Authors: Arthur Byron Cover
“Flash? Are you all right?” asked Dale behind him.
He turned his head to speak, but he did not look inside the capsule. “Yeah, I’m fine.” His attention had become arrested by the stark, imposing landscape, by more information to absorb. A range of pinkish white crystals stood before tall black peaks. A plateau glowed strangely. Brown and black mountains created a jagged, unnerving horizon, above and beyond which swirled the whirlpool Flash only dimly comprehended. Something about the nearness and perspective of the horizon caused him to suspect the world was not very large, that it was not completely circular. However, he was not even able to absorb the implications of his tentative deductions, for he noticed in the distance a glittering red and gold city of a rococo style, proudly silhouetted against a deep crimson sky flecked with white and purples beyond which moved the vague hints of an incredible array of turbulent matter. He could barely make out the series of towers, each capped with a different design, some with sharp points, others with bulbs, and still others with what appeared to be functioning apparatus. The city could have only been conceived in a veritable lust of tackiness, but Flash realized instantly that its very ornateness testified to the power and resources of the beings who lived on this desolate world surrounded by all the forces the universe could muster.
Speaking of beings . . .
He spied the leader of the advancing extraterrestrials—an incredibly humanoid creature whose body was totally concealed by a red robe, red gloves, and a red hood of a hard material that covered not only the head, but the shoulders as well. Flash could not see through the plasticlike substance covering the eye slits. Bordered, cut in half, and highlighted by black strips, the hood swelled above the oral and nasal regions, abruptly cut to allow for a level, shaded piece that was a combination of a grill and the plasticlike substance. Two black leather straps linked to a belt crossed on the chest and disappeared beneath the hood. The device the leader carried was not quite a gun, but the resemblance gave Flash pause.
He felt slightly irritated when Zarkov and Dale emerged from the capsule. Though it ultimately would make no difference, he wished they had remained inside. Zarkov shrugged helplessly, indicating he was unable to restrain Dale. Flash became obsessed by the need to protect her, though he suspected she could take care of herself. She had already overcome certain basic fears.
Taking a deep breath, Flash walked toward the leader. He held his hands palms outward to show he was defenseless. “Hello. Can you understand what I’m saying?”
The leader did not move, save to gesture that an advancing soldier was to halt.
“Put out your right hand,” said Zarkov. “With luck, that will be a universal gesture of friendship!”
Grinning (presumably to reveal he did not have fangs), Flash extended his right hand. “We’re from Earth. Friends.”
The leader pressed a button on his device.
The space travelers immediately sensed powerful, sinister forces materializing in the atmosphere, as if the leader had cast a sorcerous spell. A white burst of smoke suddenly appeared in the air before the leader, and a disembodied hand moved from the already dissipating smoke and grasped Flash’s wrist.
I’ve seen this movie,
thought Flash.
Where are the Blue Meanies?
“Don’t you understand me?” he said hoarsely, attempting to pry apart the fingers. “I said
friends!”
The leader pressed the button a second time; a blue ray stabbed out toward the hand, then disappeared almost instantly. The hand flipped Flash forward. As he landed hard on his back, the hand encircled its fingers about his throat.
Dale and Zarkov slowly raised their hands, hoping this was a universal gesture of surrender.
The leader said, “You are prisoners of Ming.” He sounded like a computer with a tainted soul.
Flash looked toward Zarkov. “Thanks,” he said groggily. “You called a real great play.”
Again, Zarkov shrugged helplessly.
The space travelers received no indication from their captors as to the nature of their eventual treatment. Though they were not initially allowed to talk, Zarkov blurted out that it was possible the extraterrestrials were merely suspicious types. Listening to the leader’s cold tones ordering Zarkov to be silent, Flash doubted it. He was angry and humiliated; not since his father’s death had his destiny been so dependent upon the will of others. The only gratification he received from the current situation was the warm sensation of Dale’s perspiring palm in his.
At first Flash feared they would be forced to walk the entire distance to the splendid city, the sole evidence of civilization now within eyesight. However, after they had walked alongside a deep crevice glimmering with white jewels like nothing Flash had ever before seen, and after they had trekked half a mile uphill through a tunnel illuminated by a yellow glowing liquid sheathed within transparent containers, each spaced several yards apart, they arrived at a pneumatic vehicle resting on silver tracks. The leader gestured for them to sit in the back. In the front sat the leader and a single soldier. The remainder of the force stood beside the tracks, their arms folded across their chests and their legs spread apart in an alien version of the parade rest position, and waited; presumably they would wait until the vehicle returned and took the rest of them to their posts.
Flash felt a tremor of anticipation as the soldier pressed several buttons on the console; the leader lowered his device and turned his back to the captives. The vehicle hummed and gradually began to move. This would be the perfect opportunity to escape! But a transparent shield dropped between the captives and the captors. Flash reluctantly relaxed. He put his arm about Dale’s shoulders. The scent of her hair, mingled with the odors of this strange new world, hypnotized him. He realized there was now no choice but to do what Zarkov was doing: drink in the exotic sights.
The vehicle took them over wonderfully desolate country. Rocks shaped like crystals, reminding Flash of the Monolith Monsters, projected from the center of an ebony plateau. Peasants of both sexes, clad only in loincloths, scraped a glittering red dust from boulders with tiny knives; they gathered the dust in bowls, as three armed soldiers stood stoically above them. A shower of meteors crashed into a mountainside, causing a slide of sorrel rocks and debris. A mile away, peasants scurried about the entrance to a mine, reacting to an emergency the nature of which Flash was unable to determine. Flash did not know what to think of all this; everything was different here and nothing could be taken for granted. Then he realized that even from a distance, the peasants appeared very human. He noticed Dale smiling with relief and Zarkov looking behind the vehicle toward the scurrying miners with fascination. And somehow they had already been made to understand the language of these people! They were prisoners of Ming, whoever he was. Flash had been so busy attempting to absorb the more outré information that he had overlooked the obvious. He could not resist a smile not unlike those he revealed in the huddle before calling a long pass on third down with a great deal of yardage. He just might be able to deal with this situation after all.
As the vehicle neared the city, it entered a transparent tube. “See those pale streaks?” asked Zarkov, pointing above the tube’s opening. Not knowing how the robed leader would greet their conversation, Flash and Dale merely nodded. “I bet you a year’s wages that’s a force field,” said the scientist. He whistled. “Protection from meteors, no doubt.”
“Or from attack,” said Flash.
“Yes indeed,” said Zarkov, pulling at his beard. “But what amazing technology! I
must
study it!”
“Cease this mindless prattle,” commanded the leader. The captives complied at once. They watched the silent citizens standing on conveyer belts that periodically halted, allowing them to disembark near their destinations. The class system of this world was immediately apparent. The peasants in loincloths were the common laborers; they carried their products, or possessions in sacks; their shoulders were slumped, their posture atrocious, their bellies frequently protruded in the manner of those subsisting on the edge of starvation. The contrast between these poor and the glittering opulent city enraged Flash, and he bit his lower lip and clenched his fist with frustration. The other citizens of this world fared much better. The men wearing filthy spacesuits mined the debris of the cosmic whirlpool. Merchants and/or businessmen, sometimes wearing insignia designating their wares, wore bulky robes with flowing sleeves, decorated with intricate gaudy patterns. Soldiers riding the conveyer belts rested their hands on their swords as if they expected disobedience at any second, from any source. Other male citizens whose occupation Flash could not deduce—perhaps they were students, scientists, or bureaucrats—wore trousers, shirts, and boots of more subdued fashions, but the colors remained outrageous.
“Flash, notice the women and children,” said Zarkov with an air of urgency. “The mothers have so many children. If they’re so fertile, why isn’t this world one huge suburb?”
“Perhaps they’re not mothers at all, but daycare teachers,” ventured Dale.
“I thought I told you three to cease this mindless prattle,” said the leader, his voice a little muffled through the shield. Flash was forced to keep his comment to himself. He had deduced, however, what Zarkov had been trying to tell him, and he realized Dale was mistaken. The women bestowed love and anger upon the packs of children as only mothers could, and each group ran a gamut of ages. The reason why this world wasn’t overrun with teeming crowds like some Terran cities was that the death rate matched the birthrate. This was due to factors other than rampant diseases. The people were clean, overall, and their technology had reached pinnacles beyond his most realistic dreams. Flash, Dale, and Zarkov had been thrust into a savage, treacherous society, where life was a meaningless commodity.
As if the Fates had conspired to punctuate his thoughts, on a street below the transparent tube a soldier walked up to a robed man and withdrew his sword. The soldier sliced off his head. Flash stared wide-eyed; his heart pounded and there was a constriction in his throat. He glanced at Dale and Zarkov, but they were looking in another direction, whispering something among themselves so as not to offend the leader. Flash hoped they would not notice his anxiety. He looked backward as the vehicle rounded a corner; he saw the soldier cleaning his sword on the victim’s robe; a few people stood nearby, perhaps commenting to themselves; but for the most part, no one seemed to notice the execution, lending credence to Flash’s suspicion that death was very commonplace on this world.
After they had traveled in the city for approximately fifteen minutes, the vehicle passed into the most ornate, gaudy red and yellow building of all, with crystalline domes and strange alien animals carved from jewels unknown on Earth. One such statue—an eight-legged reptilian beast—breathed bursts of fire at intervals. For the first time they noticed spaceships, designed for both long and short distances, landing and taking off at a port near the top of this opulent building. Flash, Dale, and Zarkov glanced at one another; they knew, without discussing the matter between them, that they were entering the lair of this Ming, whoever he was.
Flash had never before experienced such trepidation; he had never before seriously considered that his death might be less than a few hours away. Yet he had never before felt so alive. Not even victory in the Super Bowl matched this sensation. He was glad he had been thrust into this alien environment; it had caused his every organ to function at its peak. He perceived the nuances of life with an unprecedented clarity. And the love he felt for Dale crippled him even as it strengthened him.
The vehicle took them to a large, sterile interior, a room with green walls and blue floors, save for a single yellow level supporting a transparent tube down which a platform descended. An elevator.
The pneumatic vehicle stopped, air hissing from its rear like a falsetto groan of relief. Being careful not to trip on the hem of his red robe, the leader got out of the vehicle as the shield imprisoning the captives in the back rose and folded inside the roof. Using the device which had caused the hand to materialize, he gestured for the captives to enter the elevator.
Other lamellar-clad soldiers joined the leader and the space travelers on the platform. As the leader pressed several buttons, and the platform rose with a faint hum through the transparent tube, Dale stared at the diminutive white eyes of the soldiers before her, eyes she normally would have associated with those of zombies. She did not know if she imagined or if she actually heard mechanical parts whirring and pinging, muffled and erratic, emanating from the interiors of her captors.
Wiping perspiration from his forehead, Zarkov whistled softly. “I was mad, utterly mad to forget a camera!”
Grateful for the distraction, Dale grinned weakly. “Where will you get your film developed, Doctor?”
Zarkov replied as if they were conversing over tea. “Munson does it. Or rather, he takes it to the drugstore down the road. They do wonderful work and they’re very inexpensive. They . . .” He halted, turning quite pale. “I’m sorry. For a moment I completely forgot where we are.”
Dale touched his shoulder. “It’s all right. I understand.”
“Listen, whoever they are, they’re intelligent,” said Zarkov. “I’m sure we can reason with them.”
Soon the elevator shaft was no longer transparent; they passed story after story of gray metal. As they did not know their destination, they had no indication how much longer it would take for them to reach it; but each second was interminable. They could not even hazard a guess as to how fast the elevator was traveling; it seemed to have altered its speed a few times.
The elevator slowly halted with a pneumatic hiss only slightly deeper than that of the vehicle. The doors opened. Awaiting them was a squad of soldiers clad in red lamellar and gold, standing five to a column on either side. The red-robed leader gestured for them to walk ahead. They had not walked twenty steps when a line of prisoners joined by chains running between heavy metal collars, guarded by more soldiers, entered that section of the hallway. Flash, Dale, and Zarkov stood stunned. The impatient proddings of the leader were unable to goad them forward.