A grim Golem created for torment, dedicated to the art of cruelty.
Brent went into action like an automaton.
Mendez the Twenty-Sixth, royally purple and majestic, watched with great attention from his central position on the dais.
He and his four inquisitors, red, blue, green and white.
The weird magic of the wall shattered all that was left of Brent’s power to fight back.
The chamber looked down on madness.
10. MASKS
Brent closed in on Nova.
He took her in his arms and unexpectedly kissed her on the trembling mouth. The Negro kept his eyes tightly closed. Mendez and the others watched, waiting. Their faces were a study in expectancy. Brent was oblivious of them. All of his being, his soul and his mind and body, was centralized on Nova. The girl in his arms.
The chamber held the odd tableau, like a pin point in the march of time, freezing the moment for all eternity itself.
Brent’s kiss was tender at first. Then some raging passion consumed him. Nova, bewildered, rode along with the first wave of bodily hunger embroiling her and Brent in this fantastic embrace.
The Negro’s eyes remained shut.
The kiss went from the loving to the lustful.
And then from the lustful to the lethal.
For all her unschooled, uncivilized, unsophisticated naivete, Nova sensed the difference. Brent caught her fast in a viselike hold that was all cruelty and mad desire. Nova recoiled in his arms, trying to shake him off, to run, to hide. Brent was remorseless. Now he had her trapped. He was pinching her nostrils, suffocating her mouth with his own. His other hand was digging into her flesh, tearing at her full breasts. He kept on hammering at her, cruelly hurting her until her weak struggles grew even weaker.
And the Negro did not open his eyes.
“Tell us about the apes, Mr. Brent,” the fat man said in a loud, clear voice.
The Negro’s eyes blinked open.
Brent released Nova, suddenly. She slipped from his grasp to the stone floor, sprawling in a lifeless spill of arms and legs. Brent stared down at her dumbly, appalled.
“Tell us about the apes,” the fat man repeated his request.
Brent fought to regain his mind; a compound of bewildered horror and returning intelligence. He knew he had to talk but somehow he also knew he must lie. Anything to save Nova from a possible death and the Bomb from potential activation. These people, whatever they were, no matter how intelligent and advanced, were all mad! Mad!
Shrilly, he found his voice. Anything to keep the Negro from closing his eyes again.
“The apes are a primitive, semiarticulate and underdeveloped race whose weapons have not progressed beyond the club and the sling!”
“You’re lying,” the fat man interposed, “and we know it!”
Caspay spoke up. “The ape scouts had rifles, Mr. Brent.”
Brent said nothing to that. Wearily, the Negro closed his eyes.
Brent raised a brutal foot above Nova’s insensate body. Within him rockets exploded, pain flashed, terrible ideas and thoughts took tangible shapes and forms.
His chest was on fire. Still he struggled against bringing his foot down to smash that lovely, defenseless figure.
“They should fall . . . an easy prey . . .” he gasped, “to stamp on the many peaceful weapons at your dispose . . . of her with your foot on her belly and stamp . . . GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” he snarled at the eyes-shut Negro who loomed above him.
The fat man spoke again when the Negro reopened his eyes.
“Tell us again about the apes, Mr. Brent. The first time—was not quite true, was it?”
“How do you know?” Brent raged at him. “How do you know?”
Quickly he knelt beside Nova, cradling her head in his hand, his senses all whirling, convoluting, pinwheeling riotously.
From behind the inquisitors, the wall threw up more projections. Taylor again. Taylor stumbling. Taylor heroically lost . . .
Nova, coming to in Brent’s arms, saw the wall from her position on the floor. Five images of Taylor, in red, white, blue,
Brent went into action like an automaton.
Mendez the Twenty-Sixth, royally purple and majestic, watched with great attention from his central position on the dais.
He and his four inquisitors, red, blue, green and white.
The weird magic of the wall shattered all that was left of Brent’s power to fight back.
The chamber looked down on madness.
10. MASKS
Brent closed in on Nova.
He took her in his arms and unexpectedly kissed her on the trembling mouth. The Negro kept his eyes tightly closed. Mendez and the others watched, waiting. Their faces were a study in expectancy. Brent was oblivious of them. All of his being, his soul and his mind and body, was centralized on Nova. The girl in his arms.
The chamber held the odd tableau, like a pin point in the march of time, freezing the moment for all eternity itself.
Brent’s kiss was tender at first. Then some raging passion consumed him. Nova, bewildered, rode along with the first wave of bodily hunger embroiling her and Brent in this fantastic embrace.
The Negro’s eyes remained shut.
The kiss went from the loving to the lustful.
And then from the lustful to the lethal.
For all her unschooled, uncivilized, unsophisticated naivete, Nova sensed the difference. Brent caught her fast in a viselike hold that was all cruelty and mad desire. Nova recoiled in his arms, trying to shake him off, to run, to hide. Brent was remorseless. Now he had her trapped. He was pinching her nostrils, suffocating her mouth with his own. His other hand was digging into her flesh, tearing at her full breasts. He kept on hammering at her, cruelly hurting her until her weak struggles grew even weaker.
And the Negro did not open his eyes.
“Tell us about the apes, Mr. Brent,” the fat man said in a loud, clear voice.
The Negro’s eyes blinked open.
Brent released Nova, suddenly. She slipped from his grasp to the stone floor, sprawling in a lifeless spill of arms and legs. Brent stared down at her dumbly, appalled.
“Tell us about the apes,” the fat man repeated his request.
Brent fought to regain his mind; a compound of bewildered horror and returning intelligence. He knew he had to talk but somehow he also knew he must lie. Anything to save Nova from a possible death and the Bomb from potential activation. These people, whatever they were, no matter how intelligent and advanced, were all mad! Mad!
Shrilly, he found his voice. Anything to keep the Negro from closing his eyes again.
“The apes are a primitive, semiarticulate and underdeveloped race whose weapons have not progressed beyond the club and the sling!”
“You’re lying,” the fat man interposed, “and we know it!”
Caspay spoke up. “The ape scouts had rifles, Mr. Brent.”
Brent said nothing to that. Wearily, the Negro closed his eyes.
Brent raised a brutal foot above Nova’s insensate body. Within him rockets exploded, pain flashed, terrible ideas and thoughts took tangible shapes and forms.
His chest was on fire. Still he struggled against bringing his foot down to smash that lovely, defenseless figure.
“They should fall . . . an easy prey . . .” he gasped, “to stamp on the many peaceful weapons at your dispose . . . of her with your foot on her belly and stamp . . . GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” he snarled at the eyes-shut Negro who loomed above him.
The fat man spoke again when the Negro reopened his eyes.
“Tell us again about the apes, Mr. Brent. The first time—was not quite true, was it?”
“How do you know?” Brent raged at him. “How do you know?”
Quickly he knelt beside Nova, cradling her head in his hand, his senses all whirling, convoluting, pinwheeling riotously.
From behind the inquisitors, the wall threw up more projections. Taylor again. Taylor stumbling. Taylor heroically lost . . .
Nova, coming to in Brent’s arms, saw the wall from her position on the floor. Five images of Taylor, in red, white, blue,
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