We were in the realms of outer, inter-planetary space!



CHAPTER XVI

Playground of Venus

After a trip uneventful—save that to me, taking it for the first time, it was an experience never to be forgotten in a lifetime—we landed at the Great City of Venus. We had sent no messages during the trip, and with our grey-blue color, I think we escaped telescopic and even radio observation by the Earth. Into our vessel's small instrument room, where Tarrano spent most of his time, reports of the news occasionally drifted in. But his connection—small and inadequate—was often broken. Nor did Tarrano this time seem interested in having Wolfgar, Elza and me learn the news. Yet it was not unfavorable to him. I gathered that the Earth formally had accepted his declaration of war. Relations with Venus—and with Mars also, had been discontinued. The mails no longer left. The helios were stopped. But, so far as I could learn, the Earth was undertaking no offensive action. For the present, certainly.

Soon we were beyond reach of all messages save helios, which were not in operation. And in another day news began reaching us from Venus. But from this Tarrano barred us.

I saw Venus, as we dropped upon it, first as a tremendous lovely crescent of silver beneath us. A crescent first, and, as hours passed, the darkened area took shape. A ball hanging there in space. Growing almost momentarily larger. Soon we could distinguish cloud areas. Then the land—the water. A ball filling half our lower segment of sky. Then all of it.

We reached the Venus atmosphere, passed through cloud masses, and out again into the brilliant sunshine. Below us, glowing with the glory of mid-day, lay the Venus Central State. Rolling hills with distant mountain peaks, the highest of them far-away, glittering white with the sunlight on their snow-caps.

A land of warmth and beauty. Dazzling green, with a luxuriant vegetation, tropical yet strange.

As we dropped lower, I sat alone, gazing downward. We were passing over the land now, at an altitude of no more than twenty thousand feet. A vivid land. Vivid sunlight; inky shadows; a green to everything—a solid, brilliant green. Amid it, spots of other colors; splashes of yellow; patches of scarlet as though some huge field were massed with scarlet blossoms. And trailing silver threads—rivers and streams. Or again glittering silver lakes nestling in the hills.

A fairyland of beauty. Yet as I gazed, it seemed not the fairyland of a child. Not childish, but mature; for I could not miss in its aspect, a warmth, a quality of sensuousness. A land of dalliance and pleasure of the senses. And I realized then why the Venus people derived all their advancement of science and industry from Earthly and Martian sources. A hand of luxury and physical ease. People, not primitive—but decadent.

I became aware of Wolfgar at my elbow. "It is very beautiful, eh, Jac Hallen?"

"Beautiful—yes. You've been here before, Wolfgar?"

He nodded. "Oh yes. Soon we will reach the Great City. That too is strange and beautiful."

Elza saw us together and joined us. The Great City presently came into distant view. Wolfgar, with that gentle voice and smile characteristic of him began to describe to us what we should see. Abruptly Elza said:

"I have never really thanked you, Wolfgar. You saved my life—there when Tara attacked me."

He gestured. "Your thanks are more than such a service deserves."

As though the subject had suggested Georg and Maida to him, he added, "I am wondering where Georg Brende and the Princess Maida may be."

I fancied then that I saw a quality of wistfulness in his eyes. A gentle little fellow, this Mars man. Queer and brooding, with strange thoughts not to be fathomed. He added as though to himself: "I have often wondered—" Then stopped.

Elza and I had discussed it. We felt sure that Georg and Maida had been taken to Venus. They could have had only a few hours' start of ourselves. Yet this vessel we were in was unusually slow. We felt convinced that they had already arrived on Venus—had been there perhaps already for a day.

We discussed it now with Wolfgar as the Great City came under us; but soon we fell silent, gazing down into this beautiful capital of the Central State.

It lay in a broad hollow, a large, irregular circular bowl surrounded by gently sloping hillsides. The bowl was entirely filled by water—a broad flat lake of silver which from this height showed us its pearly bottom. On the water—seen from above—the houses seemed floating—clusters of lily pads on a placid shining pool. They were, in reality, flat cubical buildings solidly built of rectangular blocks of stone, standing just above the water level on solid stone foundations. Always green and white—stones like blocks of smooth, polished marble, set in green and white patterns. Balconies and cornices of what might have been gleaming, beaten copper. Flat roofs, edged with scarlet flowers.

Some of the buildings were low and small. Others of several stories, pretentious and ornate. One very large, like a palace, standing alone on its verdant island.

The houses were mostly gathered in clusters of various shapes and sizes. Yet a semblance of order prevailed. Winding streets of open water lay between the groups. There were trellised walks and arching spider bridges, sometimes over the streets, sometimes joining one house to another.

Here and there I saw lagoons of open water, dotted with small green islands like parks—islands on which the vegetation grew far higher and more luxuriant than any even in the tropics of our Earth. Vegetation always under careful training and control. Profuse with flowers, vivid and gigantic. The houses too, were roofed with gardens—sometimes with pergolas and trellises of the aerial scarlet blossoms. Occasionally—these latter details I observed as we descended close upon the city—I saw houses with a tiny swimming pool on the roof—a private pool hidden in masses of colored flowers.

A playground—the playground of Venus. It seemed very backward—uncivilized. And then Wolfgar pointed out the surrounding hillsides. On them, cleared of their vegetation, our modern civilization stood gaunt and efficient. Towers, aerials, landing stages, aerial trams, factories, tall stacks over the dynamo houses belching thick black smoke, which artificial wind-generators carefully blew away from the city.

In the midst of their hillside ring of necessary modernity, the people of the Great City had kept their playground inviolate. Work, science, industry—all necessary. But the real business of life was pleasure. Art, music, beauty.... And I am not far from thinking that unless abused, their formula is better than ours.



CHAPTER XVII

Violet Beam of Death

We landed on a stage at the summit of one of the nearer hillsides. Our coming—unheralded since we had carried no sending instruments—created a furor. The workers rested to watch us as we disembarked. It was not so different a scene, here on the hill, than might have occurred on Earth. We took a moving platform, down the hill, to the water's edge. A barge was awaiting us—a broad flat vessel with gaudy trappings. A score of attendants lined its sides, each with a pole to thrust it through the shallow water. And on its high-raised stern, beneath a canopy was a couch upon which Tarrano reclined, with us of his party at his feet.

A royal barge, queerly ancient, barbaric—reminding me of the flat, motionless pictures of Earth's early history. Yet it was a symbol here on Venus, not of barbarism, but of decadence.

We started off. I may have given a false idea of the size of the Great City. Its lake, indeed, was fully fifteen miles or more in diameter. Half a million people lived on or close around that placid stretch of water.

The news of Tarrano's arrival had instantly spread. Graceful boats, all propelled by hand, thronged our course. From them, and from every house-window, balcony and roof-top, a waving multitude cheered the coming of the Master. The new Master, to whom so recently they had given their allegiance—the Master who in return was to endow them with life everlasting.

It was a gay, holiday throng—cheering us, tossing flower-petals down upon us as we passed majestically beneath the bridges. Yet among these gaudily dressed women and men with the luster of wealth and ease upon them, others mingled. Others of a lower class, poorly dressed, with the badge of servitude upon them, enthralled in a social peonage which I did not yet understand.

"Slaans," Wolfgar called them. A term half of derision, half contempt. And Wolfgar pointed one out to me. A huge grey, surly-looking fellow passing in a one-man shell or boat of tree-fibre. He gazed up at us as he went by—a furtive glance of cold, sullen fury. Unmistakable. And I saw it again on others of his kind—men, women, even children who gazed at us with big, round eyes. A dumb, sullen resentment, with a smouldering fury beneath it.

During the trip, which may have taken an hour, I remarked something also, which did not at the time seem significant but very soon I was to recall it and understand its import. Argo, of course, was still with us. As we embarked upon the barge, a man evidently an official of the Great City had paid his humble respects to Tarrano and then withdrawn to a further part of the vessel, drawing Argo with him. I saw the two in close conversation. The official evidently was telling Argo something of importance. I could see Argo growing indignant and then his eyes gleaming, a leer upon his cruel lips.

During the trip Tarrano sat calm, half reclining on his couch—sat watching with his keen expressionless eyes the applause of the multitude. It was, I think, and I believe he felt it also, the height of his career up to that time—this triumphant entry into the greatest city of Venus. He did not speak, just sat watching and listening, with a half smile of triumph pulling at his mouth. Yet I know too, that those keen eyes of his did not miss the sullen glances of the slaans.

The weather, as always in the Venus Central State, was warm—a luxurious tropic warmth. And now I felt—as I had seen from above—the languorous, sensuous quality of it all. Music, mingled with the ripple of girlish laughter and cheers, came from the houses as we passed. Soft, fragrant flower-petals deluged us. The very air was laden heavy with exotic perfumes from the flowers which were everywhere.

We arrived at last at what appeared to be a palace—a broad, low building of polished stone, on an island of its own. It was the building I had noticed when first we saw the Great City from above. Gardens were about the building, and on its roof. Flowers lined its many balconies.

We drew up to a stone landing-place.

"The palace of the Princess Maida," Wolfgar whispered.

But I had no time to question him. Attendants appeared. A queer mixture. Incongruous men of science, armed with belts of instruments. They greeted Tarrano humbly; escorted him away.

Other attendants. Natives of the city, in the flowing, bright-colored robes we had seen everywhere. A group of them—laughing young girls—descended upon us.

"The Princess Maida bids you welcome."

They hurried us into the building. I was surprised. Tarrano had seemingly ignored us. It was quite as though we were honored guests, arriving in the Central State when Maida was its ruler.

Led by the girls, we passed upward into the building past splashing fountains, cascades of perfumed water with tubes of silver light gleaming in its midst; and were thrust at last into a room.

The girls withdrew. Across the floor-polished stone, with heavy woven rugs upon it—Georg and the Princess Maida advanced upon us.

Our greetings were brief. I could have talked to them both for a day, questioning them; and they, no doubt, had as much to ask of us. But they were solemn, grave and anxious.

"Not now, Jac," Georg said to check me. "Elza dear—I have been so worried over you."

"But——" I demanded.

"Jac—the situation here—our own cause—the safety of our Earth itself—this Tarrano—"

But Maida stopped him. "The very air has ears. Not now." Her glance turned to Wolfgar; her slim hands went out to greet him. "Wolfgar, my friend. It is good to see you here."

Wolfgar knelt before her, gazed for one instant into her eyes, and then with head bowed, brushed the hem of her robe to his face.

She laughed gently. "Stand up, Wolfgar. I would not be the Princess Maida to you now. Only—your friend. Your grateful friend."

There was a sudden soundless flash. From across the room a beam of violet flame darted at us. It struck just between Maida and Wolfgar, as he rose from his knee. Both of them involuntarily stepped backward, apart from each other. And between them, breast high, the flame hung level across the room. Maida was on one side of it; all the rest of us, on the other.

I turned. At the door, Argo had appeared. From a black object in his hand, the beam was streaming. He rested the black thing on a wall ledge so that the beam hung level.

"Stand where you are, all of you." He started toward Maida, behind the beam from the rest of us.

Georg made as though to leap forward, but Wolfgar restrained him. "Wait! You don't understand—that's death!"

I saw now that the violet light had encircled us. Only Maida and Argo were outside it. He was approaching her, with a cylinder in his hand. The ray from it struck her without power of movement or speech. Her eyes, terrified, turned to us. Again Georg would have leaped, but Wolfgar shouted, "Wait! That's death! Don't you understand?"

Argo was leering. "Death? Yes! If you touch that violet light! Death, of course. But you won't touch it! You will stand and watch—stand silently for you know that if you shout, the vibrations will bring the beam upon you. You won't move—you'll stand and watch me kill your Princess Maida—not quickly—she is too beautiful for that. You, Georg Brende—you, Wolfgar, traitor from Mars. You shall see your Princess Maida die—this would-be traitoress to my Master Tarrano!"

With all the strength of his puny body Wolfgar flung Georg backward—safely away from the deadly violet beam. And then, without warning, without a cry which would endanger us, the little Mars man sprang headlong, into and through the violet beam of death.



CHAPTER XVIII

Passing of a Friend

Wolfgar was not dead; but when we picked him up it was obvious that he was dying. The violet beam vanished as his body struck it—vanished with a hiss and splutter, and a puff of sulphuric smoke that mingled with the smell of burning garments and flesh.

Georg and I leaped forward. Argo was standing transfixed by surprise at what Wolfgar had done; and as the beam died, Georg was upon him.

"One moment!"

The quiet, commanding voice of Tarrano. He must have come quickly, when informed by the finders of Argo's treachery. Yet he stood now at the arcade entrance, drawn to his full height, frowning with lowered brows, but wholly without appearance of haste.

"One moment—stand aside, all of you."

Argo cowered. The rest of us moved aside. Elza came toward me, and I put my arm around her. Poor little Elza! She was shivering with fright.

Tarrano seemed not to need information as to what had transpired. His eyes, roving over us, saw the lifeless, seared body of Wolfgar lying on the floor.

"Too bad," he said. Then his gaze swung to Argo.

"Master——"

"Silence!"

There was on Tarrano's face and in his voice an expression, a tone quite new to me. A quiet grimness. More than that. A quality of deadliness—of inexorable deadliness which could well have chilled the stoutest heart that fronted it.

"Come here, Argo." Tarrano stood quite motionless. "Argo!"

"Master! Master, you——"

"Come!"

Argo was on the floor. Shaking with terror—for he, probably better than any of us, understood what was coming—dragged himself to Tarrano's feet.

"Stand up!"

"Master, have mercy——"

"Stand up! Are you a man?"

Argo's legs would barely support him, but he struggled to get himself erect. With a wrench, Tarrano tore the robe from Argo's chest.

"Master! Master! Have mercy!"

In Tarrano's hand I saw a needle-like piece of steel. A dagger, yet it was more like a needle.

"Master—Oh——"

Tarrano had stabbed it gently into the man's chest. A mere prick into the flesh, and a tiny drop of blood oozed out.

For a moment Argo stood swaying. Eyes white-rimmed with mortal terror as he stupidly looked down at the drop of blood. A moment, then the injected poison took effect. He tottered, flung his arms above his head and fell. Lay writhing an instant; then twitching; and then quite still.

Tarrano turned away, his face impassive. "Unfortunate. He was a good man in many ways—I shall be sorry to lose his services." He saw me with my arm around Elza, and he frowned.

"So?"

Instinctively, involuntarily—and I hated myself for it—I dropped my arm.

Georg exclaimed: "Wolfgar—he——"

Tarrano turned from me. "He is not dead—but he will die. There is nothing we can do. I'm very sorry—very sorry indeed."

A sincere regret was in his tone. We lifted Wolfgar up, carried him to a depression in the floor by the wall—a shallow, couch-like bowl half-filled with down.

On the floor we gathered, seated on cushions; and presently Wolfgar regained consciousness. His face was not burned. It lighted with a dazed smile; and his eyes, searching us, picked out Maida.

"You are safe—I'm—so glad."

His voice was low and labored; and at once his eyes closed again as though the effort of speaking were too great.

Maida was sitting near me at Wolfgar's head, bending over him. She had recovered from her terror of Argo; and as she leaned down, gazing at the dying Wolfgar, I think I have never seen so gentle, so compassionate an expression upon the face of any woman.

Elza whispered: "There must be something we can do. The men of medicine—the lights—the healing lights! Georg! Cannot you use father's——"

They were only an overwrought girl's excited ideas, of course. Wolfgar's lungs were seared; even as Elza spoke, he coughed, and blood welled from his mouth—blood which Georg quickly wiped away.

Tarrano was on his feet behind us, with folded arms; and as he looked down, I saw on his face also—the face which a few moments before had been grim with deadly menace—a look now of gentle compassion very much like Maida's.

"No use," he said softly. "We can do nothing. He will die."

Again Wolfgar's eyes opened. "Die—of course." He tried to raise one of his burned hands, but dropped it back. "Die? Yes—of course. In just a moment...." His eyes, already dulled, swung about. "Who is that—crying? There's no need—to cry."

It was little Elza beside me, struggling to suppress her sobs.

Wolfgar's slow, labored voice demanded: "That isn't—my Princess Maida crying—is it? I don't want—her to cry——"

"No," said Georg gently. "Maida is here—right here by you. She isn't crying."

His gaze found Maida's face. "Oh, yes—I can see you—Princess Maida. You're not crying—that's good. There's nothing to—cry about."

He seemed for a moment to gather a little strength; he moved his head and saw Tarrano standing there behind us.

"Master?" He used the old term with a whimsical smile. "I—called you that—for a long time, didn't I? You have a right to consider me a traitor——"

"A spy," said Tarrano very gently. "Not a traitor. That you would have been had you served me—a traitor to your Princess."

Wolfgar's head tried to nod; relief was on his face. "I'm—glad you understand. I would not want to die—having you think harshly of me——"

"You are a man—I honor you." Abruptly Tarrano turned away and strode across the room. And always since I have wondered if he left that scene of death because of the emotion he could not hide.

Georg said: "You should not talk, Wolfgar."

"But I—want to talk. I have—only a few minutes. Just these—last few minutes—I want to talk to my—Princess Maida. You'll—excuse us—the Princess Maida and me—won't you? Just for these last—few minutes?"

We withdrew beyond his fading sight.

"My—Princess Maida——"

His voice still reached us. She leaned closer over him. Her tears were falling now, but as she spoke she strove for calmness.

"Wolfgar——"

His eyes were glazing, but they dung to her. "Princess——"

"No," she said. "Just Maida—your friend. The woman you have given your life for." Her voice almost broke. "Oh, Wolfgar! Never shall I forget that. To give your life——"

"It is—a great honor." The gesture he made to check her words of thanks exhausted him. His eyes closed; for a moment he seemed not to breathe. As Maida leaned down in alarm, her beautiful white hair tumbled forward over her shoulders. A lock of it brushed Wolfgar. He could not lift his hands, but they groped for the tresses, found them and clung. Her white waves of hair, with his fingers, shriveled, burned black, entwined in them.

Again his eyelids came up. "You won't leave me—Princess Maida. Not for these—last few minutes?"

"No," she half whispered.

"You—cannot—if you would." His whimsical smile returned. "You see? I am—holding you."

For a moment he was silent. His eyes stayed open, staring dully at her. His face and lips were drained now of their blood.

"You're—still there?"

"Yes, Wolfgar."

"Yes—of course I know you are. But I—cannot see you very well—now. You look—so far away."

She put her face down quite close to him. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Oh—yes," he said. "That's better—much better. Now I can—see you—very plainly. I was thinking—I wanted to—tell you something. It—wouldn't be right to tell you—except that I'll soon—be gone where it won't make any difference."

He gathered all his last remaining strength. "I—love you—Princess Maida."

She forced a gentle smile through her tears. "Yes, Wolfgar."

"I mean," he persisted, "not as my Princess—just as—a woman. The—woman I've always loved. That's been my secret. You see? It would—always have been—my secret—the little Mars man Wolfgar—in love with his Princess Maida. You—don't think it too impertinent of me—do you? I mean—confessing it now—just at—the end?"

"No," she whispered. "No, Wolfgar."

"Thank you—very much." His breath exhaled with a faint sigh. "Thank you—very much. I wanted to tell you that—before I—go. And—if you wouldn't mind—I want to—call you—just Maida."

"Just Maida, Wolfgar. Yes, of course, I want you to call me that." Her voice was broken. She brushed away her tears that he might not notice them.

"Yes," he agreed. His staring eyes were trying to see her. "My Maida. You're—very beautiful—my Maida. I—wonder—you see, I'm taking advantage of you—I wonder if you'd say you—love me? I'd be so happy—just to hear you say it."

As I sat there behind them, I prayed then that she might say it.

"I love you, Wolfgar."

"Oh," he whispered. "You did say it! My Maida says that she loves me!" Happiness transfigured his livid face. But his smile was whimsical still. "You're—very kind to me. Please—say it again."

"I love you, Wolfgar."

"Yes—that's how I always dreamed it would sound. I—love—you—Wolfgar."

His voice trailed away; a film was settling over his staring eyes. Then again his lips moved. "Maida says—'I love you, Wolfgar' ... I'm—so happy...."

Quite suddenly she realized that he was gone. Her pent-up emotion came with a sob.

"Wolfgar! My friend—my wonderful, loyal friend—don't die, Wolfgar! Don't die!"



CHAPTER XIX

Waters of Eternal Peace

Little Wolfgar was gone. It seemed at first very strange, unreal. It lay a shadow of grief upon our spirits, for many hours a deeper shadow than all those grave events impending upon which hung the fate of three worlds.

Tarrano ordered for Wolfgar a public burial of ceremony and honor in the waters of eternal peace—ordered it for that same evening. Once again Tarrano demonstrated the strangeness of his nature. His arrival to take possession of Venus had been made the occasion of a great festival. "The Water Festival," they called it, which was held only at times of universal public rejoicing. It was planned now to do honor to Tarrano—planned for this same evening. But he postponed it a night; tonight was for Wolfgar.

We were still captives in Tarrano's hands, as we had been on Earth in Venia. Yet here in the Great City of Venus a curious situation arose. Tarrano himself explained it to us that afternoon. An embarrassing situation for him, he termed it.

"Very embarrassing," he said, with eyes that smiled at us quizzically. "Just for your ears alone, you understand, I am willing to admit that I must handle these Great City people very carefully. You, Princess Maida—you are greatly beloved of your people."

"Yes," she said.

He nodded. "For that reason they would not like to know you are virtually a captive. And you, Georg Brende—really, they are beginning to look on you as a savior—to save them from disease and death. It is rather unflattering to me——"

He broke off, then with sudden decision added:

"Soon you two will realize that to join me will be your best course. And best for all the worlds, for it will bring to them all peace and health and happiness.... No, I ask no decision from you now. Nor from you, Lady Elza." His gaze softened as he regarded her—softened almost to a quantity of wistfulness. "You know, Lady Elza, for what I am striving. I may—indeed I shall—conquer the worlds. But you hold in the palm of your little white hand, my real reward.... Enough!"

And then he offered us a sort of pseudo-liberty. We might all come and go about the Great City at will. Apparently—to the public eye—allied to Tarrano. The Princess Maida—as before—hereditary honored ruler; with Tarrano guiding the business affairs of State, as on Earth our Presidents and their Councils rule the legendary Kings and Queens. The one ruling in fact; the other, an affair of pretty sentiment.

It was this condition which Tarrano now desired to bring about. With Georg already beloved for his medical knowledge; and flying rumors (started no doubt by Tarrano) that the handsome Earth man would some day marry their Princess.

Myself—the irony of it!—I was appointed a sort of bodyguard to the Lady Elza—the little Earth girl whose presence in the Great City would help conciliate the Earth and bring about universal peace—with Venus in control.

So ran the popular fancy, guided by Tarrano. We were given our pseudo-liberty, watched always by the unseen eyes of Tarrano's guards. And there was nothing we could do but accept our status. Tarrano was guiding his destiny cleverly. Yet underneath it all, unseen forces were at work. We sensed them. The slaans—submissive at their menial tasks, but everywhere with sullen, resentful glances. Perhaps Tarrano realized his danger; but I do not think that he, any more than the rest of us, realized what the Water Festival was to bring forth.

That night—our first night on Venus—midway between the darkness of sunset and the dawn—we buried Wolfgar. The air was soft and warm, with a gentle breeze that riffled the placid waters of the lake. Overhead, the sky gleamed with a myriad stars—reddish stars, all of them like Red Mars himself as seen through the heavy Venus atmosphere. Largest of them, the Earth. My birthplace! Save Elza here with me on Venus, that tiny red spot in the heavens, red like the tip of a lighted arrant-cylinder, held all that was dear to me!

The funeral cortege—a solemn line of panoplied boats, started from the palace. Boats hung with purple fabric. In single file they wended their way through the city streets. From every landing, balcony, window and roof-top, the people stared down at us. The street corners were hung with shaded tubes of light, shining down with spots of color to the water.

As we passed, the people bowed their heads, hands to their foreheads, palms outward. The gesture of grief. From one building came a low musical chant.

"Honor to Wolfgar! The man who gave his life for our Princess. Honor to Wolfgar!"

We came to the edge of the city. The lake here narrowed to a river—a length of winding river opening to the pond which was the burial place of Eternal Peace. On Tarrano's barge, with Elza and Georg, we led the way. Maida was not with us. I asked Tarrano where she was, but solemnly he denied me.

At the burial waters—on the sloping banks of which a silent throng had gathered—we landed. And following us, the other vessels of the cortege came along and stopped beside us. The pond was dotted with white markers for the graves. The whole scene unlighted, save for the stars, and the red and purple aural lights of the Venus heavens, which mounted the sky at this midnight hour. A great, glowing arc—the reflected glow from a myriad cluster of tiny moons and moon-dust, encircling Venus. The soft light from it flooded the water and the tombs with a flush of red and purple.

As we lay there against the bank, with that silent throng breathlessly watching, from down the river came the last vessel of our cortege. It made a scene I shall never forget. The bier. Draped in purple. A single, half-naked slaan propelling it with a sweep from its stern. The body of Wolfgar lying on its raised prow—his dead, white face, with peace upon it. Beside the body, the lone figure of Maida, kneeling at Wolfgar's head, with her white, braided hair falling down over her shoulders. Kneeling and staring, almost expressionless; but I knew that with her whole heart she was speeding the soul of Wolfgar to its eternal peace.



CHAPTER XX

Unseen Menace

That day following the burial of Wolfgar, there was nothing of importance occurred. No news from the Earth could get in. I felt that the Earth might be planning an attack. Probably was, since war had been declared. Yet that of course was months away.

Tarrano apparently was engaged in the pleasurable triumph of the coming Water Festival. All day he seemed engaged in planning it. But I knew that he was engaged secretly with far sterner things concerning the Cold Country, which lay a day's journey from us. But what they were, I did not know.

The Water Festival was all we talked of. That afternoon, Tarrano describing it, said smilingly:

"They say it is for me. But, Lady Elza—it is I who plan it—for you. You have not seen the Red Woman." A gleam of amusement played upon his lips; but as he regarded Elza, I saw another look—of speculation, as though he were gauging her.

"The Red Woman, Lady Elza. She will preside tonight. You will find her—very interesting. We will watch her together, you and I."

I did not know then what he meant; but I remembered the words later, and understood only too well.

Just after sundown, when I chanced to be in a small boat alone, near the palace, the first of two significant incidents occurred. From the shadows beneath a house, the head of a swimming man emerged. A slaan, and he gripped the sides of my boat as I drifted.

"Wait, Earth man." He spoke in the quaint universal language, which I understood, though imperfectly.

I gazed at him. A bullet-like head, with sullen, blazing eyes. He added: "We do not blame you—or your woman, Elza—or the Princess Maida. Have no fear, but guard yourself well tonight."

Before I could speak he had sunk into the water, swimming beneath it. I could see the phosphorescence of his moving body as he swam away into the shadows beyond my line of vision.

The other incident came a moment later. As I was gazing down into the water I saw a moving metal shape. A triangular metal head, as of a diver's cap. More than that, it turned upward; and behind its pane was a man's face. Unfamiliar to me—yet the face of an Anglo-Saxon man of Earth! Unmistakable! It stared at me a moment—no more than three or four feet below my boat. And then it moved away and vanished.

I had no opportunity to speak alone with Elza, or Georg or Maida that entire evening. Always Tarrano was with us. We sat upon the palace balcony, we men smoking our arrant-cylinders. Tarrano talked and joked like a care-free youth. He was very courteous to Elza, with a holiday spirit upon him. But his eyes never relaxed; and often I could see him measuring her.

The aural lights mounted the sky. The holiday spirit which was on Tarrano was spreading everywhere throughout the city. Boats gayly bedecked—in such contrast to the funeral cortege of poor Wolfgar just the night before—began passing the palace on their way to the festival waters. Men and laughing girls thronged them. All with red masks covering their faces. The men in grey tight-fitting garments, with conical caps and flowing plumes; the girls in bright-colored, flowing robes, and tresses dangling with flowers entwined in them.

The balcony upon which we sat was close above the water level. The barges, of every size and kind, glided past. Sometimes the girls would shower us with flower petals. One small boat paused before us. A girl stood up to wave at me. Her hand, held up with the loose robe falling back from her slim white arm, offered me a huge scarlet blossom. The love offering. As I hesitated, her laughter rippled out. She tore the mask from her face. Her red mouth was smiling; her eyes, provocative, were dancing with mischief. She tossed the flower into my face as her escort, with a shout of mock anger, pulled her back to him.

Their boats glided on.

Other boats passed; some with girls gayly strumming instruments of music. One boat with a man strumming, and a girl on a small dais, dancing with a whirl of black veils. As they came opposite to us another man in the boat reached up and pushed the girl overboard. She fell into the water with a scream of laughter; came up like a mermaid and they pulled her aboard, the veils and her hair clinging to her.

At last Tarrano signified that we must go. It was upon me then to make an effort to draw back, to keep Elza and Maida at the palace with Georg and me. My heart was heavy with foreboding. Amid all this laughter and music—pleasure of the senses reigning supreme here in the Great City tonight—I could not miss a sense of impending evil. The slaans propelling the boats were stolid and grim. Not for them, this dalliance. Not for their women, this music and laughter, these daring costumes to display their beauty. The slaan women, drab with work, were slinking about unnoticed. Often I would see a boat of them slip by, furtively, in the shadows. Drab women, watching these beauties, resentful, sullen—and with what purpose smouldering in their hearts I could only guess.

The very air—to me at least—seemed pregnant with impending evil. I know that Georg felt it too. Often I had caught his eye as he regarded me. Once he started to whisper to me aside, but like a flash, Tarrano with his microphonic ear, turned to interrupt us.

I wanted to stay with Elza at the palace. Suddenly I was afraid of Tarrano, more afraid for Elza than I had ever been. And who, and what was this Red Woman? Maida knew, of course. Maida had been very solemn for hours; thoughtful, almost grim.

And the slaan in the water who said he did not blame us. He had warned us to guard ourselves. But how? There were no weapons. On this night of pleasure nothing would have been more incongruous.

And that metal cap in the water with a man's face behind it? An Earth man of my own race! What did it mean?

I was perturbed—frightened. But I did not demur when Tarrano led us to his flower-bedecked barge. Of what use?

We were paired. Georg with Maida; Elza with Tarrano. And I? Tarrano told me curtly—and with a smile of ironic amusement—that when we reached the festival so handsome a man as I would have no trouble engaging the attention of some Venus maiden.

On cushions in the barge we reclined while our slaans poled us along the streets. Tarrano was feeding sweets to Elza as though they were gay young lovers. Poor little Elza! She was frightened. Her face was a trifle pale, her lips set. But she, too, knew that we were wholly in Tarrano's power, and she made the best of the situation. Sometimes she would laugh gayly; but I could not miss the note of fear in it.

The progress of our barge was slow. Boats clustered around us, their occupants pelting us with flowers. A deluge spray of perfume was turned on us—a heavy, exotic scent, almost cloying. It lay redolent on our garments for hours.

Presently Tarrano gave us masks. And long robes for Maida and Elza to cover the gay holiday dresses they were wearing.

At the edge of the city a canal had been dug through the hillside. We passed slowly through it, under archways of dangling colored lights, around a sharp bend and came upon the Water Festival. And—with impending tragedy for the moment forgotten—I gazed for this first time at such a scene of pleasure and beauty as I had never even imagined.



CHAPTER XXI

Love, Music—and a Warning

The Water Festival! As our barge rounded a bend in the canal, under the archways of dangling colored lights, the festival spread before us. Involuntarily I stood up to gaze. The canal opened into an artificial lake—a broad circular sheet of water some 800 helans[17] in diameter. Sloping hillsides enclosed the lake—hillsides which I saw were terraced with huge banks of seats in tiers one above the other.

[Footnote 17: About 4,000 feet.]

The seats were crowded with people. White ribbons of roads gave access from the neighboring countryside for land-surface vehicles, and there were stages for the accommodation of air-craft. The rural populace, and people from the nearby smaller cities, had gathered to view this national spectacle—a million or more of them probably, with their individual electrical telescopes for direct distant vision, and small pocket mirrors for that which otherwise would be hidden. A million people at least, seated here on these gigantic spreading tiers.

The lake itself was thus the stage as it were, of a tremendous arena. Tiny artificial islands dotted the lake—a hundred of them. Islands, some no more than a few feet broad; some larger, and in the center of the lake, one quite large. All the islands were covered with luxuriant vegetation. The tiny ones were no more than shadowed nooks of leaves and flowers.

Between the islands, crooked lanes of the placid water wended their way in and out, broadening into occasional lagoons. Bridges crossed the lanes; archways of lights spanned them at intervals.

From this distance the whole scene was a riot of color and great red and purple auroral lights of Venus, which at this midnight hour rode the upper sky, tinged everything vividly. The archway lights were soft rose, silver and gold. Some of the tiny islands, from sources hidden were bathed in bright silver. Others darker, in deep purple and red; still others, quite unlighted, dim and shadowed, touched only by the reflected glow from those near them.

From the main island lights were flashing into the sky; occasional color bombs mounted and burst, painting the heavens.

A riot of color. And then as we approached, I became aware of sound and movement as well. Music from scores of unseen sources. Music from single isolated instruments floating softly over the water—lovers playing accompaniment to their pleading voices; or again, groups of voices—the curiously mellow voices of young girls—and, on an island apart, music from an aerial carrying strains from the public concelan.[18]

[Footnote 18: Orchestra.]

It was all music of a type unfamiliar to me of Earth. The intellectuality of our Earth music was missing. This music of Venus was built upon queer minor strains; unfinished cadences; a rhythm of the sort we of Earth could never encompass. I listened, and felt the appeal of my senses. The lavish, abandoned music of barbarism? I had almost thought it that. Yet it was not. Rather was it decadent. This whole scene; the color, the music, the heavy cloying scents with which the night air was redolent; the warm, sensuous abandonment, felt rather than made obvious—it was not barbarism, but decadence. And I realized then how close are the two extremes. A reversion to type, merely. And I knew, then, that from the pinnacle of civilization which we of Earth had reached, naught lay before us but this.

Music everywhere throughout the festival. And movement. As we floated out of the canal, passing slowly along one of the broader waterways, boats and barges slipped past us. Barges crowded with revelers. And the small boats, generally with but a man and a girl—fugitive couples with the holiday spirit upon them, seeking the shadowed nooks of islands for their love-making.

In one lagoon we came upon such a boat. The man in it—a gay youth in red and black motley, with the mask fallen from his laughing, perspiring face—was in its stern, manipulating it with a long, thin paddle. The girl was lying face down on cushions in its prow. She was facing forward, with her long white hair tumbling about her. Around the boat were clustered a number of other boats. Each was small, with only a man in it. A ring of boats, besieging the girl. Our barge paused to watch. A boat would dash forward, its occupant standing up to thrust it on. But the girl, swung to meet it by the efforts of her escort, would turn her cylinder of alcholite[19] upon the attacker. Befuddled, her adversary would retreat; or another, momentarily drunk, would fall into the water to be sobered.

[Footnote 19: A scent or perfume, highly intoxicating.]

All with gay shouts of laughter; until at last the couple were victorious and scurried away to their island.

We passed on. There were mimic battles often on the islands. A hidden couple found out and dragged back. A lone man attacked and pelted with flowers by a band of marauding girls. A diving platform at one end of an oval lagoon. Girls mounting it to dive into the red-shimmering water, where waiting youths were swimming, and by their prowess in downing other contenders would seize upon the girls and carry them off to where a barge was loading its passengers for the main island.

To this main island we came at last. It was heavily wooded, and indented with shallow, placid waterways. In one of them we landed; and amid a sudden quiet and awe at the presence of Tarrano, we went ashore. Georg walking with Maida; Tarrano forcing Elza to hold his arm; and I, beside Elza until Tarrano sternly bade me walk behind.

We were masked, but the revelers knew us. Amid the throng with which the island was packed, we moved slowly forward toward a gay pavilion which was in the center of the grove. Music came from it—a broad, roofed-over pavilion with a dancing floor in the depression of its center space, and tiers of balconies above it.

Within the pavilion, where the air was heavy with the smell of wine, arrant-smoke, intoxicating whiffs of surreptitiously used alcholite-cylinders and sensuous perfumes upon the garments of the women—in here, the throng pressed around us; the dancers stopped to gaze; the music momentarily hushed; the spectators on the balconies—girls reclining on cushions with young gallants seated beside them with trays of food and drink—all turned to crane down at us.

"Honor to the Master Tarrano!"

A girl shouted it. A murmur of applause swept about us.

Abruptly Tarrano removed his mask. His face, which had been concealed, showed with the flush of pleasure and his lips were parted with a smile of gratification and triumph. But, as the red silk mask was doffed, another took its place—the mask of imperturbability—that grave, inscrutable look with which he always masked his real emotions.

"Honor to the Master Tarrano!"

Tarrano raised his hand; his quiet, calm voice carried throughout the silent room.

"There is no Master here tonight. No Master—only the Mistress of Love. Let us honor her. Let her rule us all—tonight."

For just an instant his gaze seemed to linger upon Elza; then he gravely replaced his red mask. Applause swept the room; the music started again. The lights overhead began whirling their kaleidoscope of colors down upon the dancers.

We took our places in a canopied enclosure upon the first balcony, some twenty feet above the dance floor. Tarrano refused the cushions; he placed Elza deferentially upon them, and spread food and drink and sweet-meats before her. Near them sat Georg and Maida. I would have sat between Elza and Georg, but Tarrano pulled me away from them.

"You are wanted below." He said it very softly, for my ears alone; but through his mask I could see his eyes blazing at me.

"They are diving into the pool outside—cannot you hear them, Jac Hallen?" Impatience came to his voice; in truth, I must have been staring at him witless. "Maidens out there, Jac Hallen, who are seeking handsome youths like yourself for escort. Must I speak plainly? You are not wanted here. Go!"

"I——"

"Another word will be your last." His voice was still almost emotionless, but I did not miss the gesture of his hand to his belt. "You had best obey, Jac Hallen."

I was hardly so witless as not to realize the truth of his admonition. I turned away; and with all the laughter and movement around us, I think that Georg, Maida and Elza did not see me go.

For the space of an hour or more, I stood alone on the lower floor of the pavilion, watching the balcony where Tarrano and the others sat. Stood there alone, feeling helpless and with my heart heavy with foreboding. Beneath my grey robe I was dressed in holiday fashion of the Great City—beribboned and gartered, with feathers at my scarlet shoulders for all the world like a male nada.[20] My red mask I kept on, and folded my cloak around me.

[Footnote 20: A popinjay—fop.]

The dance floor was crowded. I saw now that it was cut into small circles marked with black—circles in diameter about the length of a man. At intervals—perhaps five minutes apart—a signal in the music caused each of the dancing couples to select a circle and to dance wholly within it. And then one of the circles, by mechanical device, was raised into the air above all the others. The couple on it, thus prominent, danced at their best, to be judged by Tarrano for a prize.

For an hour I stood there. I could see Elza plainly. She had removed her mask. Her face was flushed, her lips laughing. Once, in a chance silence, her shout of applause rang out. The quality of abandonment in it turned me cold. Did I see Tarrano's hand move back to his belt? Was he intoxicating her? Then I saw Maida make a gesture—wave something from beneath her cloak at Elza. A scent to sober her? It seemed so, for Elza looked confused; and I saw Maida flash her a look of warning.

Abruptly, from an alcove near me, a group of girls rushed out. Their cloaks and white veils fell from them as they came my way—laughing as they ran for the doorway leading outside to the pool. I was in their way and they bumped into me; one of them gripped me. I tried to jerk loose, but she clung. A slim girl, enveloped in her long, white tresses. Her eyes laughed at me; her red mouth went up alluringly to my face.

"I love you—you, Jac Hallen." Her arms wound about my neck as she clung. I was trying to cast her off when her fingers lifted a corner of my mask.

"I was afraid you were not Jac Hallen." Her whisper was relieved, and it had suddenly turned swift and vehement. "I am sister to Maida—my name, Alda. I am to warn you. When Tarrano dances with the Red Woman—when they go up on the raised circle—you drop to the floor! You understand? Keep down, or the rays might strike you! But be here, inside, and watch. And afterward, go quickly to join the Princess and your Elza. You understand?"

She clung to me, with her slim, white body pressed against my cloak. To anyone watching us, she would have seemed merely making love. Her eyes were provocative; her lips mocking me. But she was whispering, "Drop to the floor when Tarrano dances with the Red Woman—drop or the rays might strike you!"

Another girl was plucking at me from behind. Alda shouted: "You shall not have him!" and cast me off. But I heard her whisper, "Come outside for a moment—then come back!"—and then, aloud, she cried to the other girl, "You shall not have him! He is coming to watch me dive and swim! I am more beautiful than you—you could not win him from me!"

I let them drag me out into the grove by the scented pool.



CHAPTER XXII

Revolution!

I realize that I am, by nature, not overly observant; and in those moments, when I stood out there beside the pool, I think I came most forcibly to appreciate how little I habitually observe that which is not readily apparent. An incident now occurred to bring it home to me; and, quite suddenly, a score of things which I had seen during the past two hours at the festival were made plain.

Music, feasting, merry-making, love! In the midst of it all, an undercurrent of events was flowing. Unseen events—but I had partly seen some of them, and now, at last, I began to understand.

In the main hall of the pavilion, midway to its roof, a line of mirrors was placed along the wall facing Tarrano. A hundred small mirrors, side by side. On them were moving images of what was taking place in different parts of the festival—so that Tarrano and the others might see the merry-making, not only in the pavilion, but elsewhere, as well. It was interesting to watch the mirrors—and sometimes amusing. The scene of a gay battle of boats in a nearby lagoon; the diving girls in the pools; a view from the sky above of the whole scene; another, looking upward at the color bombs bursting overhead; a bridge on which a dozen girls were besieged by as many men, who sought to climb upward from their boats underneath, flowers for missiles, and the alcholite fumes which held off the attackers, or, perchance, caused a girl to fall into the water, to be instantly captured.

Other mirrors, eavesdropping upon the secluded islands, making public, for the amusement of the spectators in the pavilion, the furtive love-making of couples who fancied themselves alone.

All this I had seen. And now I remembered that, occasionally, a mirror had gone dark, and then turned suddenly to a scene somewhere else. I understood now. Quiet incidents against Tarrano were in progress. The mirrors were being tampered with, that none of these events should be shown.

There were, scattered throughout the festival, fully a hundred men of Tarrano's guard. Some of them I knew by their uniforms; others were concealed by red masks and robes like myself. When first we entered the pavilion, some twenty or thirty of them had been there with us. But many of them did not stay; and now I remembered that, one by one, I had seen them slip away, lured by the slim, white shapes of girls who came from the pool to beguile them.

I realized now that these girls of the scented pool were very possibly all working for Maida. Most daring of all at the festival, these fifty girls who now disported themselves in the water at my feet. All beautiful, none beyond the first flush of earliest maturity. Slight, grey-white nymphs, laughing as they discarded their hampering veils, tossing their white hair as they plunged into the shimmering pool. Seemingly the most seductive, most abandoned of everyone.

Yet, as I stood there, I saw three of them climb from the water and, with gay shouts, rush into the pavilion. Back in a moment; and with them a flushed man—one of Tarrano's guards—flushed and flattered at their attention. His hat was gone, his robe disheveled, as the girls fought for him. They stopped quite close to me; and I saw that one of them was Alda.

"You shall not have him!" she shouted to her companions. "He is mine! He loves me—none of you!"

From her thick hair I saw her draw a tiny cylinder, wave it in the man's face. And, with another laugh, she flung her arms around his neck and fell with him into the water. I watched the splash and the ripples where they went down. In a moment, the girl came up—but the man did not. In all the confusion of the crowded pool, it was not very obvious.

A dozen, perhaps, of such incidents, which now, that I was alert to understand, were apparent. The mirrors might have shown some of them—but the mirrors always went dark just in time.

Tarrano's guards were disappearing. And now I saw a slaan skulking in the shadows of the shrubbery nearby. And I noticed, too, that this pool at my feet had a stream flowing outward from it—a waterway connecting it with the main lake. And I remembered the Earth man in sub-sea garb whom I had seen. Were there many Earth men down here in the water?

"When Tarrano dances with the Red Woman, you drop to the floor."

I remembered Alda's words and her admonition, "Be inside the pavilion." And presently I caught her glance as she was poised for a dive—and it seemed directing me to leave.

Wrapped in my drab cloak, I went back inside. The merry-making had increased; the place was more crowded than ever. I had been there but a moment when a gong sounded. The music stopped. In the hush Tarrano, on the balcony, rose to his feet.

"The tri-night hour[21] is here." He removed his mask; his face was grave, but a slight smile curved his thin lips. "Let us see ourselves now as we really are."

[Footnote 21: Half-way between midnight and dawn.]

He slipped his robe from his shoulders and stood in his festive costume. For so slight a man, I was surprised at the strength of him. Bands of gold-metal encircled his naked torso; a broad girdle of purple cloth hung from his waist. His bare limbs were lean and straight; sandals of red were on his feet. And a band about his forehead with a single feather in it.

Yet, for it all, he was no male nada, but every inch a man. Gravely smiling, as, with a gesture, he bade them all discard their masks and robes. From overhead the colored lights turned white. And in the glare, the robes and masks were dropped. Costumes grotesque, some of them; others symbolic; others merely beautiful. Vivid colors. Dancers daringly garbed, with whom the girls from the pool now mingled.

A moment of breathless silence; then ripples of applause from the spectators. And then the music and the dancing went on.

Barbaric costumes? Some frankly imitated the bygone ages of Venus, Mars and Earth. But the spirit that prompted them was decadence—nothing more.

Presently, as I stood unmasked in my effeminate garb, holding myself aloof from the girls who would have carried me off to the dancing floor, I saw the roof of the pavilion roll back. The open sky spread above us. And from it came down an effulgence of silver light, from a source high overhead. It bathed us all in its soft radiance; and, simultaneously, the lights in the pavilion went out. A single golden shaft rested on Tarrano. Elza, Georg and Maida were still there. In the golden light I could see them quite plainly—could see that Elza was flushed with suppressed excitement. Not the alcholite fumes now. Georg, too, seemed very alert. And Maida. There was, indeed, a tenseness about them all—an air of vague expectancy which made my heart beat faster as I realized it.

Was Tarrano totally unaware of what was about to happen? Was he unaware of this hidden, lurking menace to him, which now, to me, was so obvious? I could not believe that; yet, he was imperturbable, solemn as ever.

A shaft of golden light upon Tarrano. The darkened chamber. The silver radiance coming down upon us in a shaft from the sky. A hush lay upon the room. The music had ceased; now it began again, very soft, ethereal. Everyone in the room was gazing upward. From high overhead in the silver shaft a shape appeared, slowly floating downward. A woman's figure. It came down, supported by what mechanical or scientific device I never knew. It seemed floating unsupported.

Within the pavilion, suspended in mid-air, I saw that it was a woman in filmy red veils. Poised on tip-toe in the air. Arms outstretched, with the red veils hanging from them like wings. A woman fully matured. White hair piled in coils on her head, with a huge, scarlet blossom in it. A face, somewhat heavy of feature, powdered white; with glowing eyes, dark lidded; and a scarlet mouth. A face, an expression in the smouldering eyes, the full lips half parted—a face and an expression that seemed the very incarnation of all that is sensuous in humans. The Red Woman! The living symbol of all that lay beneath this festive merry-making.

The Red Woman! For a moment she hovered there before us. A shaft of red light now came down from above. It caught her, bathed her in its lurid glow. On her face came a look of triumph, and a leer almost insolent, as slowly she began fluttering through the air toward Tarrano. He rose to meet her. Whispered something aside to Elza.

Close before him, the Red Woman hovered. And now a circle-dais from the floor came up to her. She rested upon it; began a slow, sinuous dance; one by one loosening the veils; the red light deepening until it painted her body red in lieu of the draperies.

No frivolous mockery here. Intense, smouldering eyes as she held her gaze on Tarrano's face and slowly raised her arms in invitation to him. At her gesture, he rose to his feet. Yet I knew he was not under her spell, for his lips were smiling, bantering.

But he rose obediently, and stepped from the balcony to the upraised dais. Around his neck the Red Woman wound her arms—white arms stained red by the lurid light.

A flash! I did not see from whence it came; but within me some subconscious impulse made me drop to the floor. The light from overhead was out. Momentary darkness. A woman's scream of terror. Then others. The sound of running feet; bodies falling. Panic in the crowd. Confusion everywhere.

Then light from somewhere came on. People were tramping me. I fought them off, climbed to my feet. On the dais the Red Woman lay dead. Huddled in a heap, with a brand of black searing her forehead. Slaans were leaping about the room—huge, half-naked men—brandishing primitive knives. Flashing steel, buried in the backs of the fleeing merry-makers. Other figures—Earth men they seemed—gripping the slaans, staying their murderous fury.

Tarrano? I did not see him at first. The air above the floor of the pavilion was full of snapping sparks—a battle of some unknown rays. The mirrors were shattered: glass from them was falling about me. Then, in the semi-gloom on the balcony, Tarrano's figure materialized. Invisible before, the hostile rays upon it now made it apparent. But Tarrano seemed proof against the rays. I could see he was unharmed; and as he stood there, no doubt using a curved, duplicating beam, the like of which I have seen used in warfare, the image of him seemed to shift. Then it doubled—two images, one here, one further down the balcony. Then still others—appearing and disappearing, always in different places, until no one could have said where the man himself really was. A dozen Tarranos, each enveloped in hostile sparks, each with his face grinning at us in mockery.

Abruptly, I heard Georg's voice shout above the din: "Elza! Elza is gone!"

The images of Tarrano faded. He, too, was gone.

And then I saw Maida on the balcony, standing with upraised arms. Her voice rang out.

"Down with Tarrano! Death to Tarrano!" And then her pleading command:

"Slaans, no more bloodshed! Be loyal, slaans, to your Princess Maida!"

And Georg calling: "Loyalty, everyone, to your Princess Maida. Loyalty! Loyalty!"



CHAPTER XXIII

First Retreat

I must recount now what Elza later told me, going back to those moments when Elza sat upon the balcony watching Tarrano and the Red Woman. The significance of what had been transpiring at the Water Festival was not clear to Elza; she did not know what was impending, but as she sat there with Tarrano beside her, a sense of danger oppressed her. Danger which lay like a weight upon her heart. Yet several times she found herself laughing—hilarious; and from Maida's warning glance, and the steadying odor which Maida wafted to her, she knew that Tarrano was using the alcholite fumes to intoxicate her.

The Red Woman and Tarrano were upon the dais. There came a flash; then darkness. Elza went cold with terror. She sat stiff and silent, while around her surged that turmoil of confusion. The smell of chemicals was in the air; her skin prickled as with a million tiny needles where sparks now began to snap against it.

How long she crouched there, or what was happening, Elza did not know. But presently she heard Tarrano's voice in her ear.

"Come, Lady Elza, I must get you out of this." In the darkness his face glowed wraith-like. Then she felt his hand upon her arm.

"Come, we must leave here. I would not have you endangered."

With a haste and roughness that belied the calm solicitude of his words, he pulled her to her feet. There was light in the pavilion now. Elza saw dimly the turmoil of struggling figures; and then she saw the scene duplicated—saw it shift and sway in crazy fashion. Though she did not know it, she was looking out along the curved rays which Tarrano was sending from them. Sparks were snapping everywhere. A second image of Tarrano appeared to the left of her—she saw it in a mirror nearby—yet he was at her right, gripping her arm.

"Hurry, Lady Elza."

She found herself being dragged along the balcony; stumbling over a body lying there; feeling a surge of heat and electric disturbance beat against her face. Then Tarrano had her in his arms, carrying her. She heard him curse as a sudden wave of fire seemed to strike them—hostile rays bringing a numbness to muscles and brain. Tarrano was fumbling at his belt; and through a shower of sparks he stumbled onward with his burden.

Elza's senses were fading. Vaguely she was conscious that Tarrano was carrying her down an incline to the ground. Grateful, cool air. Stars overhead. Trees; foliage; shimmering water. The screams and confusion of the pavilion growing fainter....

When Elza regained consciousness, she was lying in the bottom of a little boat, Tarrano beside her.

"So? You have awakened? We are quite safe, Lady Elza."

She and Tarrano were alone in the boat. It was long and very narrow, with its sides no more than a foot above the water. Tarrano sat at its chemical mechanism. A boat familiar to us of Earth. A small chemical-electric generator. The explosion of water in a little tank, with the resultant gases ejected through a small pipe projecting under the surface at its stern. The boat swept forward smoothly, rapidly and almost silently, with a stream of the gas bubbles coming to the surface in its wake.

"Quite safe, Lady Elza."

She saw that Tarrano's face was blackened with grime. His garments were burned, and hers were also. He was disheveled, but his manner was as imperturbable as ever. He made her comfortable on the cushions in the boat; drew a robe closer around her against the rush of the night air.

Elza was unhurt. She saw now, with clarifying senses, that they were plying along a narrow river. Banks of foliage on each side; the auroral lights in the sky; occasionally on the hillsides along the river, the dim outlines of a house.

It was all a trifle unreal—like looking through a sunglass that was darkened—for around the boat hung always a vague pall of gloom. Tarrano spoke of it.

"Our isolation barrage. It is very weak, but the best I can contrive. From these hills the naked eye, now at night could hardly penetrate it.... A precaution, for they will be searching for us perhaps.... Ah!..."

A white search-ray sprang from a house at the top of a hill nearby. It leaped across the dark countryside, swept the water—which at that point had broadened into a lagoon—and landed upon the boat. It was a light strong enough to penetrate the barrage—the boat was disclosed to observers in the house. But Tarrano raised a small metal projector. A dull-red beam sprang from it and mingled with the other. A surge of sparks; then Tarrano's red beam conquered. It absorbed the white light. And Tarrano's beam was curved. It lay over the lake in a huge bow, bending far out to one side. Yet its other end fell upon the hostile house. The white search-ray from the house was submerged, bent outward with Tarrano's beam. From the house, the observer could only gaze along this curved light. He saw the image of the boat—not where the boat really was—but as though the ray were straight.

Elza, staring with her heart in her throat, saw a ball of yellow fire mount from the house. It swung into the air in a slow, lazy parabola, came down and dropped into the lake. But it fell where the marksman saw the boat, a safe distance to one side. A ball of fire dropping into the water, exploding the water all around it for a distance of a dozen feet. Like a cascade, the water mounted.

Tarrano chuckled. "A very bad marksman."

Other bombs came. It turns me cold when I think how orders like this could have come from the Great City—these bombs which had they found their mark would have killed Tarrano, but at the expense of the life of Elza. They did not find their mark. Tarrano continually changed the curve of his beam. The image of the boat shifted. A few moments only; and riding the waves of the bomb-tossed water, they rounded a bend, back into the narrow river and were beyond range.

Tarrano snapped off his ray. "Quite safe, Lady Elza. Do not be alarmed. I doubt if they will locate us again. They should be very busy now in the Great City. I'm surprised they could even think to notify this Station we have just passed."

We were indeed very busy in the Great City during those hours, as you shall presently hear.

Tarrano and Elza were not again disturbed. How far they went in the boat she does not know, but at last they landed in a sheltered cove. An air vehicle was there. Tarrano transferred Elza to it, and in a moment more they were aloft.

The vehicle was little more than an oblong platform, with a low railing. A platform of a substance resembling glascite-transparent; and with a glascite shield V-shaped in front to break the rush of wind and yet give vision. A mechanism, not of radio-power, but of gravity like the space-flyers. Such platforms had been, but were no longer in use on Earth. Elza had never seen one. It was a new experience for her, this flying with nothing above one, nothing to the side, or underneath save that transparent substance. To her it was like floating, and at times falling headlong through the air.

They rose no more than a thousand feet at first, and then swept parallel with the ground. At a tremendous speed; even at this height the forests seemed moving backward as the ground moves beneath a surface vehicle.

Dark, somber forests of luxuriant tropical vegetation. It was now nearing dawn; the auroral lights were dropping low in the sky; the great Venus Cross of Dawn was rising, its first two stars already above the line of hills to one side.

Then the sky out there flushed red; a limb of the glorious Sun of Venus came up. A new day. And even though the air was warm, within Elza was ashiver.

"It is very wonderful to me, my Elza, this being alone with you."

He sat beside her, gazing at her with his calm, impenetrable eyes. It was near noon of that day following their escape from the Water Festival. They had flown possibly two thousand miles. The Sun had risen, but after a time—since their enormous speed and change of latitude had affected the angle at which they viewed it—the Sun now was hanging almost level, not far above the horizon.

Beneath the platform—a mile below now—lay a tumbled waste of naked crags. The borders of the Cold Country! Tarrano's stronghold! The birthplace of his dreams of universal conquest.

Elza was staring downward. A barren waste. Rocks bare of verdure. Grey, with red ore staining them. A desolation of empty rock, with grey flat shadows. And far ahead, the broken, serrated ranks of mountains with rocky peaks, white-hooded with the snow upon their summits. The Cold Country. Bleak; forbidding.

This brittle air was cold; yet Elza and Tarrano were warm. Before the platform, a ray darted—a low-powered ray of a type that was to be so great a factor in the warfare into which we were all so soon to be plunged. It heated the air, so that the platform rushed always through a wind that was balmy.

"What did you say?" Elza looked up to meet Tarrano's steady gaze.

"I said it is wonderful to be thus alone with you, my Elza."

"Oh." She looked away.

He persisted; but his voice was gentle and earnest. "Soon we will be at my home, Lady Elza. And now—there are some things I would like to say while I have the opportunity.... You will listen?"

"Yes," she said; and tried to keep from him the trembling within her. "I'll listen, of course."

He nodded. "Thank you.... My Elza, you have heard me talk of conquering the world. My dream—my destiny. It will come to pass, of course. Yet—" A smile pulled at his lips. "Do you know, my Elza, what you and I are doing now?"

She stared, and he did not wait for her to answer.

"We're making my first retreat. I wonder if you can realize how I feel, having to admit that? Tarrano in retreat!... Our escape from Venia? Pouf! That was a jest. I was there on Earth merely to get you, and the Brende model. I had no thought of conquering the Earth just then. I accomplished my two purposes—and left.... It was not a retreat, merely a planned departure.

"But this, my Elza, is very different. I did not wish to do what I am doing now. I had planned—I had thought, had actually hoped, that I might maintain myself in the Great City. You see, I tell you this, little girl, because—well I am a lonely man. I walk alone—and because I am human—it does me good to have someone to talk to. I had hoped I might maintain myself in the Great City. Last night—at the start of the Water Festival—I began to realize it was impossible. I should have enlisted the Rhaals—the men of science, Elza. But I had no time, and they are very aloof. I could have won them to me had I tried." He shrugged. "I must confess I was over-confident of my strength—the strength of my position. The Rhaals stayed out of the affair—stayed in their own city, which has always been their policy. That was what I expected, but now I see I should have had their aid. I did—well what I did to guard against the unhappy outcome you witnessed—what I did was wrongly planned. You see, I take all the blame. I alone am responsible for my destiny. There are some who in defeat cry bitterly, 'Luck! That cursed luck was against me!' Not so! Leadership is not a matter of luck. Destiny is what you make it. You see?

"And so now I am making my first retreat. A set-back, nothing more. I shall launch my forces from the City of Ice, instead of marshalling them from the Central State as I had planned. And Mars is still mine. I still control Mars, little Elza.... A set-back just now—and it bothers me. It hurts my pride—and as you know, my Elza, Tarrano is very proud."

She had been listening to him, her fingers plucking idly at her robe. He bent closer to her; his voice turned tender. "I was thinking that perhaps—just perhaps you would scorn Tarrano in his triumphs, you might feel differently toward him now—in his first retreat. Do you?"

She forced her eyes up to his again. "I'm—sorry—from your viewpoint, I mean—that things are going wrong."

He smiled gently. "You are very conservative, Lady Elza. You want very much to avoid hypocrisy, don't you?"

"Yes," she said frankly. "You could hardly expect me to be sorry at your defeat."

"Defeat?" He rasped out the word, and his laugh was harsh. "You are too optimistic. Defeat? Things going wrong? That is not so. A slight set-back. A strategic retreat—and in a week I will have regained more than I have lost.... Oh, Lady Elza! I who would now—and always—be so gentle with you—why we are almost quarreling! That is not right. For the lives of a thousand of my servants, I would not have used that tone to you just now. Forgive me....

"I was saying, my Elza—could not you feel more kindly to me now. A little hope from those gentle eyes of yours—a little word from those red lips—a word of hope for what some day might be for us—you and me—"

She dared to try and turn the subject. "You mentioned the Brende model—where is it? Have you it in the Cold Country?"

He frowned. "Yes. And I will use it—for you and me alone. You've always known that, haven't you? Just for you and me, my Elza." He took her hand. "Won't you try and love me—just a trifle?"

She did not move. "I—don't know." Then she faced him squarely. "I do not love you, Tarrano." Something in his eyes—a quality of pleading; a wistful smile upon his lips—suddenly struck her as pathetic. Strange and queerly pathetic that such a man as he should be reduced to wistfulness. Emotion swept her. Not love. A feeling of sympathy; a womanly desire to lighten his sorrow; to sympathize and yet to withhold from him the happiness he sought.

"I do not love you, Tarrano. But I do respect you. And I am sorry—"

"Respect! I have told you I can command that from everyone. But love—your love—"

"I would give it if I could, Tarrano."

"You mean—you're trying to love me—and cannot?"

"I mean—Oh, I don't know what I mean, save that I do not love you yet."

He smiled. "I think you speak the truth when you say you do not know what you mean. Your love! If I had it, I should know that I would have it always. But—having it not—" He was very sincere, but his smile broadened. "Having it not, my Elza, there is no power in all the heavens that can tell me how to get it. It may be born in a moment from now—or never. Who can tell?"

She was silent; and after a moment, he added: "Enough of this. I would ask you just one thing. You are not afraid of me, are you?"

"No," she said; and at that moment she meant it.

"I would not have you ever be afraid, Lady Elza. Love is not conceived by fear. And you must know I could never force my love upon you. For if I did—I should withhold forever the birth of this love of yours which is all I seek—this love I am trying to breathe into life.... Enough!"

He did not mention the subject again. For hours—eating what meager stock of tabloid food with which their vehicle was provisioned—they flew onward. Rising now to top the line of jagged mountains. Over them the platform swept. In the crisp air the snow down there gleamed blue-white; the ice with an age-old look filled the valleys between the peaks.

The arctic! It was nothing like the Polar regions of Earth. Stark desolation. A naked land seemingly upheaved by some gigantic cataclysm of nature, lying tumbled and broken where it had fallen in convulsive agony; and then congealed forever in a grip of ice.

The Sun hung level as the vehicle advanced. In these latitudes it would swing side-wise in a slow, low arc, to dip again below the horizon and vanish. Here in the Cold Country it was morning of the Long Day. Summer!

On over the crags and glaciers Tarrano guided their frail flying platform. Houses occasionally showed now—huts of ice, congealed dwellings, blue-white in the flat sunlight.

And then at last, over the horizon came the ramparts of a city. The City of Ice! The size of it—the evidences of civilization here in this brittle land of deadly cold—made Elza gasp with wonderment.



CHAPTER XXIV

Attack on the Palace

I must take you back now to the Water Festival and the events in the Great City which followed it. Slaans in murderous frenzy were plunging through the throng of erstwhile revelers. Maida could not quell them. The revolt which she had started against Tarrano seemed now a self-created monster to destroy us all.

But there were Earth men among us. A hundred of them, no more. They had come from Washington that same day; had landed, I learned later, secretly near the Great City, sent with our Earth Council's plans to communicate with Maida. Beneath the water, coming individually, they had entered the festival; and helping Maida's girls (the diving girls whom I had encountered) they had made away with most of Tarrano's guards.

In those first moments of frenzy, I got to the balcony—joined Maida and Georg. Elza was gone! My heart went cold, but in those hurried, frantic moments, grave disaster as it was, I did not dwell upon it.

"We must get away—back to the palace!" Georg exclaimed as I joined them.

The Earth men on the main floor were holding the slaans partially in check. Bodies were lying in a welter—I shall not describe it. Then abruptly, upon a table a huge slaan leaped—his garments blood-stained from his victims, a blade of dripping steel in his hands. He shouted above the tumult—words not in the universal language, but in the dialect of the slaans. His command carried throughout the building. Other slaans took it up; we could hear it echoed outside as others shouted it over the waters.

The bloodshed abruptly ceased. The slaans leaped away from the Earth men, who were glad enough to let them go—rushed for the archways of the pavilion. Outside, we could hear the water splashing. Swimmers—and boats scurrying off. Then comparative silence. The scream of a slaan woman in the grove nearby, still desiring vengeance; the groans of the dying at our feet; the hiss and splutter of weapons discarded, with circuits still connected. And over it all, the great whine of a danger whistle, which some distant official had plugged.... A lull. And around us lay strewn stark tragedy where a few moments before had been festive merry-making. A crimson scene, with the body of the Red Woman lying like a symbol in its midst....

Within an hour we were back at the palace. The whole city was seething. Boats and lights were everywhere. Control of everything seemed lost. Warning signals shrilled in crazy fashion. Public mirrors were dark, or turned to places and time wholly irrelevant.

In the palace itself we soon secured a semblance of order. Maida's girls were here, with wet veils and long dank tresses clinging to their sleek bodies. Lips painted alluring red. But eyes which now were solemn and grim. Their demeanor alert and business-like. Unconscious of themselves they moved about the palace, executing Maida's orders.

A dozen or so of Maida's personal retainers were here—and most of the Earth men. Keen-eyed young men of the Washington Headquarters Staff. One of them—Tomm Aften by name, a ruddy, blue-eyed fellow—was in command. He stayed close by Georg and me.

The city was seething. But out of the chaos was coming a comparatively orderly menace. We could sense it at first; and then in a few brief minutes so swift that we had no time to prepare—the menace became obvious and was at hand.

The slaans had withdrawn from the festival for a greater, more organized effort. Their revolt against Tarrano in which Maida had joined, was bigger, more deep-rooted than a mere revolt. It was against Maida herself. Trickery of the downtrodden slaans against the ruling class. Against the old order of government. Even against the Rhaals, who in their distant city were all-powerful, but who obeyed the laws and took no part in anything.

Revolution! From down the waterways of streets which converged into the broad lagoon before the palace, boats began arriving. Boats crowded with slaans. Disheveled, unkempt men and women with primitive weapons of steel and wire brandished aloft. They surged into the lagoon. A murderous, frenzied mob—thoughtless of itself, suicidal to attack us, yet daring everything in its frenzy.

Soon the lagoon was crowded—a chaos of pushing, shoving boats. Then the boats began landing, disgorging their occupants, wild-eyed slaans each a potential murderer. The gardens of the palace were presently jammed with them. They did not at first come within our threshholds; they stood milling about under the palms, trampling the tropic flowers, screaming threats and epithets at us. But waiting—as a mob always does—for some leader to advance, that they might follow him upon us.

We stood on the palace roof-top. I must confess that we were in a flurry for the moment. There were undoubtedly weapons at hand, but I at least did not have them, nor did I know where they were. Excusable flurry possibly for the thing had come so quickly, and most of us were strangers here of but a few hours.

The roof had a low railing waist-high, but broad. We stood clustered behind it. In the garden beneath, the mob was shouting up at us. And, before I could stop her, Maida had leaped to the top of the rail. Georg and I clutched at her, then steadied her.

"Slaans—"

But they would not hear her. Shouts went up; a roar of threats. The press of additions to the mob landing from other boats, forced the front ranks forward. They were now on the palace steps, jammed there waving their weapons yet still hesitating to advance.

"Slaans—my people—"

Maida's frail voice was lost in the uproar. Then a missle was thrown upward—a portion of a broken generator—a heavy chunk of metal. It barely missed Maida, and fell with a thump to the roof behind us. Then came others—a rain of them about us. I tried to pull Maida back, but she fought me, her voice still calling out its appeal.

With a bound, Georg was up on the rail beside her. Aften—the young Earth man—had quietly handed him a cylinder. Georg waved it at the mob.

"Slaans—" His stronger voice caught their attention. A sudden hush fell.

"Slaans—it is I, Georg Brende. Your Princess Maida rules you now only under me. A new ruler, slaans—the man of Earth—Georg Brende who must be obeyed—Georg Brende, soon to be husband of your Princess—"

But they would not hear him out. The din from them submerged his voice. His lips snapped tight as abruptly he ceased talking; his brows lowered grimly and I saw his finger press upon the cylinder.

Maida's voice screamed: "Georg! Have mercy! Do not kill them!"

She spoke barely in time. His cylinder swept upward. The rays from it caught only the upper portions of the palms and the tree tops. The foliage withered, shriveled before that soundless, invisible blast.

Not a blast of heat. The mob, surprised, then frightened, stared upward. The soft tropical foliage in a great wide swath was dead, with naked sticks of limbs. Black, then turning white. Not with heat—but cold. Ice was forming from the moisture in the humid air. And then the sudden condensation brought snow—a thick white fall of it sifting down into the palm-laden garden; falling gently, then swirling in a sudden wind which had begun.

As though itself stiffened by the cold just overhead, the mob stood transfixed. Then a murmur of horror came. And I saw through the veil of whirling snow, that into some of the trees slaans had climbed. Their bodies, frozen now, slid and fell—black plummets hurtling downward through the swirling snow-flakes.



CHAPTER XXV

Immortal Terror

To Elza, approaching with Tarrano on the tiny flying platform the City of Ice, the place seemed truly like a child's dream of Fairyland. The rude snow huts of the Arctic of our Earth were all that she had ever conceived could be built of frozen water. Here, in the outskirts of the city, she saw indeed, quite similar huts. But further in—ornate buildings several stories high. She caught a vague glimpse of them only, as the platform flew above them and descended in the center of the city.

They had passed over great outer encircling ramparts—a huge wall many helans long—built entirely of ice blocks—fortifications like that fabled wall which in the dim history of our Earth had once encircled a portion of the domain of the Yellow Race.

The platform came down before a central building—the Palace of Ice. Even in this dim daylight of the Cold Country summer, the great building gleamed and glittered resplendent. A building of many levels, storied and winged, with spider bridges and aerial arcades connecting the wings. Frescoed everywhere! ornate with carved design chipped in ice blocks hard as marble. Rolling terraces of snow and ice surrounded it—lawns of smooth white, with winding paths of ice. A many balconied building; towers, spires and minarets crowning it. All blue-white. Glittering. Seemingly fragile; from a distance, a toy—a sample of the ultra-skill of some master confectioner, as though the whole thing were a toy of sugar for children to admire. But at close range—solid; in the cold of this terrible region, as solid as though constructed of blocks of stone.

With the flying platform landed, and its warming rays cut off, attendants rushed forward. Tarrano and Elza were wrapped in furs at once—heavy furs which covered them from head to foot.

"Well! Well, Graten!" Tarrano greeted his subordinate smilingly. "Things are in condition here? You got my message?"

"Yes, Master. All is in good fashion here. We welcome you."

In his furs, with face almost hidden, Elza could not see what manner of man this was.

They entered the palace. Frescoed; carved everywhere, within as without. The main doorway led into a palatial hall, carpeted with furs. It was warm. Tarrano discarded his fur, and helped Elza out of hers.

"You like my home, Lady Elza?"

"It's—beautiful," she answered.

His smile showed amusement at the wonder and awe which stamped her expression. He added very gently:

"I had in mind when I built it, the hope that you would be pleased."

A comfortable interior warmth. Elza noticed little blurs of red light behind wire cages here and there. The warmth came from them; and a glow of pale white light from the tubes along the wall.

A woman hurried to them. Tara! Elza recognized her at once. Tara, looking very pretty in a pale blue robe, with her hair done high upon her head. The woman who loved Tarrano; he had sent her on here to be rid of her, when he went to the Great City. She came forward. Pleasure was on her face at seeing Tarrano; but her glance as she turned it momentarily toward Elza, held again that smouldering jealousy.

Tarrano was evidently in a mood of high good humor.

"You welcome me prettily, Tara." She had flung her arms about him. "Tara, my dear is——"

"Master—you come but in time. They are working the Brende instrument. Already they have——"

"They? Who?" He frowned. His words were hard and cold as the ice-blocks around him.

"Woolff. And the son of Cretar. Many of them—using it now!"

Tarrano drew Elza with him. Tara led the way. Through glowing white hallways, an arcade; down steps and an incline—to burst at last through a tunnel-like passage into a room.

"So? What is this, Cretar?"

A room littered with apparatus. A dozen men were about. Men scantily dressed in this interior heat. Short, squat men of the Cold Country; flat-nosed, heavy faces; hair long to the base of the neck. In a corner stood the Brende instrument, fully erected. A light from it seemed penetrating the bared chest of a man who was at that moment standing in its curative rays.

He whom Tarrano called Cretar, took a step forward.

"Master, we——"

"Making yourselves immortal?" The anger had left Tarrano's voice; irony was there instead.

"Master——"

"Have you done that?"

"Master—yes! Yes! We did! Forgive us, Master."

The man before the instrument had retreated from it. Elza saw now that all the men were shrinking back in terror. All save Cretar, who had fallen tremblingly to his knees. Yet Tarrano showed no anger. He laughed.

"I would not hurt you, Cretar! Get up, man! I am not angry—not even annoyed. Why, your skin is turning orange. See the mottles!"

On the flesh of all the men—save the one who had been checked in the act of using the instrument—a bright orange mottling was apparent. Cretar exclaimed:

"The immunity to all diseases, master. It is itself a disease—harmless—and it combats every other." He laughed a little wildly. "We cannot get sick now. We cannot die—we are immortal. Come, Master—let us make you so!"

Tarrano whispered: "You see, Lady Elza? The orange spots! These men of medicine here have used the Brende secret to its full. Immune from disease!"

"Let us treat you, Master. This immortality——"

On Cretar's face was a triumphant smile, but in his eyes lay a terror. The man who had not been treated stood against the wall watching with interest and curiosity. But the others! They crouched; wary; alert eyes like animals at bay.

Tarrano laughed. "Treat me! Cretar, you know not with what you have been trifling. Immortal? You are indeed. Disease cannot touch you! You cannot die—save by violence!"

He swung to Elza. "These men, Lady Elza—they are strong-muscled. In health now more perfect than any other humans. You are frail—a frail little woman. And unarmed. I bid you—strike one of them!"

She stared; but as she suddenly faced about, she caught in part his meaning. Before her Cretar shrank back, his face gone white, his teeth chattering.

"What's that behind you?" Tarrano's voice simulated sudden alarm; he scuffled his feet on the floor. The men jumped with fright; nerves unstrung, they cowered.

"What manner of men!" Tarrano's laugh was contemptuous. "Oh, Lady Elza, let this be a lesson to all of us! To cure disease is well. To prevent it—that too is good. But immortality—Dr. Brende never intended it, you know he did not, Lady Elza—the belief that we have everlasting life here on this plane—the Creator never intended that. With all danger of death gone—save violence—these immortals here fear violence so greatly that they are men no longer!