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ОглавлениеQUEST OF THE GOLDEN APE (1957)
CHAPTER I
Mansion of Mystery
In a secluded section of a certain eastern state which must remain nameless, one may leave the main highway and travel up a winding road around tortuous bends and under huge scowling trees, into wooded country.
Upon a certain night—the date of which must remain vague—there came a man who faced and was not turned back by a series of psychological barriers along this road which made it more impregnable than a steel wall. These barriers, which had kept out a hundred years of curiosity-seekers until that certain night, were forged by the scientific magic of a genius on a planet far beyond the sun.…
The man who boldly followed his headlights up the road was of middle age with calm, honest eyes and a firm mouth indicating bargains made in his name would be kept. He pushed on, feeling the subtle force of the psychological powers against him but resisting because he vaguely understood them.
He left his car presently and raised his hand to touch the hard outline of a small book he carried in his breast pocket and with the gesture his determination hardened. He set his jaw firmly, snapped on the flashlight he had taken from the dash of his convertible and moved on up the road.
His firm, brisk steps soon brought him to its end, a great iron gate, its lock and hinges rusted tight under the patient hand of Time. It was high and spiked and too dangerous for climbing. But someone had smashed the lock with a heavy instrument and had applied force until the rusted hinges gave and the gate stood partially open. From the look of the metal, this could have been done recently—even in the past few minutes.
* * * *
The man entered and found a flagstone pathway. He followed this for a time with the aid of his flashlight. Then he stopped and raised the beam.
It revealed the outline of a great stone mansion, its myriad windows like black, sightless eyes, its silent bulk telling of long solitude, its tongueless voice whispering: Go away, stranger. Only peril and misfortune await you here.
But I am not exactly a stranger, the man told himself, approaching the door and half hoping to find the scowling panel locked.
But it was not locked. The ponderous knob turned under his hand. The panel moved back silently. The man gripped his flashlight and stepped inside.
The knowledge that he was no longer alone came as a shock. It was brought to him by the sound of labored breathing and he flashed the light about frantically trying to locate the source of the harsh sound. Then the bright circle picked out a huddled form on the floor nearby. The man moved forward instantly and went to his knees.
He was looking into an incredibly ancient face. The skin was so deeply lined as to hang in folds around the sunken eyes. The mouth was but a toothless maw and the body so shrunken as to seem incapable of clinging to life. The voice was a harsh whisper.
“Thank God you have come. I am dying. The opening of the gate took all my remaining strength.”
“You have been waiting for me?”
“I have been waiting out the years—striving to keep life in my body until the moment of destiny. I wanted to see him. I wanted to be there when the door to his resting place opens and he comes forth to right the terrible wrongs that have been done our people.”
The strength of the ancient one was ebbing fast. The words he spoke had been an effort. The kneeling man said, “I don’t understand all this.”
“That matters not. It is important only that you keep the bargain made long ago with your sire, and that you are here. Someone must be with him at the awakening.”
The newcomer again touched the book in his pocket. “I came because our word had been given—”
The dying man picked feebly at his sleeve. “Please! You must go below! The great clock has measured the years. Soon it tolls the moment. Soon a thundering on the Plains of Ofrid will herald the new age—the Fighting Age—and a new day will dawn.”
While the visitor held his frail shoulders, the dying man gasped and said, “Hasten! Hurry to the vault below! Would that I could go with you, but that is not to be.”
And then the visitor realized he was holding a corpse in his arms. He laid it gently down and did as he had been directed to do.
CHAPTER II
The Great Clock of Tarth
The Plains of Ofrid on the planet Tarth stretched flat and monotonous as far as the eye could reach, a gently waving ocean of soft, knee-high grass where herds of wild stads grazed and bright-hued birds vied in brilliance with the flaming sun.
From the dark Abarian Forests to the Ice Fields of Nadia, the plain stretched unbroken except for the tall, gray tower in its exact center and it was toward this tower that various groups of Tarthans were now moving.
Every nation on the planet was represented in greater or lesser number. The slim, erect Nadians in their flat-bottomed air cars that could hang motionless in space or skim the surface of the planet at a thousand jeks an hour. The grim-faced Abarians, tall and finely muscled on their powerful stads, their jeweled uniforms flashing back the glory of the heavens. The Utalians, those chameleon men of Tarth, their skins now the exact color of the grasses across which they rode, thus causing their stads to appear unmounted and unguided.
All the nations of Tarth were represented, drawn toward the tower by a century-old legend, a legend which Retoc the Abarian clarified as he rode at the head of his own proud group.
He waved a hand, indicating the vast plain and spoke to Hultax, his second in command, saying, “Little would one think that this flat, empty land was once the site of a vast and powerful nation. One of the greatest upon all Tarth!” A smile of cruelty and satisfaction played upon his handsome features as he surveyed the plain.
“Aye,” Hultax replied. “The realm of the Ofridians. Truly they were a great nation.”
“But we Abarians were greater,” Retoc snapped. “We not only defeated them but we leveled their land until not one stone stood upon another.”
“All save the tower,” Hultax said. “No weapon known could so much as scratch its surface.”
A new voice cut in. “Quite true. Portox’s scientific skill was too great for you.” Both Abarians turned quickly to scowl at the newcomer, Bontarc of Nadia, who had swung close in his one-man car and was hovering by their side.
Retoc’s hand moved toward the hilt of his long whip-like sword, driven there by the look of contempt in Bontarc’s eyes. But Retoc hesitated. A formidable squadron of Bontarc’s Nadian fighting men hovered nearby and the Abarian had no taste for a battle in which the odds were close to even.
“We defeated the Ofridians fairly,” he said.
“And slaughtered them fairly? Cut down the men and women and children alike until the entire nation was obliterated?”
The systematic annihilation had taken place a century before when Bontarc had been but a child and Retoc a young man. Karnod, Retoc’s father, now dead, had planned the war that defeated the Ofridians, his winning card having been spies in the court of Evalla, Queen of Ofrid. Karnod had been fatally wounded during the last battle and had delegated to his son the task of annihilating the Ofridians and levelling their nation. This task, Retoc accepted with relish, reserving for himself the pleasure of slaying Queen Evalla. Details of the torture to which Retoc subjected the beautiful Evalla were whispered over the planet and it was said the sadistic Retoc had taken photographs of the Queen in her agony to enjoy in later years.
It had been the scientific ability of Portox of Ofrid that had engendered the Abarian hatred and jealousy in the first place. Portox used his science for the good of all on the planet Tarth, but when Karnod, Lord of Abaria, struck, no other nation came to Ofrid’s aid. Then it was too late, because Abaria’s military might greatened as a result of the Ofridian defeat and only an alliance of all other nations could have conquered them.
Ironically, Portox had never been captured.
Now as the tall gray tower came into view, Bontarc’s mind was filled with thoughts of Portox, the Ofridian wizard. It was said that Portox had been able to travel through space to other planets that were known to exist, that he had left Tarth and found safety somewhere across space, first building his tower which would never be destroyed; that a great clock within it was measuring off one hundred years—the time on the planet Tarth of an infant’s development into manhood—and that at the end of that span the clock would toll and there would come forth a man to avenge the slaughter of the Ofridians.
Bontarc turned suddenly upon the dour Retoc. “Tell me,” he said, “is there any truth to the legend that the clock in the tower will toll the end of one hundred years?”
“None whatever,” the sadistic Abarian snapped. “A rumor passed from the lips of one old woman to another.”
Bontarc smiled. “Then why are you here? The hundred years are up today.”
Retoc’s hand moved toward his whip-sword. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Bontarc watched alertly as the blade came partly from its scabbard. “If we fight we may miss the tolling of the clock,” he said evenly.
With an oath, Retoc pushed the sword back into its scabbard and put sharp heels to his stad’s flanks. The animal screamed indignantly and rocketed ahead. Bontarc smiled and turned his car back toward his own group.
And now they were assembled and waiting, the curious of the planet Tarth. Would the clock toll as it was rumored Portox had said? Would an avenger come forth to challenge Retoc and his Abarian hordes?
There was not much time left. Swiftly the clock ticked off the remaining moments and the end of one hundred years was at hand. Silence settled over the assembled Tarthans.
Then a great sound boomed over the plains; a single ringing peal that rose majestically into the air, reverberated across the empty land that once had been the site of a thriving, prosperous nation. The first part of the legend had been fulfilled.
Then, suddenly, chaos reigned. With a great thundering that shook the ground upon which they stood, the gray tower exploded in crimson glory; a great mushrooming blossom of red fire erupted skyward hurling the assembled Tarthans to the ground where they lay in numbed stupor.
The thunderous report echoed across the plain ten thousand times louder than the tolling of the clock. But aside from the initial dulling shock, no Tarthan was injured because the crushing power rose upward.
There was an expression of mute wonder on Bontarc’s face. And he thought: We have not seen the end of this. It is only the beginning. But the beginning of what? Only Portox could have known. And Portox was—where?
Bontarc started his car and moved across the plain sensing cosmic events but not knowing.…
Not knowing that the sound of the tolling clock had gone with more than the speed of light across the void, had been flung arrow-straight to a brooding mansion in the heart of a thick forest upon another planet; to the door of a cavern deep in the rock beneath the mansion.
That even now the lock of this door had responded to the electronic impulse and the huge panel was swinging slowly open.
CHAPTER III
The Man in the Cavern
As the sound of the tolling clock died out across the Plains of Ofrid, a man opened his eyes on the planet far away and saw for the first time the place in which he had spent one hundred years.
He awoke with neither fright nor surprise but rather with a sense of wonder. He arose slowly from the great bed upon which he had lain and allowed his attention to roam about the strange place in which he found himself.
In the wall opposite the bed there was set a full length mirror and as the man turned he saw himself for the first time; a tall, broadly-muscled figure of heroic proportions. Completely naked, his body was reflected as masculine perfection in every detail.
For a few moments, the man stared at the body as though it belonged to someone else. Then he spoke musingly. “You did your work well, Portox, my friend.”
The sound of his own voice startled him but not so much so as the content of the words. A baffled expression touched his handsome face. Who was Portox? And what work had he done? What place was this—and for that matter, who was he himself, this naked figure which looked back at him from the glittering mirror?
The questions were annoying because he felt that he knew the answers. Yet they would not come within reach of his conscious mind.
He had little time to ponder this enigma however because at that moment he became aware of a second presence in the room. He turned. A man stood just inside the open door.
The naked one stared at the other with an interest that left no room for self-consciousness nor shame. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is John Pride,” the man answered. He was a man of erect bearing and though there was wonder and surprise in his voice he bore himself with a quiet dignity. “And now,” he added, “may I ask you the same question?”
The naked man looked down at his own body and for the first time seemed conscious of its nudity. He glanced around the room and saw a robe of royal purple lying across a chair by the bed. He stepped over and lifted the robe and put it on. As he was tying the rich purple cord around his waist he looked frankly back at John Pride and said, “I do not know. I honestly do not know.”
John Pride said, “I have wondered what I would find in this cavern—wondered through the years. Only in my wildest fancies did I tell myself that a fellow human—or even a living creature—awaited me here. But now I find this is true.”
The younger man regarded his visitor with a calmness that belied any wariness between them. John Pride noted this with admiration and respect. The young man said, “Won’t you be seated?” and when his guest was comfortable, regarded him with a smile. “Perhaps there are some things we should talk over.”
“Perhaps there are. You say you do not know your own name?”
“That only begins to sum up my ignorance. I am not only unaware of my identity but I haven’t the faintest notion of what this place is—where it is—or how I came here.”
It was John Pride’s turn to stare. While doing so, he analyzed the younger man keenly. He saw honesty and an inner warmth that attracted him. There was something almost godlike in the clean lines of the body he had seen and in the face. These things coupled with what he already knew, intrigued him mightily and he resolved to approach this strange affair with an open mind and not play the role of the unbelieving cynic. It was time to go ahead.
* * * *
John Pride said, “First, are you aware that there is another in this mansion—or was?”
“I did not even know this was a mansion. It seems only one room.”
“It is an enormous structure set deep in the forest.”
“This other one—?”
“A very old man. He died as I arrived here tonight.”
“You do not know his name or how came he here?”
“I have a vague idea.”
The young man’s dazzling blue eyes narrowed in thought. “A while ago you said you have wondered through the years as to what you would find in this room. That indicates you were aware of its existence.”
“True. Perhaps at this point I had better tell you the complete story—as much of it as I know.”
“I would be in your debt.”
“No, I will merely be discharging the last of a very old obligation.”
With that, John Pride took from his pocket a small leather covered book. He handled it gently, almost with affection, and said, “This was my father’s notebook. In it, is an account of this remarkable affair, put down by my great grandfather and handed down through the line. When my father died he placed it in my hand saying it entailed an obligation both business and personal and it was my obligation as well as his.
“I have read the account of what transpired many times and with your permission I will put it into my own words. Then, when I am done, I will give you the book and the affair will be over so far as I and my family are concerned.”
John Pride had settled back in his chair and was just ready to begin when the young man held up a sudden hand. “Just one moment—please,” he said, and a look of concentration came upon his face. Then he went on and his words took the form of a rhyme:
“An ape, a boar, a stallion,
A land beyond the stars.
A virgin’s feast, a raging beast,
A prison without bars.”
He flushed and added: “I don’t know why I was possessed to recite that doggerel at just this moment but there is something strange about it. Strange in that I have a feeling it was taught to me at some long distant time in the past. I sense that it is very important to whatever destiny awaits me. Yet I know not who taught me the verse nor what it means.”
“That verse is inscribed in this book and I believe I know how it entered your mind and memory. I believe too, that I understand how you are able to converse with me though you know nothing of this land or even this room,” John Pride said quietly.
“Then please tell me!”
“I think it better that I start at the beginning rather than give you the story piece-meal. That way, your mind will be better able to assimilate and to judge.”
“I await your pleasure,” the young man said with impatience he strove to conceal.
“Very well,” John Pride said, his eyes growing vague with a far-away look.
CHAPTER IV
John Pride’s Story
“I am a member,” John Pride began, “of a firm called Pride, Conroy, and Wilson. We are a very old firm of private bankers with offices in Wall Street. Both Conroy and Wilson died before I was born, leaving no issue, so the company has been controlled by a Pride for many years.
“This affair in which we are interested had its inception one hundred years ago. At that time, a man came to see my great grandfather in his office. He was a most remarkable man and gained my grandfather’s respect and confidence from the very first. He never stated from whence he came, being more interested in the future than in the past. He put up at a New York City hotel and my great grandfather knew there were three in his party; the man himself, another man and a woman both somewhat older than he.
“At one time when my great grandfather visited them in their hotel suite, he saw the woman fleetingly as she was leaving the room. She was carrying something that he thought could have been an infant snuggled in a blanket. He could not be sure however and he did not ask questions.
“The man was interested in obtaining a place of abode, a place that had to possess certain definite qualifications. First, it had to be built upon solid rock and set in the most secluded location possible.
“Second, it had to be so completely free of legal involvements that when he secured title, no possible claim of another could ever be taken seriously enough to even cause the property to be visited. In short, the strange man said, details relevant to the property must integrate to a point where no one would visit it for one hundred years.”
At this place in his narrative, John Pride stopped a moment to rest his voice. After a pause, the young man in the purple robe inquired, “Why do you smile?”
“At the recollection. My great grandfather had just a white elephant—”
“A white elephant?”
“Merely a descriptive term. A place that had been built before the Revolution but which even at that early time had been bypassed by the trend of progress until it was completely isolated. No one wanted it. No one would ever want it so far as my great grandfather could judge.”
“Except this strange man you speak of.”
“Precisely. He was delighted with the place and when my great grandfather pointed out that even with the location and the high surrounding wall there was no guarantee that wandering adventurers might not move in and take possession at some distant date, the man smiled cryptically and said he would see to it that that did not occur.”
The young man was scowling. “I know that man. He is somewhere back in my mind, but he will not come forward.”
John Pride regarded his listener for a moment and then went on. “The man seemed in ample funds and paid for the property with a giant ruby the like of which my great grandfather had never before set eyes on.
“But the affair was far from ended. The man moved his ménage into the mansion saying he would call upon my great grandfather later.
“All the legal formalities had been of course taken care of—an indisputable deed, guaranteed by the strongest trust company in the land. But that was not enough.
“After a few weeks, during which time the man had inquired of my great grandfather where certain materials could be obtained, he returned to the old gentleman’s office with the most startling request of all.
“He said that he had set in motion a procedure that would terminate in exactly one hundred years from a given moment and that he wished to retain grandfather’s firm as trust agents in relation to that procedure. The duties of the firm would be negligible during the hundred-year period. My great grandfather and his issue were merely to remain completely away from the property which was certainly a simple thing to do.
“But knowledge of what had taken place must be passed down to his son and in case the latter did not survive the one hundred years, to his son’s son.
“At this point my great grandfather interposed reality in the form of a question: ‘I have a son but suppose he is so inconsiderate as to not duplicate with a male heir?’
“The man smiled and said he was sure that would not be the case. He was right, but whether it was a gamble on his part or whether he spoke from a knowledge beyond us, we never knew.
“But regardless—at the end of one hundred years the surviving issue was, by sacred trust, to be present in this mansion. The door of a vault beneath it would open and the trustee was to enter and deliver therein a written account of the series of events leading up to that moment.
“In payment for this service, the man insisted upon presenting my great grandfather with jewels the value of which on a yearly basis transcended all our other income combined. My great grandfather demurred but the man said nothing brightens memory so much as material gain and he did not want the agreement to be forgotten.”
“What happened to the man?” the young listener asked.
John Pride shook his head sadly. “We never knew. When all the arrangements were made, he came again to the office, thanked my great sire for his services, and was never seen again.”
“He must have given you his name.”
John Pride frowned. “He used a name of course but there was the impression of its not being his true one. The book mentions this. The name he used was C. D. Bram.”
“Portox!” the young man cried suddenly.
“What did you say?”
“Portox. The name is back in my mind. I used it as I awoke.”
“A strange name.”
“And stranger still is the fact that I know nothing of it—wait!” The young man’s handsome features strained as he concentrated with all his power. Sweat stood out on his forehead. But then a look of disappointment came into his face and his broad shoulders sagged. “No. The knowledge is somewhere back in my mind but I cannot capture it.”
John Pride was about to speak but the young man stayed him with a sudden intense look. “One thing however is very clear to me.”
“And that is—?”
“The face of my mother.”
“The woman who held you in her arms in the hotel suite?”
“No, I do not think so. But I see a face clearly in my mind. A sad and beautiful face. There is a marked resemblance between it and what I see in that mirror. She is the most beautiful woman who ever lived and I yearn to find her and take her in my arms.”
“I hope you succeed.”
A tragic light appeared in the young man’s eyes. “But where is she? How can I find her? Why did she leave me in this place?”
“I do not have the answers to those questions. But I have a theory concerning you and the elapsed years.”
“Tell me!”
John Pride spoke firmly but with obvious awe. “I think you were brought here as an infant for some reason known only to the one who called himself C. D. Bram.”
“Or Portox.”
“Perhaps. I think you were placed in that bed and left there for one hundred years.”
“But—”
“Consider. That door has never been opened. There is certainly no other exit to this cavern.”
“And I have no recollection of ever having lived before,” the young man said slowly.
“Yet you can converse with me. You obviously have been given an education.”
“But how?”
“It is known that knowledge can be injected into the subconscious while the receiver sleeps. I’m sure the man you insist upon calling Portox was aware of this—this and perhaps other scientific miracles. Who are we to say that you were not nourished by some means beyond our knowledge?”
But that investigation was never to be made because as John Pride extended his hand to touch the box it suddenly burst into a glow and he withdrew his fingers quickly.
Before the younger man could answer a glowing point of light sprang into being and brightened and a wave of searing heat erupted from the walls of the room, searing the eyes of John Pride and leaving him to grope helplessly as in the heart of a furnace. The younger man was beyond his reach. Blinding pain caused him to reel.
CHAPTER V
Question Upon Question
John Pride opened his eyes as a moan escaped his lips. The haze cleared and he found himself lying upon a cool stone floor looking up into the concerned face of the younger man. “What happened?” John Pride asked feebly. He tried to refocus.
“I don’t know except that the heat of that fire was upon us with such swiftness that we were almost incapacitated. I picked you up and started walking. Fortunately I moved in the direction of the door. Otherwise we would have been doomed.”
“I am in your debt.”
“No more so than I in yours.”
“Did you extinguish the fire?”
“It burned out of its own accord. But only after the cave was completely gutted. There is nothing left in there but the bare rock walls.”
John Pride sat up with quick concern. “The book!”
“It is gone.” The young man looked ruefully down at his own naked body. “Gone—together with my precious robe.”
“That can easily be replaced along with other raiment but the book—I was supposed to deliver it—”
“—to the cavern. You did that, my friend. It was not through you that the fire consumed it. You have dispatched your obligation. Let your mind be at ease.”
John Pride got to his feet. He shook his head in the negative. “No. A portion of my obligation still exists. Fortunately I did not bring forth the second and last item I was to place in the cavern.”
“The second item?”
“Yes, and I believe the most important.”
With that, Pride took from his pocket a small box wrapped in heavy material and sealed and resealed with a sort of rubberized wax.
“This,” he said. “I know not what is in the box nor I think, did my father, my grandfather, nor my great grandfather before me. We have been given to understand that its delivery to the cavern was the most important single duty of the trust. So I now place it in your hands, praying that this act fulfills the long-standing obligation of my family.”
The younger man had salvaged a portion of his robe, a length of material that went over his shoulders and draped skimpily down the sides of his body. This did nothing whatever in the way of covering his nudity but rather accentuated and added to it.
He took the box and was scanning it with great interest when the excitement and strenuous action of the preceding few minutes again took grip upon John Pride’s comparatively less rugged physique.
His eyes closed and he began sinking again to the floor whereupon the younger man slipped the box hastily in the pocket that had not burned away from his robe and caught John Pride in his arms.
He lifted the elder man and carried him up from the mansion caverns and into the great hall that swept forward to the main entrance. As he walked, bearing the heavy burden as though it were but a mere feather, he was of two minds.
One mind entertained concern for his new-found friend and the other was occupied with interest in these new and strange surroundings.
Dawn had broken over the forest and in a brooding light within the great hall, he saw the withered body of the dead man on the floor. He paused for a moment and then went out across the flagstone porch and into the open air.
He marveled at the green expanse of forest that reared in majesty about him. He drew in deep gusts of the cool air and found it good. He smiled.
Then John Pride stirred in his arms and showed signs of returning consciousness. The young man laid the financier on the soft grass and watched until his eyes opened.
“Are you feeling better? Is there anything I can do?”
John Pride smiled feebly as he raised himself with the younger man’s aid. “I’m afraid this has been more strenuous than I bargained for. If I’d known what would transpire I would have kept myself in better condition.”
“But you feel better now?”
“Yes. If you will be so good as to help me to my car, I’ll be all right.”
“Certainly. Your car—?”
“A means of conveyance that will take me back to the city. It stands but a few yards down the road beyond the gate.”
A short time later, the two men stood at the place that was to be the parting of their ways. Both sensed this and Pride held out his hand. The younger man grasped it firmly.
“Godspeed to you, my friend,” John Pride said. “I fear I can help you no further but if there is ever a time when my services are needed, I will be waiting for your command.”
“Thank you. Whatever befalls me I will always remember you as the first friend I ever set eyes upon in this world.”
With that, John Pride turned his car and drove off down the winding road. As he left, the younger man realized the older man had said nothing of the dead ancient in the great hall but realized it was because of the strain Pride had suffered. The man was still somewhat dazed from the shock of the fire.
He turned and walked slowly back toward the mansion until he stood again in the great front yard. There he stopped and stood looking up at the sun as it topped the hill east of the mansion.
“Who am I?” he asked himself. “Why was I given knowledge but not all the knowledge necessary to intelligently pursue my destiny? In my heart there is a certainty that I am an educated man. I am aware of the fact that there are different groups of people who speak different languages and I know I will be able to converse with any I meet.
“I know that there are planets and stars and moons and I know what is to be known of the universe. But where is the exact personal knowledge that would help me in my dealings with the future? Why was I left here carefully tended and provided for these hundred years only to be hurled suddenly upon my own?”
He walked slowly into the great hall and knelt beside the still figure on the floor. A feeling of compassion stirred him but there was no warmth of recognition, no personal sorrow as a result of the ancient’s death.
“Have I ever seen you before?” he asked softly. “Were you—Portox?”
The dead one did not answer and the young man lifted him and took him from the hall and buried him. He could find no tools to dig the soil but located a hole that had once been a shallow well. He dropped the body therein and followed it with stones until the hole was filled. He did this with no sense of callousness but rather with an impersonal reverence he instinctively felt but could not analyze.
Returning slowly to the front yard, he pondered the dimension of time. How, he wondered, could John Pride’s line have gone through three sires to John Pride, the last of the males, while he himself lay for one hundred years to emerge in his obvious prime? Or perhaps even on the near side of his prime.
* * * *
He pondered this and other points until his mind grew weary from unanswered questions and turned to things of the moment.
“I know not what my destiny is but at least I am able to have a name. What shall it be?”
He remembered the one Portox had used—C. D. Bram. “Bram,” he said. “That I like.” But the C. D. meant nothing to him and Bram seemed somehow incomplete.
“John Price had a name of two parts,” he said, “so why should I not have the same?”
He looked about him and a breeze in the green branches above seemed to whisper the answer. He heard and considered, then smiled to himself, raised his voice.
“I christen myself Bram Forest, to be known from this moment on by that name.”
Suddenly his smile deepened, then laughter welled from his great chest; a laughter arising from the sheer joy of this new thing called living into which he had stepped.
Now he stretched his arms over his head, palms upward as though supplicating to some far-off deity. He leaped high in the air testing his muscles and finding them good.
Then he was running, naked and golden off across the open hill. He ran until his huge chest pounded with delicious pain as his lungs labored for air. Finally he dropped to the ground and lay spread-eagled looking up at the sky.
He laughed long and joyously.
He lay for a long time thus, then suddenly remembered the box John Pride had given him. But the scanty garment had dropped from his shoulders so he sprang to his feet and ran back until he discovered it.
The box was still there. He examined it curiously turning it over and over in his hands. The seal was stubborn but it finally gave and he peeled off the heavy wrapping. A small white box came to light.
This he opened to stand frowning at what it contained. An odd instrument of some sort—a flat disc about two inches in diameter and possibly a quarter of an inch thick. Both faces were of shining, crystalline metal reflecting back anything that was imaged upon them.
Two short metal straps appended from opposite sides of the queer instrument, one of which held a buckle at its end. He held the shining disc to his ear but there was no sound that he could detect.
Frustrated he looked again into the box. It appeared to be empty. But no. As he was about to fling it away, he noted that what appeared to be its inner bottom was in reality a second flat package that fitted perfectly into the receptacle. He shook it free and found it to be merely a flat rectangle wrapped tightly in white paper.
He was about to rip the paper with his thumbnail when his attention switched suddenly to the shining disc. He had envisioned a use for it; or at least a place for which it seemed constructed.
He tested his theory and found the straps fit snugly and perfectly around his wrist. He pondered which wrist to place it on and decided the right one would be appropriate. Quickly, he snapped the buckle into its hasp and then held forth his arm to admire the brightness of the queer device.
If he had expected anything to happen, he was disappointed and he stood there wondering what use was to be found from such a seemingly useless device.
After a while he unbuckled the disc and moved it to his left wrist. Perhaps it would look better there. Again he raised his arm to admire it and had stood thus for some moments when he became conscious of an odd sickness in the pit of his stomach.
He did not associate this with the disc at all and immediately forgot the thing, giving his whole attention to the uncomfortable feeling that had come upon him.
The sickness increased in intensity and he bent down, doubling over his abdomen as the nausea became a pain. As he sank to his knees, he noted the disc had changed, had taken on an odd, transparent glow.
There had to be a connection between his illness and the abominable device and he clawed at the buckle, seeking to loosen it and hurl the thing away.
But there was no time. The pain sharpened and a black cloud dimmed his sight. He clawed feebly at the buckle and then his numbed fingers weakened, fell away from it.
The darkness increased and seemed to lift him from the ground upon which he lay. It clawed at his throat, entered his nostrils like a malignant force.
As his consciousness faded a single thought was in his mind: Born but to live a few brief moments and die again. What sense is there to such a farce as this? Born—but—to die—again. Portox! Help me! It can’t be—There must be some help!
CHAPTER VI
On the Plains of Ofrid
Jlomec the Nadian guided his air car across the grassy plains of Ofrid but a scant few feet above the tops of the waving grasses.
It was a fine day and the Nadian was taking full advantage of it. One of a race of proud and noble fighting men, Jlomec was an exception to the rule in that he was a dreamer rather than a fighter, a thinker rather than a doer, a poet rather than a military strategist.
Thus, his mind dwelt upon the historic incident of the previous days when, standing beside his brother, Bontarc, he had watched the gray tower of Portox the Ofridian explode into a fine cloud of dust.
And it was characteristic of the gentle Jlomec that his mind was more occupied with the romantic aspect of the incident than the violent. He thought of the poem, the bit of doggerel carved in the foundation stone of the tower. For a century all Tarthans had puzzled over the verse put there by Portox so long ago:
An ape, a boar, a stallion,
A land beyond the stars,
A virgin’s feast, a raging beast,
A prison without bars.
Had it any meaning? Jlomec wondered. A thousand different interpretations had been put upon the verse over the years, but no one knew for sure.
That it had something to do with the slaughter of the Ofridians, Jlomec was sure. But what?
As he ruminated thus, Jlomec’s attention was caught by moving figures some ten jeks to the south. He knew this to be the location of one of the great wells that dotted the Plains of Ofrid.
In the times before the great massacre, these wells had been located in the hearts of the fine Ofridian cities of which the Abarians stood in great envy. These wells gushed endlessly of cool crystal water which kept the fabulous hanging gardens of Ofrid multicolored and beautiful.
But all that was in the past. The Ofridians had been slain to a man and their cities leveled until not a stone stood upon a stone. Now lonely grasses grew where once glittered the results of Portox’s great scientific genius. Now there were only round steel doors in the ground to mark the locations of the great Ofridian wells.
These thoughts occupied Jlomec’s mind as he turned his car and coursed it in the direction of the well. The figures came clearly into view, causing Jlomec to frown in puzzlement.
What manner of people were these? There were a half dozen of them—two men, three females, and one babe-in-arms. Jlomec got the impression that—though they were erect and finely formed—that they were of short stature.
But now he realized he had got this impression only by their comparison to the seventh figure by the well. He knew at a glance that this seventh was an Abarian warrior, exceptionally tall and wearing the look of grim cruelty so characteristic of his race.
Jlomec paid the Abarian scant heed however, so engrossed was he in studying the strange half-dozen. Their skins were richly browned and they wore almost no clothing.
Who could they be? Jlomec wondered, and from whence had they come? Mightily intrigued, he moved forward until he came within earshot of the party. Then, for reason of the words he heard spoken, he halted his air car and frowned.
* * * *
The Abarian, he recognized as the famed Retoc himself. A fierce stad pawed the ground nearby indicating how the tall, sneering commander of the Abarians had arrived at this spot. Retoc was known to roam the Plains of Ofrid at times, still savoring the destruction he and his sire, Harnod, had accomplished; pleasuring himself with memories of bodies piled high, of bloody swords and helpless cries of the dying.
Or was it for some other reason that Retoc roamed the plains? Was it a nameless fear that drove him there? Did the accusing face of Portox the Ofridian genius still hang balefully in his memory? Had Portox acquainted the Abarian devil with knowledge that he alone carried in his guilty heart? And did that knowledge generate a fear that Retoc the Abarian could not rid himself of?
At any rate, he now stood between the brown people and the Ofridian well, enjoying a useless cruelty as was his custom.
The leader of the group extended his hands in supplication and said, “We only ask water, sire. A small thing, but long have we waited to quench our thirst.”
Retoc said, “What manner of people are you?”
“Harmless ones. See? We are unarmed and peaceful.”
“That does not answer my question. Tell me who you are and from whence you came. Then we will see whether my fancy dictates that you shall have water from this well.”
Indignation and rage dimmed Jlomec’s better judgment. He had glided in beyond range of Retoc’s vision and now he leaped from his car and drew his wandlike whip-sword. “Is there no drop of common decency or compassion left in you, Retoc, that you do this thing to helpless people?”
The Abarian whirled with alarm not knowing what force might be arrayed against him. But when he saw the lone Jlomec, his composure returned and his self-assurance again took charge. Had the newcomer been Bontarc, the dreamy Jlomec’s skillful brother, Retoc the Abarian would have conducted himself differently. But as it was, he sneered at the gentle Nadian and asked, “What business of this is yours, Jlomec?”
“Injustice is everyone’s business. These people, whoever they are, ask only to drink.” Jlomec’s eyes blazed. “And drink they shall, Abarian!”
Retoc’s handsome eyes glowed. No doubt as to the outcome of this contest. He drew his own sword and whipped its supple length through the air. “Since you choose to champion this scum, let’s get on with it.”
Had Jlomec’s indignation not been of a quality to blind him to consequences, he would have perhaps hesitated. But hot with this injustice, he whipped his own sword and leaped at Retoc.
The latter, with a grim smile of confidence, parried the thrust with ease and manipulated his own whip-sword with a skill which few fighting men on the planet Tarth could have equalled.
The weapons were strange ones by Earth standards and would have probably been considered impractical. They were a good six feet in length with the supple resiliency of a fly casting rod. The trick of using them effectively lay in controlling the sway and whip of the long thin blades by skillful use of the wrist. An expert Tarthan swordsman could parry a thrust with a lightning whip of his blade, arc the singing steel in the opposite direction and perhaps bring his opponent down with a thrust that would enter between his shoulder blades, the sword still arced to describe half a circle.
* * * *
In essence, this favorite weapon of the Tarthans was a combination of whip and sword and combat was a matter of thrusting at angles far wider than could be achieved with a stiff blade. A good Tarthan swordsman would have been an excellent billiard player on Earth for his knowledge of workable angles was of necessity supreme.
Retoc the Abarian was a master at this swordplay. Enjoying himself hugely because there was little risk, he toyed with the less skillful Nadian. He did not intend to kill Jlomec, fearing the wrath of Bontarc. He meant only to teach the stupid Nadian a lesson he would not forget.
But as his blade sang and stung, its needle point darting in like the fangs of a snake’s head, and as Jlomec’s clumsy blade sought desperately to parry, Retoc’s blood lust rose to the fore. The joy of dealing death to the helpless was upon him and with a swift thrust he allowed his blade to enter Jlomec’s unprotected back just above the kidney, to streak upward through his body and pierce his heart.
Frightened at what he had done he jerked the blade free. Its entwined force whirled Jlomec in a complete circle from which he fell limply, dead before he hit the ground.
Retoc stood scowling at the fallen Nadian, his dripping blade rising and falling gently in the breeze as he held it extended. The Abarian’s eyes darted to the group of brown-skinned folk, his anger centering upon them as he nimbly switched the blame for this foul murder from his own shoulders to theirs. If they had not been at the well—
He was ready to extend his slaughter in their direction, to wipe out the lot of them, when he paused, his scowl deepening. There was fear and awe upon their faces but they were not regarding either Retoc or his fallen adversary.
Their eyes were turned in another direction and Retoc sent his own glance after theirs. His eyes held upon what he saw. A naked man. But such a man as he had never before seen on all the planet Tarth.
CHAPTER VII
The White God
Bram Forest returned to consciousness and realized the black nausea of his previous moments had vanished. All traces of the sickness were gone as he opened his eyes, his mind intent upon the small flat package that had dropped from the box in which he had found the strange disc-like instrument. But the package was not within reach.
This caused only a small part of his bewilderment however. His attention was riveted mainly upon the tableaux being enacted before him. A group of people, almost as naked as himself, deeply browned of skin, stood huddled nearby.
Almost as though for the entertainment of these, two grim and uniformed warriors were facing each other on the level turf before the strange circular ground-entrance beside which Bram Forest found himself.
The two warriors possessed strange supple swords which they manipulated with much skill. At least, one of the warriors did. The other seemed clumsy in comparison but there was no hint of cowardice in his manner.
Upon closer inspection the two warriors who had seemed of a cut at first glance were quite dissimilar. The one of greater skill was dark and possessed of a cruel mouth and venomous dark eyes. The other was slim and fair with contemptuous blue eyes. He fought with an erect stiffness in his shoulders which was both awkward and dignified at the same time.
The sympathy of Bram Forest went out instinctively to the fair one but the dark, sinister swordsman held his attention. There was something naggingly familiar about the dark one’s cruel face. A tantalizing familiarity that bemused Bram Forest even as the singing swords thrust and parried with that of the dark warrior always on the offensive and the other fighter striving more for self-preservation than for aggressiveness.
Where, Bram Forest wondered, had he seen the dark one before? Nowhere, of course. Any previous contact was impossible. Or was it? Dared he, Bram Forest, call anything impossible after what had already occurred?
Bram Forest glanced down and realized he had been removing the disc from his left wrist and placing it on his right. He had committed the act instinctively, in the same manner he breathed and moved and his mind went back momentarily to the two tubes he had found in his ears when he awoke in the cavern back on Earth.
Back on Earth? How did he know he was not still on that planet? I’ve got to stop questioning these things I possess knowledge of but know not why. I must take them at face value and without wonder. Otherwise I shall spend all my years in conflict with my own mind.
At that moment, the dark warrior’s whip-sword whined in a skillful arc and entered the body of the fair one. A moan of sympathy arose from the waiting group as the defeated warrior sank to the ground, his face strained in agony and fast becoming a death-mask.
The dark warrior stepped back, a cruel sneer of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. Bram Forest, sickened by the unequal contest rose up from where he lay and moved forward. This drew the attention of both the group and the victorious warrior and the effect was electric.
The huddled observers reacted with a mixture of consternation, awe, and fear that would have been comic under less tense circumstances. They dropped as one to their knees. They placed their foreheads upon the ground. A concerted moan escaped them that far transcended in depth and feeling the one with which they had reacted to the death of the fair warrior.
In a language Bram Forest was completely familiar with, their voices sounded a chant of fear and awe. “The white god has come! The white god has come! The white god has come!”
Bram Forest scarcely considered them. He was advancing upon the dark warrior with the clean, stalking movements of a tiger, his great shoulders low, his magnificent legs tense for the death spring.
The dark one was frozen from surprise. From whence had this naked white creature erupted? He stood stiff from sudden fear and uncertainty a moment too long and the hands of the avenger were upon him. The fingers of those hands were like steel talons driving deep into his throat and in his panicked mind he looked upon the face of death and found it horrible. He was being driven down to the ground, lower and lower in abject submission by this strange and terrible manifestation the brown-skinned ones had called a white god.
The dark warrior’s mind raced and in his terrorized desperation a native cunning sprang to his aid. Using every ounce of his remaining strength, he forced words up from his tortured throat. “Would you kill an unarmed man?”
The words touched a responsive chord in Bram Forest’s mind. The craven spoke aptly. By killing him thus, was not Bram Forest doing the same thing for which he had condemned the other?
Bram Forest straightened and hurled the cringing figure from him. “Then defend yourself, swine!” he cried and seized up the dead warrior’s shining whip sword.
The dark one sought means of escape but he feared turning from this avenger as much as facing him. He could only play for time.
Rising, he retrieved his own sword and faced the other with his expression of fear not one whit abated. The man of the steel hands whipped the sword experimentally and the dark one was struck by a ray of hope. The other’s actions with the blade were as clumsy as had been those of Jlomec the Nadian. Perhaps all was not lost.
* * * *
The dark one gripped his blade and moved forward in the customary crouch of the Tarthan fighting man. Then elation welled up within him as the answering posture of the other revealed him as knowing nothing whatever of the whip-sword’s use. The dark one’s smile returned. God or not, the skill of this one with the ancient weapon of Tarth was even less than that of the pathetic Jlomec.
The dark warrior parried a clumsy thrust with ease and whipped his blade around to harass the other’s exposed back. “You are a fool!” he said, “whatever else you may be. As you die, give thought to the fact that you join a large company. Those who have faced the greatest swordsman of Tarth and fallen ignobly before his blade.”
With that the dark one whipped his blade home and spun his adversary expertly in order to discover the exact point of entrance of the blade. His aim was true.
It was just a trifle low but the other fell heavily and the dark warrior withdrew his blade and wiped it uneasily. His nervousness sprang from fear. If one of these so-called gods had appeared, why not two, or four, or a dozen? The Tarthan swordsman, well up on the principles of discretion, felt a sudden urge to be quit of this locality.
It was indeed a disconcerting place. Brown folk, the identity and origin of which he knew not. A white creature with steel hands appearing from nowhere. What would the next manifestation be?
The dark warrior moved swiftly toward his waiting stad. He mounted and rode away and not until the figures about the well were tiny spots almost beyond range of his vision, did he again breathe easily.
CHAPTER VIII
The Brown Virgin
Bram Forest moved from unconscious into a dark half-world of pain and frustration. He felt his flame-seared body to be hanging upon the edge of a black abyss into which he could neither fall nor draw away from.
At times, it seemed, gentle hands reached out to explore but were without the strength to draw him back from the perilous precipice upon which he hung.
There was an endless time of balance in this dark half-world and then the thick blackness faded to a gray, the precipice seemed to draw away of its own volition, and the pain within him lessened.
He opened his eyes.
He was lying on a bed of soft, cool moss in a semi-dark cavern with the sound of tinkling water in the distance. He lay staring at the ceiling for a long time, wondering into what manner of place he had come and how. Then his keen ears caught the sound of breathing other than his own; a soft breathing that fell gently upon his senses and calmed rather than alerted him.
He turned his head and saw a beautiful, naked brown-skinned girl kneeling nearby but beyond his reach. He was struck first by the beauty of her face and form and then by the fact that she was not as completely brown as his first impression had given him to believe. Her breasts and loins were of pure white and droplets of shining water ran down her body.
She was in the act of replacing a sort of leather harness upon her person and Bram Forest realized she had just returned from bathing at whatever place the unseen water gurgled and laughed and that she was now dressing herself.
He held his peace until the act was completed, not wishing to embarrass her by making his consciousness known while she was nude.
After a few moments, the harness was in place and she rose to stand erect and shake out her dark shining hair. Bram Forest chose this time to speak. “I do not know who you are, but I am obviously in your debt. My gratitude.”
The girl reacted like a startled fawn and drew back several paces. “You have regained consciousness?”
“It seems so. Where is this place and how came I here?”
“We brought you.”
Bram Forest’s brow furrowed in thought. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. There were a group of people such as you at the place I tried to fight the dark swordsman with his own weapons.” Bram Forest chuckled ruefully. “It seems I did not fare so well.”
“When we discovered you were not our god, the others wanted to leave you there to die but I resisted this as being inhuman and made them bring you here.”
“Where are the rest?”
“They have returned.”
“Returned whence?”
The girl lowered her beautiful head sadly. “That I cannot tell you.”
Bram Forest smiled. “Be not so sad. The fact that you prefer to keep the information to yourself is no reason for near-tears.”
“I am not sad for that reason, sire.”
“Then why?”
“Because you asked the question and are even more surely therefore, not our god.”
Bram Forest was deeply curious and half-amused at the trend of this conversation. “Tell me this, then. Why does my asking the question eliminate all possibility of my being your god?”
“Because if you were the god we seek and yearn for, you would not have to ask where my people went. You would know.”
“Instead of clarifying the situation,” Bram Forest mused, “each question sends me deeper and deeper into a mental labyrinth.”
“We risked our lives in going to the place you found us. It was forbidden to credit the ancient legend of our people. Therefore—”
“What legend?”
“That upon this day and at that place our god would appear to deliver us.”
* * * *
Bram Forest, now desperately seeking a question that would clarify rather than further befuddle, held up his hand. “Wait. If you expected a god to appear and I arrived on schedule, how can you be so sure that I am not he?”
“We thought so when you advanced upon the hideous Abarian and took his throat in your great hands. But when you not only allowed him to live but also suffered him to take up his whip-sword and come within an eyelash of killing you, we knew you were not our god.”
Bram Forest nodded with understanding. “I can see now how stupid that act was. Certainly not a manner in which a genuine god would conduct himself.” He glanced at the girl and smiled. “Please come closer that I may see you better.”
She moved her head in the negative, reluctantly, Bram Forest thought, and replied, “If you were our god I would gladly place myself in your power to do with me as you would, but as you are mortal, I must remain away from you.”
Bram Forest frowned. “Again things get murky.”
“I am a virgin,” the beautiful girl explained simply and with no self-consciousness whatever. “I must remain so until my time is ordained. If I lost my virginity, even through violation that I resist, I would immediately be delivered into the Golden Ape.”
Bram Forest came upright, causing the girl to retreat a step further in alarm. “The Golden Ape, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“And you are a virgin—”
This last was a statement rather than a question as Bram Forest sank back, his eyes misty with thought. “An ape, a boar, a stallion—” he pondered. “A virgin’s feast—”
The girl eyed him with concern. “Are you sure that your wound has not caused—”
“It is not that,” he said, switching his mind back to things of the moment. “I’m just wondering—might you tell me your name without breaking any rules of reticence?”
“I am Ylia,” she said with a childlike solemnity that touched Bram Forest.
“And does Ylia never smile?”
It seemed to him she made an effort to do this but was so unfamiliar with the expression that she could not manage it.
He extended a hand, not disconcerted that she did not come close and take it. He said, “Ylia, I would not again ask a question you did not wish to answer before. But I am mightily puzzled about the life you must have led—about that manner of males you have had contact with. They are certainly a miserable lot if a female of their race must look to her virtue every waking moment.
“As for me, Ylia—and please believe—I would no more touch you in desire than I would knowingly injure a child. You are safe in my presence as in the most guarded room of a nunnery.”
If he expected gratitude or a pat on the back for his nobility, he was rudely surprised. Ylia straightened, her young breasts protruding gracefully and if she did not react with anger, her face mirrored something close to it.
“Then I am not desirable?”
Bram Forest blinked. “I did not say that. You are one of the fairest I have ever set eyes upon.”
This puzzled Ylia completely. “Then in the name of the Golden Ape, why—?”
Bram Forest raised his hand with a gesture of both interruption and surrender. “Please! Let us pursue this subject no further. The waters grow deep and I suspect quicksand at their bottom. There are questions in my mind. Allow me to bring them forth with the understanding that you do not have to answer any you do not wish to.”
It was evident that Ylia’s mind was also a bag of conundrums relative to this late candidate for godhood who had insulted her desirability and yet complimented her upon it at the same time. She moved forward and sat gracefully down near the moss resting place of her patient.
Bram Forest was aware of her tenseness. She was like a beautiful animal ready to spring away at the first sign of hostile movement on his part. But he also got the impression that coming within reach of his arms thrilled her. He believed this even while knowing that she would have fought like a tigress against any advance upon his part.
He said, “Ylia, you are indeed a strange child. You remained here after your people left and brought me back from the brink of death even with the fear that I would rise up and violate you as soon as I acquired the strength to do so. Your thought processes are difficult to understand.”
Ylia lowered her eyes. “You wished to ask some questions, sire.”
“My name is Bram Forest. The sire ill-becomes you.”
“Bram—Forest,” she murmured experimentally. Then she raised her eyes and there dawned upon her face the most brilliant of smiles. Her look was one of both dignity and gratitude. “You do me much honor, Bram Forest!”
“Honor? I fail to understand.”
Ylia’s eyes glowed proudly. “Why, you treat me with such respect that I could be even Volna herself!”
“And who is this Volna?”
Ylia was startled at this strange man’s ignorance. “Why, everyone on Tarth knows of Volna, Princess of Nadia, sister of Bontarc, who is Prince of Nadia and ruler of that great nation. She is the most exquisitely beautiful woman ever to be born on Tarth.”
“Fancy that,” Bram Forest said with a lack of enthusiasm that proved marked disinterest. “I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance, nor of her illustrious brother, either.”
Ylia lowered her eyes in sadness. “She was also the sister of Jlomec.”
“And who, pray is Jlomec?”
“I thought you knew since you tried to avenge his death. He was the Nadian the cruel Abarian Retoc slew under your very eyes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bram Forest said. But the cowardly death had been accomplished and Bram Forest’s mind did not dwell upon it as he could not see where it affected him one way or another.
“Ylia,” he said, “take it as a supposition that I was born this very moment and know nothing of this world or its customs. With that in mind, tell me of it—the things you would tell a wondering child.”
She glanced at him strangely. “I will tell you all that I am not bound to hold secret.”
“I would not wish to know more.”
The beautiful Ylia leaned forward, so preoccupied with the task she had set herself that all her reserve and wariness left her. Her action brought her lowered head close to Bram Forest’s face and the sweet smell of her newly washed and shining hair was in his nostrils. Then he also became preoccupied with the map Ylia was drawing on the floor of the cavern.
Long they sat thus, Ylia enjoying her task and Bram Forest’s facile mind drawing in each syllable she spoke and committing it to memory.
Finally the sun lowered and the interior of the cavern darkened until they could no longer see each other. The most important conviction Bram Forest arrived at from Ylia’s discourse was indeed a startling one. He was certain that this Tarth was a twin planet to Earth of which there was complete knowledge in his mind. He could hardly escape the fact that Tarth swung in an orbit exactly opposite to that of its more familiar counterpart, thus remaining invisible from it.
This conviction came to him through several things Ylia said and it was buttressed by a bit of Tarthan mythology she chanced to mention. The legend told of a flame-god, obviously the sun, which stood forth in its wrath one long-distant day and hurled two great stones at a demon who came from far away bent upon torment. This last Bram Forest thought, was perhaps a comet of great size that tore both worlds from the sun and set them upon their orbits. The existence of the mythological legend indicated too, that civilization on Tarth was not backward or at least had not been in ages gone.
In the more exact realm, Bram Forest learned that Tarth was far less watery than its invisible sister, scarcely half its surface consisting of ocean. It had two ice caps at the poles, known as the Outer Reaches and an equator termed the Inner Belt.
* * * *
There were no isolated continents according to Ylia’s map, all the dry surfaces being connected by wide passages of land through the continuous ocean.
Ylia’s description of the people interested Bram Forest most intensely. On Tarth, he learned, there was no association of nations, each mistrusting the others in a world where a state of continuous war at some point of the globe was an accepted state of affairs which no one sought to ameliorate.
Ylia herself was hazy upon the description and number of the nations. She thought some two hundred existed but only the most important could she describe.
* * * *
The Abarians were the most successfully warlike, fearing only the Nadians to the south. This because though the Nadians were not aggressive and even treated other lesser nations in a kindly fashion, they possessed an inherent fighting skill and a power potential that had not been tested in recallable history. Though they had not fought for centuries, their potential had not lessened because such a folly would have been considered tantamount to national suicide on Tarth.
There were also the Utalians that Bram Forest visualized as some sort of lizard men for the reason that they possessed the defensive characteristics of the chameleon. There was also another intriguing race, no member of which Ylia had ever seen. She referred to them as the Twin People of Coom, an area near the north Outer Reach. Bram Forest speculated upon what manner of people they would be and it came to him that the evolutionary processes on Tarth had not corresponded to those of Earth, where all members of the human race evolved into practically the same form.
Then a name came into Bram Forest’s mind; a name that rose out of that mysterious well of knowledge in his subconscious; a well he could not explain but had been forced to accept. He no longer questioned it.
“Tell me of the Ofridians.”
Ylia started as though he had slapped her. The deep brown of her beautiful face paled somewhat and her eyes grew very sad.
Bram Forest saw the sadness by the light of the moon, that had risen and was sending wan light in through the cavern’s entrance. He only sensed the paleness from the tremor of Ylia’s voice. “It grows late. I must go and bring food. Your strength must be nurtured and greatened.”
With that, she hurried off in the direction of the sounding water, leaving Bram Forest both bewildered and intrigued. Why had she reacted so violently to his question? And for that matter, why had he been able to ask the question in the first place? By what process did he know the name Ofrid and that it designated a nation on Tarth, without knowing of that nation and already possessing the knowledge for which he had begged the patient and beautiful Ylia?
Then he remembered that he had resolved not to wonder about these things—and at the same instant, remembered something else.
The small, flat package that had fallen from the box back on Earth. It had been his first thought upon regaining consciousness near the Ofridian well but it had been pushed from his mind by subsequent events.
How long ago had that been? He tried to assess the passage of time but failed. The only indication of its length was the fact that he bore no wound where the Abarian’s blade had entered his body. That pointed to a long span of unconsciousness but perhaps there were contributing factors.
* * * *
He had sensed that the mysterious Ylia had at her command something that had healed him very swiftly but he had no proof of this.
At any rate, he had to retrieve the package if possible. But would it be possible? Granted the strange disc had brought him somehow from Earth to Tarth, would it repeat the process in the opposite direction?
He resolved to find out and began unbuckling the disc from its place on his right wrist.
As he did this a sound manifested outside the cavern but he was so intent upon his task that he gave little note. Quickly, he strapped the disc into its potent position on his left wrist. Then he sat tensely awaiting the reaction.
As he waited, the sound without became so pronounced he could no longer ignore it. He raised his head and saw a tall, sinister form outlined against the moonlight. He was unable to distinguish the features, but the outline told a sickening truth. Also the drawn whip-sword spoke eloquently of who this intruder was.
The Abarian of the Ofridian well in search of prey. The cowardly assassin who would now enter and find a defenseless man and a beautiful girl who would set him aflame with lust.
Rage threw a red curtain over Bram Forest’s eyes as he struggled up to meet the intruder. But the latter never saw him because at that moment the now-familiar nausea seized Bram Forest’s vitals, doubling him over.
And when the Abarian had advanced into the cavern, he found only an empty bed of moss, Bram Forest having been snatched up and whirled into darkness by the relentless hand of time put into terrifying motion.
