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.
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.
Similar Books
