerlan, we need aircraft to engage the
aero-tanks. Plastica is surrounded without the crysto-plast dome, and
thousands of Inner Circle Scientists await the precise moment to enter
in their Treaders and annihilate us. In reaching the first level,
our losses have been too great, Commander!" He saluted and the face
withdrew, as if having delivered his message there were nothing more to
be said.
"Carladin," Guerlan's voice was vibrant with pent-up emotion, "you've
brought with you eight-hundred atomo-spacers better than anything the
Inner Circle has, if the speed and strength of Perlac's atomo-spacer is
a sample. There is _your_ task!"
* * * * *
"Not mine, Commander!" There was an edge of keen delight in the superb
baritone voice of the tiny, winged figure. "I also brought with me a
great warrior of space to lead my fleet. I have another task I shall
relish even more! In one of my spacers, the flag-ship, are the hounds
of Mother Venus, with which we hunt in the great virgin forests. One to
each member of a battalion of my people ... on a fragile leash! I shall
communicate with my fleet immediately, may I take one of the emergency
planes?" And as Guerlan nodded assent, Carladin was gone.
Guerlan wondered what the Venusian had meant by the hounds of Venus,
but he was too preoccupied with the battle to care, all that mattered
was that he was willing to use his fleet in accordance with the plan.
"Gloriana calling.... Gloriana calling Commander Guerlan...." The
monotonous iteration and reiteration of the announcer demanded
attention. Perlac touched a bank of jet black keys as Guerlan said:
"Come in Gloriana, report, we're listening!"
"Gloriana reports a stalemate. We have gained second level, almost
took the first, but the fleet is above the first level, we can't combat
it. All levels cleared but the first. Gloriana sounding off."
Other reports came in, but still Guerlan waited for the one thing
that was imperative. And at last, through an eternity of waiting,
Columbia came on the Ethero-Magnum, then like bursting flowers of fire,
the atomic flashes from the emerging atomo-spacers of Venus as they
launched themselves straight up into the heavens through the vertical
funnel-like channel that rose from the caverns, straight up into the
upper reaches of the first level. Spacer after spacer soared aloft and
disappeared in the direction of Plastica. All but the last. It rose
majestically upward and then, describing a parabola in midair, began to
lose altitude, its atomic flashes like falling stars.
And then began the most bizarre attack in the history of six planets,
for as the fleet attacked the swarm of atomo-fighters and aero-tanks of
the Inner Circle, the last Venusian spacer had landed outside Plastica,
and a multitude of Venusians each one leading a gigantic _Calamar_, the
dreaded, armored tiger of Venus, launched themselves upon the besieging
Scientists of the Inner Circle that awaited the propitious moment to
enter Plastica during the battle and destroy the Irreconcilables by an
attack from their rear.
The roar of the ravenous beasts was a crescendo that drowned the wild,
agonized screams of the scientists as mammoth claws ripped through
plastic-breast plates and Venusian silks, and fangs found fat throats
and steaming blood. Overhead the clash of the two air armadas was a
holocaust of fire, as the two armies beneath fought also for supremacy
on the first level.
What the outcome would be, was beyond prediction, for neither
side entertained any doubt now but that it was a struggle to the
death--there could be no quarter. If Plastica fell, most of the
Empire went with it, for within it was the very life-blood of the
nation--Plastics, the beginning, the reason and the end of their
existence. For plastics were clothing and shelter, and weapons
and furniture, and even medicines and synthetic concentrates that
went under the name of food. Besides, they had Columbia, where the
sustenance of the City of the Sphere and the first levels was grown
and manufactured.
Slowly at first, imperceptibly, the battle turned in their
favor, objectives that seemed unattainable were reached by the
Irreconcilables, and the defenders fell back. The invulnerable fleet,
the much touted and dreaded air armada, as being decimated by the
unearthly speed of the Venusian spacers; and Intermediates and robots
alike fell before the supernal fire of the electro-flash cannon
and electro-rifles. Still, the battle wore on and on, with such an
intensity that it was incredible that anything that lived could endure
it. Without Plastica itself, a horror of carnage, blasted Calamars
and torn bodies, marked where the Inner Circle Reserves had been, but
Caladin's spacer was nowhere in view.
"The time," Perlac said softly, "has come, my dear."
* * * * *
Guerlan gazed at the exquisite features of Perlac in misery. He was
silent. But the girl laid a hand on his shoulder caressingly, and
forced him to look into her eyes. "We must face it, Guerlan, unless we
do, this war may last for years, and oceans of blood will flow. It is
the better way."
"I know, I know Perlac. But let me do it alone. I can't ... I just
can't bear to have you risk your life, my dear." Impulsively he crushed
her to him in a fierce embrace and kissed the flower-like mouth. Then
he released her.
"I will be in less danger than you; after all I am Bejamel's daughter.
And don't you think that I, too, could not bear to have you go alone?
No, dear, we are in this together, for life or for death."
As if the gods of war relished the appalling daring of their plan,
suddenly the way was opened to them, for on the immense Tele-Magnum,
the heavenly tones of Bejamel's voice could be heard, as slowly, his
gargoyle face came into view. Hurriedly Perlac threw the switch which
prevented him at the Palace on the Sphere from seeing them.
"Commander Guerlan! Bejamel, Minister of Justice, speaks." There were
rich undertones of irony, and bitterness, too, in the superlative voice
of the speaker.
"I have learned that my daughter is your prisoner. We have captured
important prisoners, too. Paulan, your ex-leader, and that misguided
Martian who has chosen to espouse your cause. But all this is of
no moment, I am willing to ransom my daughter on your own terms,
barbarian!" Even in his grief, Bejamel was unable to suppress the
insulting epithet.
"What do you offer, Bejamel?" Guerlan spoke calmly, although a seething
maelstrom swirled within him. "But make your offer worth listening to,
I have no time for barter."
"A thousand prisoners of war, and a coffer of jewels, Guerlan!"
Guerlan laughed shortly. "Your fame for sagacity has been overrated,
Bejamel, the jewels ... we shall shortly make our own--The Ultimate
Presence knows there will be enough dead when this is over. As for the
prisoners," his voice became indifferent, "we'll take them, of course,
but we have more men than we need, Scientist. Offer me something beyond
my means and I'll send your daughter to you, unharmed!"
"Speak, Dissenter, I am a man of reason!" Bejamel's voice was filled
with cunning. "Speak!"
"Since you are the only one who can open His Benevolence's doors,
outside of the mechanism he can activate from within, destroy the
mechanism. Take away his invulnerable robe of force, and then ... then
forget to sing! Let him starve slowly in his enchanted garden, after he
has devoured all his birds and pets." Guerlan's laughter was mocking.
But within he was tense with anxiety. Would his strategy win, he
wondered? One could not deal in a normal manner with Bejamel.
"Agreed!" The celestial voice had risen to limpid heights.
The fleets of atomo-spacers and aero-tanks stood poised, withdrawn,
marking an invisible, aerial lane through which hurtled the slim,
silver flash of an atomo-plane. The most powerful Tele-Magnum in the
palace of His Benevolence was focused on that ship, without pause,
until every detail of its interior was exposed on the great tele-screen
at the palace. But its interior revealed only the pale, haggard face of
Perlac, inexpressibly lovely in its sadness, and motionless beside her,
the gigantic robot-proctor of bery-plastic, embossed with the insignia
of the House of Justice and Bejamel's own intricate emblem. It had
been sent to act as a guard and bring her unharmed to the palace.
Forming a perfect target, a trio of transports carrying a thousand
Irreconcilables, prisoners of war, came from the opposite direction,
released from the City of the Sphere, as per agreement. The vessels
neared each other, crossed and passed en-route to their opposite
destinations. At last, Perlac's plane reached the outer air-locks of
the Sphere, where pressure was adjusted, and entering ships were guided
to their berths at the base of the immense globe, where the machinery
of the anti-gravity repulsor beams was housed also, and where the
glittering tiers rose upward to end at the great Hanging Gardens of His
Benevolence, where the palace stood.
And then the armistice was broken. Hundreds of swift, deadly
interceptor planes, atomo-powered, dived after the retreating
transport; tremendous aero-tanks rushed in for the kill spewing a blaze
of livid radiations. One of the transports managed to dive into the
inter-connecting, ascending and descending chamber of the city, but the
others, trapped, rather than be rayed like sheep, courageously turned
and fought. But to no avail. Outside the tropical city of Columbia,
they crashed in great flaming gouts, like miniature volcanoes.
* * * * *
Ahead of Perlac and her robot-proctor was the City of the
Sphere. Majestically it blazed like a cosmic jewel against the
impenetrably-black backdrop of space. It grew immense, fantastic, like
a minor planet glowing in space, but suddenly, their speed slackened
as the robot-control began to decelerate; and presently they slid with
a vast hiss into the first airlock, where the synchronized magnetic
fields instantly checked their speed. A terrific force jarred them
until their bones seem to melt, then doors were opening, voices could
be heard shouting orders, and the official pilot entered the ship and
with an obsequious salute to the girl, he took seat at the controls and
guided the ship into the second lock.
The entire length of both the first and second locks were lined
with the titanic coils of the synchronized, magnetic degravitation
fields, which stopped the vessels in a graduating net of force. But
the transparent sides of the sphere gave a curious sensation of lack
of solidity, of fragility even, as if they had entered a vast hall
of glass. Only those who really knew the secret composition of the
Sphere, were aware of its near-invulnerability, even beyond that of the
strongest known metal-alloys.
At last the long, slim atomo-plane was berthed, and the tall,
cadaverous figure of Bejamel hove into view. He waited for Perlac
closely followed by her robot guard to approach him, in accordance with
the etiquette of Plastica. Then, unable to suppress any longer the
profound emotions that stirred his complex being, he opened his arms
wide and rushed forward to enfold the only being he had ever loved,
in the fragile embrace of his skeletal arms. A suspicious brilliance
swam in the long green eyes, and the ordinarily limpid voice was husky,
uncertain, as he exclaimed: "Perlac, O my dear!" He could say no more.
Perlac was touched. She brushed her lips against his cheek, then she
gently pushed him back, to gaze into the inscrutable green eyes of the
Minister of Justice, who was also her father.
Behind her, looming unnoticed, as a piece of activated mechanism, was
the Robot-Proctor, both servant and guard.
"Father," she said impulsively, "Don't take me to the Palace! I
couldn't bear to enter the temple as one of the Virgins ... rather
would I prefer to be a prisoner of the Irreconcilables."
Father and daughter gazed at each other in silence, surrounded by the
deep, far-away hum of the throbbing generators as the incredible stream
of atomic power fought the gravity of Neptune. Great opaque doors at
the far end of the second lock led into the inner chambers where the
robot-tended machinery never faltered for a second. Bejamel smiled
slowly, ironically, and shook his head. "We're not going there!"
He waved an emaciated hand at the guard of honor that awaited his
pleasure at a respectful distance, and instantly the Intermediate
Officer in charge came forward. "Command!" he said laconically. It
was the same officer that had reported the defeat of the Intermediate
battalion in the caverns beneath Plastica. His superbly beautiful
face was impassive, but the brilliant eyes were restless, as if the
creature's nerves were overwrought.
"My atomocopter!" Bejamel said as laconically, and then passed a small
package to the Intermediate. "For you and the entire Palace Guard," he
said softly. "There will be no need of you and your men tonight. We
have all but won ... celebrate."
The light of hunger, of delight, of the nearest feeling akin to
gratitude he could possibly feel, flashed like a flame into the
Intermediate's eyes. "I bow in thanks, O Lord of Justice," he replied
formally.
Within seconds, they were speeding upwards in Bejamel's private
atomocopter, past tier after tier of the fabulous City of the Sphere.