came forward, a deep bowl in his hands.
Others advanced, bearing a long pole to which a native was bound. A great shout thundered out.
From the shadows men came—the Curupuri tribe, thronging about the base of the pyramid, watching the drama being enacted on its summit. Mason drew back, his fingers whitening on the club.
Zol’s hand moved swiftly. A bubbling scream of agony came from the captive. Blood fountained from his throat. Deftly the priest thrust the bowl beneath the gaping wound, filled the vessel.
The men on the pyramid were silent—waiting. Zol dipped his hands into the bowl, lifted them dripping red. He smeared the blood on Alasa’s nude body, till from neck to ankles her slender form gleamed crimson. He lifted the knife again, lowered it gently. Its point touched Alasa’s bare stomach.
The girl cried out sharply. This, Mason guessed, was the beginning of the tattooing ceremony. For months thereafter Alasa would endure the frightful torture of sharp knives, of agonizing pain of pigments rubbed into the raw wounds till her body was covered, like the priestess’, with fantastic designs.
Again the knife came down. Again Alasa cried out—a soft, frightened cry that sent red madness surging into Mason’s brain.
He lifted the cudgel as he sprang forward. A line of natives barred him from the pyramid, but he broke through the Curupuri with a murderous sweep of his weapon that sent a man sprawling, head smashed into pulp. Shouting, Mason sprinted forward.
Behind him he heard a deep-throated roar. He ignored it, racing up the rough stones of the pyramid that offered easy foothold. On the summit men were milling about, staring down, their weapons drawn. Before they could organize he was among them.
He saw a snarling face, pale in the moonlight, looming up before him—and swung the club. The man went down, screaming.
“Take him!” Zol shouted. “Take him—alive!”
Then suddenly the priest was racing forward, a spear in his hand, arm drawn back for the throw. Mason sent the cudgel spinning at his opponent.
His aim was true. The missile crashed into Zol’s face, obliterating the brown features in a smear of blood. Red spurted from the man’s flattened nose. Screaming, he went down.
But already a dozen Curupuri were on Mason; grimly he slugged and kicked and clawed. A bare foot kicked viciously at his face. He twisted his head away in time to avoid the blow.
But Mason went down at last, fighting desperately. He felt his hands being drawn behind him, saw Alasa straining forward on the throne, her body darkly crimson. She cried, “Kent, are you hurt? Did they—”
“I’m okay,” he said—and Zol came forward, his ruined face bloody and hideous. He glared down at the white man.
“Soon you will die.” His whisper was fury-soft. “But not slowly—no!”
He turned to the lake, lifted the sacrificial knife.
“Dweller in the Abyss,” he chanted. “The priestess is prepared. Soon she will serve you.”
Mason strained to escape from the arms that held him. Useless!
The Curupuri below the pyramid roared applause at the priest.
Then silence. And cutting through it a thin, high scream that made the short hairs prickle on Mason’s neck. There was defiance in that scream—desperate rage, and horror, and something above and beyond all these. The priest hesitated, looked down. His jaw dropped.
Mason turned his head. On the beach, knee-deep in the black waters, was Yana the priestess, nude, a golden statue in the moonlight. Her black hair streamed in the wind. She lifted her arms; her red lips parted. From them came again that dreadful cry—
Alien. Summoning!
Summoning— what?
The priest shrilled, “Slay her! Slay her!”
The others streamed down from the pyramid’s summit, racing toward Yana, save for two who still held Mason motionless. The priestess cried again that strange call.
In Zol’s face Mason read something that made him look out across the lake. A few ripples troubled the
Others advanced, bearing a long pole to which a native was bound. A great shout thundered out.
From the shadows men came—the Curupuri tribe, thronging about the base of the pyramid, watching the drama being enacted on its summit. Mason drew back, his fingers whitening on the club.
Zol’s hand moved swiftly. A bubbling scream of agony came from the captive. Blood fountained from his throat. Deftly the priest thrust the bowl beneath the gaping wound, filled the vessel.
The men on the pyramid were silent—waiting. Zol dipped his hands into the bowl, lifted them dripping red. He smeared the blood on Alasa’s nude body, till from neck to ankles her slender form gleamed crimson. He lifted the knife again, lowered it gently. Its point touched Alasa’s bare stomach.
The girl cried out sharply. This, Mason guessed, was the beginning of the tattooing ceremony. For months thereafter Alasa would endure the frightful torture of sharp knives, of agonizing pain of pigments rubbed into the raw wounds till her body was covered, like the priestess’, with fantastic designs.
Again the knife came down. Again Alasa cried out—a soft, frightened cry that sent red madness surging into Mason’s brain.
He lifted the cudgel as he sprang forward. A line of natives barred him from the pyramid, but he broke through the Curupuri with a murderous sweep of his weapon that sent a man sprawling, head smashed into pulp. Shouting, Mason sprinted forward.
Behind him he heard a deep-throated roar. He ignored it, racing up the rough stones of the pyramid that offered easy foothold. On the summit men were milling about, staring down, their weapons drawn. Before they could organize he was among them.
He saw a snarling face, pale in the moonlight, looming up before him—and swung the club. The man went down, screaming.
“Take him!” Zol shouted. “Take him—alive!”
Then suddenly the priest was racing forward, a spear in his hand, arm drawn back for the throw. Mason sent the cudgel spinning at his opponent.
His aim was true. The missile crashed into Zol’s face, obliterating the brown features in a smear of blood. Red spurted from the man’s flattened nose. Screaming, he went down.
But already a dozen Curupuri were on Mason; grimly he slugged and kicked and clawed. A bare foot kicked viciously at his face. He twisted his head away in time to avoid the blow.
But Mason went down at last, fighting desperately. He felt his hands being drawn behind him, saw Alasa straining forward on the throne, her body darkly crimson. She cried, “Kent, are you hurt? Did they—”
“I’m okay,” he said—and Zol came forward, his ruined face bloody and hideous. He glared down at the white man.
“Soon you will die.” His whisper was fury-soft. “But not slowly—no!”
He turned to the lake, lifted the sacrificial knife.
“Dweller in the Abyss,” he chanted. “The priestess is prepared. Soon she will serve you.”
Mason strained to escape from the arms that held him. Useless!
The Curupuri below the pyramid roared applause at the priest.
Then silence. And cutting through it a thin, high scream that made the short hairs prickle on Mason’s neck. There was defiance in that scream—desperate rage, and horror, and something above and beyond all these. The priest hesitated, looked down. His jaw dropped.
Mason turned his head. On the beach, knee-deep in the black waters, was Yana the priestess, nude, a golden statue in the moonlight. Her black hair streamed in the wind. She lifted her arms; her red lips parted. From them came again that dreadful cry—
Alien. Summoning!
Summoning— what?
The priest shrilled, “Slay her! Slay her!”
The others streamed down from the pyramid’s summit, racing toward Yana, save for two who still held Mason motionless. The priestess cried again that strange call.
In Zol’s face Mason read something that made him look out across the lake. A few ripples troubled the
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