Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs by Mike Resnick, Robert T. Garcia

seen no rocket tubes or other means of propulsion on the outside of the craft, the overall shape of which was peculiar, an array of panels connected at odd and disquieting angles, seeming now to disappear out of the purview of ordinary three-dimensional space, yet again to reappear at unexpected places.
    “Gravity, Carson Napier. My machine is powered by gravity.”
    “But gravity is what holds us to the planet. How can it propel us hence?”
    Again that horrid laugh, rising almost to a shriek of triumph. “It is simple, utterly simple for a genius of my dimensions. All I need do is bend the direction in which gravity pulls us. Do you see, it is as if a sailor were to run a line around a stanchion and attach the end of it to a heavy weight which lay beside him. The sailor pulls on the rope, the stanchion bends the direction of force, and even as the sailor pulls the rope toward him, the rope pulls the weight away from him!”
    I shook my head in amazement. His concept was amazingly simple, almost obvious, and yet it was a principle that only a genius like Dr. Bodog could imagine. Too bad that this superb intellect was the possession of a man of such sinister if not absolutely insane intentions.
    “Here,” he said, leading me to a rack from which hung a row of peculiar garments. “We will wear these during our flight. They are of a special material that will protect us from the effects of the gravity bender, for otherwise our internal organs would become fatally disorganized.”
    He stared at me, then burst into his hideous, mocking laughter again. “Organs—disorganized. Do you see the joke, Carson Napier? Organs disorganized . No? Ah, well, never mind.”
    The suits were of a thin and flexible substance which would cover the wearer totally. Gloves and footwear were attached, as was a flexible helmet or head-and-face covering, leaving only slits for vision, and even these were fitted with protective lenses.
    “My special fabric permits air to pass to and from the wearer,” Bodog explained. “And the suits are of sufficient resilience that they do not need to be specially fitted for each wearer.”
    He clapped me on the shoulder with one of his skeletal but surprisingly powerful hands. “Tonight,” he rasped, “we shall share a farewell dinner. I will leave Oggar and Istara in charge of my holdings on Amtor, and you and your Duare shall accompany me to Earth. Just think of the astonished expressions of Earthly scientists when they meet a woman who was born and raised on Venus!”
    Dinner that night—or what passed for night on this cloud-shrouded world—lived up to Bodog’s prediction. A fire had again been laid on the great hearth, and powders of Bodog’s devising were added to create weird tinctures and forms that swayed and danced hypnotically. Istara and Oggar, Duare and I, sat on opposite sides of the table while Bodog, presided. Toasts were drunk in strong fíonbeior while black-attired zombielike servitors brought course after course of exotic and piquant delicacies.
    At the end of our meal, Dr. Bodog suggested that we each retire to our respective quarters. The three travelers—Bodog, Duare, and I—would in due course assemble at the space machine, which, Bodog explained, would by then have been moved to the courtyard outside the Potala.
    I had very little to do in preparation for the flight to Earth. I cleansed myself and changed to fresh garments, then made my way to the courtyard. I encountered Dr. Bodog as I crossed the open area to the machine. Inside we found our special protective costumes and proceeded to don them. Duare, I saw, had preceded us and awaited us inside the machine.
    With hardly a moment’s hesitation, Bodog directed Duare and myself to seats where we were held by belts to prevent our being injured when the ship’s machinery bent the force of gravity. Bodog turned a knob, and the little craft was filled with a weirdly harmonic humming.
    My head began to whirl, and I felt as if