HAUNTED METROPOLIS

Originally published in Amazing Stories, November 1946.

Waring leaned abruptly forward at his desk. “What are you talking about, Prentis?” he demanded. “Are you trying to tell me that City One is haunted?”

Buck Prentis inclined his shock of red hair slowly. He twisted nervously at the brim of his uniformed cap, glancing about the office with apprehensive eyes. The afternoon light of Sirius which poured in through the windows gave a fantastic quality to his behavior. One just didn’t expect a rocket pilot—and a red-headed one at that—to show nerves in broad daylight.

Waring eased back into his chair. “You must be developing a case of flight jitters, Prentis. After all, this is the 27th Century. Superstition died out long ago.”

Prentis’ face set stubbornly. “Maybe so. But this is an alien world. Who can be sure that there aren’t…things in the deserted cities here on Faltronia that—well, didn’t stay dead? I tell you, sir, if you had seen those strange lights—”

“You mentioned the lights,” Waring said. “Are you the only one who has seen them?”

“I’m not the only one, sir. Other night-flight pilots have reported them.”

“They have, eh?” Waring became thoughtful. He reached out to finger abstractedly the metal nameplate which stood on his desk. Block letters bore the legend: “Lon Waring. Chief of Police, City One.” Aware suddenly of what he was doing, he pulled his hand away. Lines of bitterness momentarily appeared in his face. He returned his gaze to Prentis, asked:

“Can you describe the lights?”

“I sure can. Some of them are like little balls of fire floating through the streets. Sort of white in color. Then there are others that come and go real fast—like tiny flashes of green and yellow lightning. And a few buildings were lighted, as if someone—or something—were inside them.”

“How long has this been going on, Prentis?”

“A little over a week, sir.”

“You and the others saw no lights previous to that time?”

Prentis shook his head.

“Where do the lights appear?” Waring asked with growing interest. “That is, in all the uninhabited sections of the city, or just in certain parts?”

“Just in East Section, sir. All the way down at the far end, near the lake.”

“I see.” Waring meditatively rubbed the back of a hand across his jaw. “Well, thanks for this information, Prentis. I’ll see that an investigation is made. Might be that a gang of pirates have chosen East Section for a hideout.”

“Maybe it isn’t pirates, sir,” Prentis blurted. “Maybe it’s something that isn’t—human.”

“Ghosts?” Waring suggested with a faint grin.

“That would be a good guess.” Prentis raised an arm in a jerky salute, turned, and left the office.

For some seconds Waring sat quietly, gray eyes squinting with thought. Finally he rose from the chair and limped to the televideo set built into the wall behind his desk. He punched out a call number on the activator studs. Lights whirled kaleidoscopically in the viewscreen, coalesced into an image. Waring gazed at the round, ruddy features of Tom Stevens, president of Inter-Faltronia Rocket Lines.

“Hello there, Lon,” Stevens greeted with characteristic joviality. “Anything I can do?”

“Sort of,” Waring replied. “Look, Tom, one of your pilots, Buck Prentis, dropped in to see me with a rather screwy yarn. Seems that he and other night-flight pilots have been seeing strange lights in East Section. Know anything about this?”

Stevens nodded with sudden solemnity. “My boys seem pretty worked up about those lights. They claim that the city is—ah—haunted.”

“Think it could be just a hoax?” Waring asked.

“I don’t think so. I know my boys pretty well—and they’re serious about this matter, Lon. Dead serious.”

“What are your opinions?”

Stevens hesitated. His plump features registered an expression of discomfort. “Well…those lights are queer. It seems doubtful that they could be due to human agency, because you know how people shun the deserted section of the city at night.”

“Your pilots seem to have infected you with their supernatural fears,” Waring commented. “Why don’t you admit that ghosts are responsible for the lights and be done with it?”

Stevens flushed. “That may not be as far-fetched as it appears. Lon, I tell you I’ve been doing some serious thinking about this matter. Look here—the original inhabitants of this city were alien. Get that? Alien. Can you say for sure that death is the same for all races of people?”

Waring shrugged. “That’s open to metaphysical debate. But remember, this mysterious light business started just a little, over a week ago. If the shades of the Aliens are haunting East Section, they’ve waited a mighty long time to do it. No—I’m sure we’ll find something entirely natural and logical to account for the lights.”

“I hope so,” Stevens muttered. Waring broke contact. His gray eyes darkening with thought, he limped slowly over to the windows. He gazed at the weird outlines of City One, limned against the blue-green sky of Faltronia.

Somehow, even with the light of Sirius warm upon him, it didn’t seem so incredible that men of the 27th Century could believe in the possibility of a city being haunted by the spirits of an alien race. Civilization, he knew, was a veneer which on most people was easily scratched. And moreover life in City One was sufficient to render susceptible to superstitious fears and beliefs even the most thick-skinned.

City One seemed to exude an almost tangible atmosphere of the strange and grotesque. The architecture was bizarre, unearthly, bewildering in its amount of ornamental detail. The buildings were predominantly squat and massive, occasionally domed, but most often crowned by soaring towers and spires with an effect suggestive of the Gothic cathedrals of the Middle Ages of Terra. But now they were dark and silent, brooding, their countless windows like dead, staring eyes. An air of desertion and neglect hung over the city. Only the wind moved in the utter stillness, whispering like voices from beyond.

* * * *

The first interstellar explorers, crossing extraplanetary space by means of the Hyperspace Drive, had reached the four planets of the Sirian System a little over thirty years before. On the second planet, which they had called Faltronia because of its vast deposits of the mineral of the same name, they had found six cities—each silent and deserted. Not a trace remained of their former inhabitants, nor had any indication been found of what had happened to them. They had simply vanished from the surface of Faltronia, leaving the great cities behind.

With commercialization of the Hyperspace Drive had begun the migration of colonists to the habitable planets of the nearer stars. Faltronia, because of its great cities and vital resources, had at first been a popular settling place. The machinery, tools, and furniture found in the cities were easily put into use, for the Aliens had been humanoid, not greatly different in bodily structure than men. Paintings and sculptures showed them to have been some seven feet in height, slender, with large domed heads and long, prehensile fingers and toes.

But despite the fact that it contained wealth in many forms, the majority of colonists had not remained on Faltronia. The brooding silence and unearthliness of the deserted cities had grown upon them to the extent where leaving was the only relief. Now the six cities totaled little more than ten thousand people each, tiny islands of humanity in the vast sea of buildings all about them.

Looking now at the awesome vista of buildings before him, Waring felt a touch of sadness. Faltronia, he realized, had potentialities for becoming a center of culture second only to Terra itself. Everything needed for a mighty planetary state was there, but the glories which should have been showed no evidence of materializing. Faltronia was like a gigantic torch which the flame of Terran civilization had touched, but which it had failed as yet to ignite. Waring wondered if the torch would ever be ignited.

Abruptly he shrugged. What did he care? He reminded himself that he hated Faltronia. He reminded himself, too, that he loathed his petty desk job as Chief of Police of City One.

Waring heard the door of his office open behind him. He turned as a girl strode into the room. With something that was deeper and more poignant than mere apprehension, his eyes probed into hers. The bitter lines deepened in his face as he saw just what he had feared he would see. There was pity in those blue eyes lifted to his. Pity for him.

Waring turned away. Resentment ate like an acid inside him.

“It’s past quitting time, Lon,” Sally Rhodes said. Her voice was gentle, oddly patient.

Waring did not turn. “I’m staying awhile,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got a little work to do.”

Sally Rhodes looked down at her hands. Her small mouth twisted. After a moment she looked up. Pain had replaced the pity in her blue eyes.

“You’re avoiding me, aren’t you, Lon?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

Waring whirled, the words of explanation leaping hotly to his lips. The next instant he checked himself. His broad shoulders slumped with futility. What good would it do? How could he tell her he couldn’t bear the pity which shone always in her gaze when she looked at him? How could he tell her he was too proud to accept her sympathy? Explanations would change nothing. She might try to mask her pity, but he knew it would still be there. “Nothing is wrong,” he said.

Sally straightened with purpose. “Then look, Lon, I’ve been on Faltronia a whole month now, and I’ve seen nothing as yet of City One.” Her voice quickened. “I’d particularly like to see East Section. I’ve heard the buildings there are beautiful. Lon—wouldn’t you care to take me there? It’s still two hours before dark, and we wouldn’t have to go very far.”

Waring shook his head wearily. “I’ve just received some strange reports on East Section. Until these are investigated, I think it would be best to keep away from that part of the city.”

“Evasions!” Sally blazed abruptly. “That’s all I’ve had from you since I arrived. Lon, I came here to serve as your secretary, because I thought I could help you—make things a little easier. But you’ve made it very difficult for me—and I’ve had enough.”

“That wasn’t an evasion,” Waring insisted patiently. “It’s true, Sally. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I don’t care! I’ve reached the point where I’d almost welcome getting my neck broken, Dean Haslip offered to take me out to East Section, but I thought I’d ask you first. Since you’re so very busy, I’m going with Dean.” Sally strode angrily to the door, and it slammed behind her.

Waring hesitated as he debated going after her. Then he shrugged tiredly. Argument would avail nothing. Sally refused to see the danger. He knew she would interpret his protests on the basis that he didn’t want her to have any fun—that he was jealous of Haslip. And, anyway, Waring thought, Sally would be safe enough if she returned before dark.

Waring’s thoughts refused to struggle further against the bitterness which rose up within him. He limped back to his desk, slumped listlessly into the chair. “A cripple!” he whispered. “A cripple good only for a desk job. Of all the people in the System, why did it have to happen to me?”

He buried his face in his hands. He did not know how much later it was when the buzzer of the televideo sounded behind him.

Waring pulled himself to his feet. It was almost dark. Sirius was setting behind distant towers on the horizon.

He touched a switch and the office became lighted. Then he turned to the televideo set, flicked it on.

The features of a man took shape on the viewscreen. Waring recognized him as Dr. Wal Harding of City One Hospital. Dr. Harding looked pale and shaken.

“Waring—thank the powers!” Harding gasped. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Glad you were still at your office.”

“What in space is wrong?” Waring demanded, alarmed at the other’s appearance.

“Plenty! Waring, there’s something in East Section—something that practically wiped out an archaeological party an hour ago!”

Waring was stunned. “How did you learn of this?”

“Through the guide of the party. He was brought here, to the hospital—a first aid case. From what I’ve pieced together of his story, he was waiting in the car for the archaeologists. It was growing dark, and they were preparing to return. Then lights of some kind appeared, attacked the party. The guide saw them wiped out—four men and two women.” Harding licked his lips. He went on:

“The guide was the only one who managed to get away. He was horribly burned, but I’m sure he’ll recover—though I doubt if his mind will ever be the same again. Waring, he raved about ghosts! Ghosts of the Aliens!”

The significance of Harding’s last words penetrated only dimly into Waring’s mind. One thought rose with livid prominence from his horror.

Sally! Sally had gone to East Section!

CHAPTER II

Terror in East Section

For a moment Waring stood as though frozen, thought and motion congealed by an overwhelming dismay. Then flaming cross-currents of apprehension and remorse seared through him. With harsh clarity, he realized how his pride and stubbornness had exposed Sally to terrible danger. Even as he stood here now, it might be too late.

An urgent sense of need for action took bold of him. His anxious mind quested desperately for some plan.

No time could be wasted, he knew. Whatever he did would have to be done at once. He rejected immediately the idea of calling out the tiny police force of City One to aid him. Widely dispersed at points about the city, precious minutes would be lost in assembling them.

In a flash of decision, Waring knew what he must do. He was going after Sally alone.

With a curt nod to Harding, Waring flicked off the televideo set. He whirled back to his desk, movements swift and purposeful. From a drawer, he pulled a huge, service model blast-gun. Then, snatching up an atomo-flash, he limped quickly from the room.

An elevator took Waring down to the garage where he kept his rocket car. It was a sleek, speedy job, capable of traveling well over 400 miles an hour. He slipped behind the controls and with a roar of the drive rockets, started off.

Waring knew sightseers almost invariably took a certain route to East Section. This was a vast boulevard which ran straight as a rule through the heart of the district, terminating at the lake. It was chosen chiefly because it afforded scenic vistas of awe-inspiring splendor. Waring felt certain that Sally and Dean Haslip had chosen the boulevard.

He fretted impatiently as he inched his car through the traffic of the inhabited section of the city. Then, after aeons it seemed, he reached the outskirts of the deserted portion. He pressed his foot down upon the accelerator, while the rockets roared in a rising crescendo of power.

The discs of Sirius was almost gone behind the tower on the horizon. Waring knew it would soon be dark. Night came suddenly on Faltronia, in almost the same way the flick of a switch darkens a lighted room. In anticipation of this, he turned on the headlights of his car.

Waring turned down the boulevard, and now the accelerator went down as far as it would go. The car leaped like a spurred horse, rockets thundering.

Building after giant building rushed past, blurred with speed. In the gathering gloom they were gray and featureless, for all the world like huge tombstones in a Titan graveyard.

There was something hypnotic about the steady drumming of the drive rockets. Without his quite being aware of it, a portion of Waring’s mind detached itself from the operation of the car. The thoughts thus disassociated went back to that fatal day on Terra—the day on which, in Waring’s opinion, his world had literally ended.

The accident… Just two years ago—two years that were like two centuries.

He had come to Terra on leave…Captain Lon Waring of the Interstellar Rangers, very straight and trim in his green and gold uniform. On his breast he had worn the distinguished service ribbon of the Rangers, awarded him for his work in exposing the leaders of a pirate ring which for several years had terrorized shipping from Pluto clear out to Alpha Centauri.

He remembered the impatience which had burned within him. He hadn’t seen Sally for over a year while engaged in that deadly game of plot and counterplot which had led eventually to the downfall of the piracy ring. He had ached for sight of her blue eyes and the brown hair that clustered in soft, thick curls about her shoulders. Almost like hunger had been the desire to see her smile again, hear the silver tinkling of her laughter.

He had urged the driver of the air taxi to greater and greater speed. Faster, man, faster! And the driver, eager to please a representative of the Rangers, had complied.

Waring could not remember exactly how the accident had happened. The scream of braking air-flaps had given only an instant’s warning. The next thing he had known, a lumbering air van went hurtling toward his taxi. He had felt a split-second rush of horror—then had come blackness, utter and complete.

When he had finally left the hospital, he had found himself with a lame leg. Though the doctors had performed a miracle in patching him up, they hadn’t possessed the divine powers necessary to restore him entirely. No longer having the complete fitness of body essential to continued duty in the Rangers, he had been retired, and sympathetic officials had offered him the position as Chief of Police of City One on Faltronia.

A desk job…to Waring, after his active and adventurous life in the Rangers, nothing could have been more distasteful. But because it would take him far from the pity he was too proud to tolerate, he had accepted.

Three months after he had been on Faltronia, Sally had come to join him, having managed somehow to secure a position as his secretary. Waring had been dismayed rather than glad, for he had become so steeped in bitterness that he could not bear sight of anyone connected with his former life. Especially Sally, whom he had been trying rigorously to exclude from his thoughts. He had convinced himself that he was a cripple good only for a desk job—no longer worthy of Sally.

And the expression of shock and commiseration which had come over her face when she had first seen him hadn’t helped the situation any. If her appearance on Faltronia had enclosed him within a shell of resentment, that harsh reminder of her pity had hardened it beyond all hope of cracking.

Life for him had settled down to a maddening routine of avoiding Sally, avoiding that look of pity in her eyes. A daily shame had grown within him that she should be present to witness the futility of his existence on Faltronia; that she should see how petty and inane were the duties which he carried out under the august title of Chief of Police of City One. Almost he had come to hate her that she should know.

But now that Sally had been exposed to danger, he realized that his feelings for her hadn’t changed. He still loved her the way Captain Waring in his green and gold uniform had loved that girl with the blue eyes and the soft brown hair.

The knowledge hurt within him. Even if he found her now—as he desperately hoped—nothing would be changed. He would still be Chief of Police of City One, embittered, futile, without purpose or hope.

Waring forced his aching thoughts aside. He saw now that the headlights of his car pierced through the darkness of night. He cut speed, peering about him. Certain familiar details of the surrounding buildings became apparent. He was in East Section.

Waring cruised along slowly, the drive rockets reduced to a throbbing murmur. With intently narrowed eyes, he searched for the spurts of flame which would indicate Dean Haslip’s rocket car. Down the length of the boulevard he probed, scanning each branching avenue he passed.

Minute after slow minute dragged away? The boulevard seemed to unroll endlessly into the night. The darkness closed over him like a shroud, menacing, alien.

Almost Waring was becoming prepared to give up his quest in despair. And then his tired eyes caught a faint flicker of light far up the boulevard. Heart leaping with hope, he sent the rocket car thundering forward.

At about the spot where he judged having seen the light, he slowed. Eagerly, he searched the darkness for some further sign.

And then—far up an avenue that branched off at right angles to the boulevard—he glimpsed a bobbing cluster of lights. As he stared at them, a scream reached his ears. It was a human scream. A girl’s scream. And it was familiar—filled with terror.

Sally! The lights had Sally!

Waring jerked at the wheel of the car, sent it hurtling forward with reckless speed. The cluster of lights separated, grew. And then Waring saw that the lights were not mysterious entities at all. They were torches. Torches held in the hands of—

He gasped in disbelief. It was incredible, impossible—but he found himself gazing at tall, spindling monstrosities whose great domed heads swayed on wrist-thin necks. Involuntarily, he braked the car.

The Aliens! Prentis and Stevens had been right, then. For these apparitions could be nothing more nor less than ghosts!

For seconds the chill of the unknown held Waring motionless. Then he remembered that, ghosts or not, these things had Sally. The thought spurred him into abrupt action. Gripping his blast-gun, he leaped from the car.

The specters watched him with great glowing eyes. Waring noticed that those nearest him held strange cylindrical weapons like oversized, ancient flashlights.

It happened with stunning rapidity. There was a sudden, shrill command. Simultaneously, the things raised their cylindrical weapons. Pale yellow rays stabbed out at Waring.

Agonizing pain gripped his body. His muscles seemed to turn to jelly. Then blackness flooded through and over him like an ebony cloud.

CHAPTER III

Ghosts of Faltronia

Waring struggled back to consciousness slowly like one swimming up through dark ocean depths to sunlight. He became aware gradually that someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes, found himself looking at the anxious, tear-streaked face of Sally Rhodes.

Sight of her brought him to completely. Wonder flaming within him, he pulled himself erect.

He saw that they were in a small, luxuriously furnished room, lighted by what seemed to be a great many-faceted jewel hanging from the ceiling. Exquisite tapestries covered the walls, and there were carven tables and deeply upholstered couches. Waring saw it was one of these latter that he occupied.

“Lon—are you all right?” Sally asked urgently.

He nodded slowly, staring at her. Knowledge that he and Sally had not been harmed had come as a shock. But where were they? What was to become of them? And—Waring glanced about the room, struck by a sudden thought.

“Where’s Dean Haslip?” he questioned.

Sally looked away, biting her lip. “He…he’s dead, Lon. They killed him.”

Waring sucked in a breath. “How did it happen?”

“Dean and I had gone as far as the lake and were on our way back when the car suddenly stopped. It had run out of fuel. Dean had forgot to check the car over before we started. As we sat there in the car, wondering how we were going to get back, lights appeared all around us. We saw…the ghosts. Dean fired at them—and they killed him. There was a flash of green light from something one of the Ghosts held, and Dean vanished.” Sally covered her face as though trying to shut the scene from her mind. She went on:

“Then a second group of Ghosts appeared and drove off the first group. I guess the fight was too much for me—I fainted. When I woke up again, I found myself being carried by the Ghosts. It was then that I screamed. And then you came, Lon. Were you looking for me?”

Waring nodded and recounted the incident which had led to his search. He finished, “It was your scream that led me to you. I didn’t get a chance to fire, as did Haslip, but even so my intentions must have been plain. I don’t know why I wasn’t killed.”

“I think I know why,” Sally said thoughtfully. “We’re captives of the second group which took me away from the first. It was the first group of Ghosts that killed Dean. For some reason, the second group is opposed to the first and didn’t want us killed.”

Waring shook his head in bewilderment. “This Ghost business doesn’t make sense to me. When the first explorers landed on Faltronia they found no trace of the Aliens. Neither did the colonists, who have lived in their cities for twenty years. Then where in the world have the Aliens come from? Are they actually ghosts?”

“I wish I were certain about that myself,” Sally rejoined. “But I do know that they carried me, and…well, I doubt if ghosts could do that.”

“Anyway, know where we are?”

Sally shook her head. “No, Lon, I fainted again after they turned that ray on you. I…I thought you were dead.”

“I see.” Waring glanced down at his hands and was silent.

“Look here, Lon, in spite of what happens I want to know one thing,” Sally said abruptly. “You have been avoiding me since I came to Faltronia, haven’t you?”

Waring nodded reluctantly. “I’m afraid so, Silly. I’m sorry.”

“And why, Lon?”

“I’d rather not tell you. It’s psychological stuff that isn’t good to hear.”

“But you must tell me. We’ve got to have this out once and for all. Especially now, before…before—”

“I know,” Waring said gently. “Well, I’ll tell you, then.” His voice low and faltering in the deep silence of that bizarrely exotic room, he told her what the accident had done to his pride and his hopes. He told her—with a superb effort of will—how the pity in her eyes had blighted his love. And he told her how his inconsequential desk job as Chief of Police of City One had embittered him.

There was no longer pity in Sally’s blue eyes, only an aching sadness. “Why didn’t you tell me this before, Lon? Can’t you see how our present position could have been avoided? And couldn’t you have guessed that my pity wasn’t at all for what had happened to your body, but for what had happened to your mind? Didn’t you realize I knew about your hopes and ambitions after you talked about them so much?”

“I guess I was a fool,” Waring muttered. “A blind fool.”

“But perhaps it isn’t too late,” Sally went on quickly. “If the fact that we’re still alive in any indication, perhaps the Ghosts will let us go. Perhaps they don’t intend to harm us.”

“That would be a miracle,” Waring said. He made a gesture of sudden hopelessness. “But, Sally, even if they did let us go, don’t you see it would change nothing? I would still be Chief of Police of City One—a dummy with a title, tied down to a job with utterly no future. How could I make you happy? How could I expect you to spend the rest of your life with me in a dreary place like City One?”

Sally’s lips twisted in a wan smile. “A woman will bear anything for her man if necessary,” she reminded gently.

Waring could find nothing to say—nor was it required, for abruptly she was in his arms, and he knew he could never let her go. Almost he was glad that events, regardless of their peril, had led to this reconciliation.

A clicing sound broke the silence of the room. Waring glanced at Sally with sudden tenseness. A moment later a tapestry adorning the wall was pulled aside by someone or something behind it. A square, door-like opening was revealed. And then, through this, two grotesque spindling Ghosts strode into the room. Between them they pushed forward a weirdly intricate machine mounted on rollers. Several guards showed in the doorway, cylindrical weapons held at the ready.

Waring stared at the machine, his mind racing with grim speculation. There seemed to be a glittering deadliness about the complex device. He wondered if it was some kind of scientific torture apparatus.

He felt Sally grip his arm with fear-taut fingers. Together they waited for what was to occur.

For long minutes the two nearest Aliens busied themselves over the machine, adjusting various strange switches and dials. And watching them, Waring decided that these beings were not ghosts. They were every bit as solid and substantial as himself. He felt the mystery of their reappearance on Faltronia grow within him.

Finally one of the two Aliens placed a web-like wire helmet upon his domed head. Waring noticed that this individual was more elaborately dressed than the others. His metallic-gleaming robe shone with rich color, and the heavy belt which bound his waist glittered with jewels. Waring guessed the Alien to be a leader of some kind.

The Alien held out a second helmet to Waring—and incredibly he smiled. Or at least Waring interpreted the grimace which passed over his strange features as a smile. Waring hesitated, wondering what purpose lay behind the proceedings. Whatever it was, it seemed clear that no harm was intended.

Waring shrugged and accepted the helmet. It was too large, but he found, by placing it at a rakish angle, that it wouldn’t slide down over his ears. He waited tensely for what was to happen next.

There was a sudden hum from the machine. Lights flamed and glowed within its intricate workings. Waring winced as a stab of pain lanced suddenly through his head. But it was gone as swiftly as it had come. Following it now came an inchoate stirring within his brain, a nebulous feeling which was more mental than physical. It strengthened, became a current that rushed along faster and faster, carrying his thoughts before it, leaving his mind dazed and numb as though before the onslaught of some unimaginable force.

Afterward Waring could never recall how long it was he stood there with that web-like affair of metal atop his head. It might have been seconds or years. All he could remember was an interval of the strangest blankness, a kind of awake unconsciousness, during which he had the puzzling impression that his mind was something being—filled.

And then it was over. Waring felt a touch upon his arm. The helmet was lifted from his head. Awareness rushed back to him, as though he were awakening from slumber.

“Lon—look at me!” a frightened voice demanded. “Are you all right?”

“Why, of course,” Waring answered. He grinned at Sally’s worried expression.

Sally’s blue eyes cleared with relief. “I…I was frightened for a moment. You looked like a statue, Lon. I thought—”

“It’s all right now,” Waring assured her. He did not know what was all right beyond the fact that his trial with the machine seemed to be over. The two Aliens were bent over the device. Waring stared as he saw that it was now blackened and fused. Had something gone wrong?

The leader straightened, his metallic robe shimmering with the same gorgeous play of color given off by a film of oil on water. He noted the direction of Waring’s wondering gaze.

“The educator is ruined,” the Alien explained. “It is to be expected, however, for its mechanism had deteriorated through the years.”

Waring stiffened in stunned surprise. He had understood every word spoken to him!

The Alien smiled. “You are amazed, no doubt, at what has been accomplished. By means of the educator we have impressed upon your mind a thorough knowledge of the Drurian tongue. You should now be able to converse with us quite easily.”

Waring nodded slowly, dazed by the revelation. He felt a touch upon his arm. He turned to find Sally gazing at him in perplexity.

“Lon, what did he do?” she asked. “Can you…understand him?”

Waring explained briefly the new ability given him by the machine. Sally looked disappointed at having been left out.

“I am sorry we could not have included the young lady also,” the leader of the Aliens said. “Educator machines, because of their delicate construction, wear out very quickly. This one was the last we had. And as the skilled technicians who constructed them are gone, I’m afraid you will be the only member of your race able to communicate with us.” The Alien abruptly became grim and purposeful. Some gnawing fear, hitherto concealed, now seemed to leap out all over him.

“But enough of this. Our lives are a matter of time—and that is growing very short. First of all, I want you to understand that I am your friend, and that no harm shall befall you while you are in my hands. Now—listen closely to what I have to say.

“There are two political groups here in Cirron, capital city of Drur. One is led by myself—Grevellon, Chief Coordinator—and the other by Varranagh, the rebel. Varranagh seeks to destroy my group so that he may set himself up as overlord of Drur. And I assure you he has the means within his power to do so.

“Most important to you, however, is the fact that Varranagh is not only my enemy, but the enemy also of your people. Through the medium of prisoners, I have learned it is Varranagh’s intention to exterminate every member of your race here upon Drur. He is cruel, ruthless, utterly without conscience or scruple. He desires his power to be supreme, his authority absolutely unquestioned. Moreover, he is too selfish to share the wealth of Drur with beings of another race. Thus, even though he may not triumph entirely in the end, he can, however, cause the extermination both of my followers and of your people here on Drur.” Grevellon’s large eyes burned with urgency.

“I had you brought here for two reasons—first that you may warn your people of the danger which confronts them; and the second that you may organize forces to aid me against Varranagh. I am desperately in need of help. My followers have been depleted to the extent where now their sole effectiveness is in guerilla warfare. It was a small band of such fighters that rescued you and the girl from Varranagh’s henchmen. I regret they arrived too late to save the other being of your kind also. There is no telling how many of your people Varranagh may not have killed already in his mad plan of extermination.” Grevellon turned toward the doorway.

“Now follow me quickly. I will lead you from the building and to your vehicle that you may warn your people and prepare against Varranagh. There is not a moment to lose.”

Waring nodded and took Sally’s arm. “Come on—we’re getting out of here. I’ll explain everything later.”

There came an abrupt flurry of sound and motion. A Drurian burst into the room.

“The rebel, sir!” he gasped. “Varranagh has broken into the building. His men are advancing through every corridor!”

Grevellon’s stalk-like body sagged in despair. “Too late!” he groaned. “We’re trapped!”

CHAPTER IV

Desperate Venture

Waring felt hopeless, completely out of his element. Within him still was the old courage and cunning which had pulled him through many a hopeless situation during his service in the Interstellar Rangers. But he did not know the various details necessary upon which to base a course of action. He was ignorant both of the location of the building and its architectural plan, information which might have enabled him to suggest strategic places of defense or retreat. Neither did he know the extent of the opposing rebel forces, or the kind of weapons they used.

Yet he felt a compelling need for action which quickly dominated his first feeling of inadequacy. He turned to Grevellon.

“Is there any means of exit by which we could retreat from the building?” he queried swiftly.

The Drurian shook his domed head. “None, I am afraid. We are within the Crypts of Sleep, deep beneath this building which we call the Fort of Sleep. We Drurians did not vanish from the face of the planet as your people must have thought when finding our deserted cities. You see, a terrible sickness which we called the Sneezing Death had stricken Drur. Our people were decimated so rapidly that we feared the extinction of our race. The only way for those remaining to survive was by having themselves placed in suspended animation within specially constructed underground rooms until such time as the Sneezing Death had died out for lack of further victims. The buildings chosen for this purpose were called Forts of Sleep. There is one such in each city. We of this Fort have just lately awakened.”

“But what about the Drurians in the other five cities?” Waring wanted to know. “Have they awakened also?”

“Not yet,” Grevellon replied. “The controls of the sleep cabinets were timed to that we of this city should awaken before the others. We were then to determine whether or not the Sneezing Death was still present above us. If so, we were to return to suspended animation; if not, we were to awaken the others in the remaining cities. We have determined, however, that all danger of the Sneezing Death has gone. Yet I have hesitated to pull the master switch which would awaken my people in the other cities for the reason that Varranagh’s revolution would spread there also.”

Waring was astonished. “Do you mean he was plotting uprisings in all the other cities at the same time?”\

Grevellon nodded somberly. “Exactly. From what I have learned thus far, Varranagh has been plotting a revolution for a long time. The advent of the Sneezing Death merely postponed it. He has confederates planted in each of the other five cities. Pulling of the master switch would awaken them along with my own loyal followers, and with the advantage of surprise and organization, they would triumph easily.”

“I get the picture now,” Waring said. “This Varranagh wants to capture the master switch so as to awaken his men among the Drurians in the other cities. Then, after he has control there, he intends to go after my own people. Great space, it’s simple—and horrible. Isn’t there something we can do?”

Grevellon spread his long-fingered hands in a gesture of futility. “None—unless we could open the Arsenal.”

“The Arsenal?” Waring frowned his lack of understanding.

“It is a vast room on the same level as the Crypts of Sleep,” Grevellon explained. “Within it are the old weapons—the supreme achievements of Drurian science; robot soldiers, airships equipped with atomic bombs and destructive rays, protective screens, and various types of disintegrator weapons. Before Varranagh’s uprising, there had been peace on Drur for many centuries, and all implements of warfare had been placed within the Arsenal here in Cirron, the capital city. With them in our possession, we could defeat Varranagh easily.”

“Then why don’t you do so?” Waring demanded impatiently.

Again Grevellon spread his hands, “You do not understand. The lock of the Arsenal can be opened only by a combination of certain electronic frequencies. We have lost this combination through the passing of years. My men have found clues in various old records, and are working upon the combination. They have not yet solved it—nor is there any indication that they will, within the short space of time required. The doors of the Arsenal are of such atomic construction that no disintegrator beam can touch them. My followers, however, are holding the Arsenal corridor in the event that the combination is solved.”

“That’s too small a hope,” Waring pointed out. “Somehow, we’ve got to get out of this building. If I can warn my people and get them to help while you hold the master switch, Varranagh is certain to get what’s coming to him.” Waring straightened purposefully. “Your men are now defending the corridors here against the rebels?”

“Yes,” Grevellon responded. “But I fear they will not last long. Their number is already too few.”

“Then look,” Waring went on quickly, “have you the means to blow up the corridors—that is, block them against passage?”

“We have—yes. But what do you intend to do?”

“This—order your men to blow up all the corridors except those leading to the elevator. Then they can be assembled into a spearhead with which we can fight our way to the elevator. Do you see?”

Grevellon’s eyes lighted with new hope. “I do—and I shall carry out your plan at once.” He turned to the Drurians standing at attention within the doorway, issued quick commands.

With Sally, Waring followed Grevellon through the doorway and into a dimly-lighted passage. Now, faint with distance, he could hear sounds of struggle as Grevellon’s loyal fighters sought valiantly to halt the relentless advances of Varranagh’s rebels. Presently there came dull, booming sounds which heralded the blocking of the corridors.

Finally all was silent. A Drurian appeared up the passage on the run. He raised an arm to Grevellon in a gesture that was obviously a salute.

“It is done, sir,” he reported.

“Good!” Grevellon turned to Waring. “This is the test of your plan. May the gods grant that we reach the elevator! Follow me carefully now.”

Waring took Sally’s hand and trotted in the Drurian’s rear. Sally was bewildered at the proceedings because of her inability to understand the discussion which had taken place in the Drurian language. Waring explained pertinent bits of information as they went.

The route led through a confusing and seemingly interminable maze of dim-lit corridors. Slowly, an excited hubbub of sound deepened until at last a turn in one corridor brought them to where Grevellon’s men were gathered.

Grevellon shouted an order. The Drurians formed into ranks, a column of spindling giants that filled the corridor from one wall to the other. Then they released a loud roar and swept forward.

Grevellon gestured. “Come. My men form a protecting barrier for us, but keep low. If Varranagh does not anticipate this trick, we are fairly certain to win through.”

Waring transmitted this information to Sally. Gripping her hand, he raced along in the wake of Grevellon’s attacking spearhead as fast as his lame leg would allow.

The pounding feet of the Drurians echoed down the dim corridor like a never-ceasing roll of thunder. Several times they turned as they wound their course through the underground maze. Then, finally, a turn brought them to a corridor which was wider and higher than the others, more brilliantly lighted.

“Main corridor,” Grevellon panted. “The elevator is straight ahead.”

The spring of tension wound to ultimate tightness within Waring. Now, he thought. Now. Everything depended on what was going to happen within the next few minutes. His grip on Sally’s hand tightened.

Still they raced forward, yard after yard, until it seemed incredible that anything could stop their headlong advance. And then, abruptly, the battle cry of Grevellon’s warriors rose anew, and their mad pace slowed, halted entirely. Colored lights flamed into lurid being ahead, and shrill screams mingled with shrieked commands.

“Down!” Grevellon shouted. “Keep low. Varranagh has organized a counter-attack.”

Waring crouched with Sally behind the shelter of the column of loyal Drurians. An awed sense of horror grew within him as he thought of the carnage taking place ahead. The corridor was no place for a battle of the kind being waged, with the weapons being used. There was absolutely no room for cover, no room for movement save for that forward and backward. The two opposing groups could only rake each other with their terrible rays until the morale of one or the other finally cracked.

Several times Grevellon’s forces moved forward, though each time they were forced to retreat. Then the retreats predominated. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, Grevellon’s followers were forced back under the superior might of the opposing rebels. Then they turned at last to flee the battle, a screaming, clawing mass of panic-stricken Drurians.

“Varranagh has defeated our plan,” Grevellon almost sobbed. “Our last bid for existence has failed!”

CHAPTER V

Pardon My Sneeze

There was something of nightmare unreality about that frenzied retreat. Waring pulled Sally along while behind them pounded Grevellon’s routed troops. Pain throbbed agonizingly in Waring’s lame leg at the intense strain to which it was being subjected. He had hardly been conscious of it before, but now it was all he could do to keep himself in motion. He knew he could not stop, for it would mean being trampled under the racing feet of the demoralized Drurians behind him.

The retreat flowed back through the main corridor and retraced its way through the lesser ones. Finally they reached that farthermost portion of the Crypts from which they had originally started. To Grevellon’s men, this was the place of the last stand. Their terror changed swiftly to the desperate fury of trapped animals. Whirling upon Varranagh’s eagerly pursuing rebels, they unleashed a barrage of deadly rays. Taken by surprise, the rebels momentarily were forced back. And before they could recover, Grevellon yelled an order, and the passage was blown down, cutting off Varranagh’s men.

“That won’t hold them off for long,” Grevellon said labouringly. “Our deaths are only a matter of time.”

Waring, slumped on the floor of the passage, said nothing. Agony pulsed and flamed through the tortured muscles of his lame leg, and his mouth was pale and tight with suffering. Sally sat beside him, eyes closed, her head resting tiredly on his shoulder. Except for her, he would almost have been glad to have everything ended then.

He tried to find reproach within himself for his attitude of defeat—and failed. Never before had the stakes been so great, nor the odds against him so overwhelming. By comparison his adventures in the Rangers seemed but the game of a child. Here the lives of uncounted thousands depended upon what help he could give—the lives both of Grevellon’s loyal Drurians and of the Terran colonists on Faltronia—and there was nothing he could do. Varranagh had them trapped—whipped completely.

Grevellon voiced the end with fatalistic calm. “My men have instructions to sell their lives dearly, Varranagh will meet with heavy losses before he can claim this portion of Cirron. And as for myself, my last act will be to destroy the master switch. Varranagh will thus have to travel from city to city, awakening the rebels among the sleepers. Perhaps in that way your people will become warned.” He looked at Waring, and the grimness softened in his glowing eyes. “I regret, my friend from another world, that I can do nothing to save your life. I would die more gladly were I able to do so—”

Grevellon turned sharply at a sudden burst of excited activity down the passage. Waring saw several Drurians approaching on the run. The foremost held a small black box in his long-fingered hands.

“What is it, Evansu?” Grevellon demanded, his elongated body tense.

“The combination!” Evansu gasped breathlessly. “We have solved it at last!” For an instant Grevellon’s features lighted. Then his gaunt shoulders slumped listlessly. “What is the good—now?” he muttered. “The corridors are blocked, and Varranagh holds those leading to the Arsenal.”

Waring pulled himself erect. “Have you some method by which the corridors could be cleared?”

“The disintegrator beams can be adjusted to the necessary frequency,” Grevellon answered. “But it is a slow business at best.”

“If the openings are to be made large enough for an army—yes,” Waring flashed back. “But not if only for just a few men.”

“What good can just a few accomplish?” Grevellon protested.

Waring spoke eagerly. “Don’t you see? An army would warn Varranagh as before. But a few, penetrating his lines by stealth, might reach the Arsenal in safety.”

Grevellon’s eyes gleamed in sudden enthusiasm. “We can try it. The mission will be a perilous one—yet better than waiting here. If we can reach and activate the robot soldiers, Varranagh is doomed. We will go—Evansu, you, and I. My men will remain behind so as to deceive Varranagh into thinking that we are all still here.” He turned to give rapid instructions to his various subordinates.

Waring explained the plan to Sally. She put up a quick protest.

“But, Lon, you can’t leave me behind! Don’t you see? If you fail, we fail here, too. And if I have to die, I’d rather that it be with you.”

Waring frowned in aching thought. Then he nodded with reluctant slowness. “I’m afraid you’re right, Sally. The only thing to do is take you along. But I wish—” Waring did not finish. He turned away, his eyes filled with pain.

Evansu had strapped the combination device to his slender waist. Both he and Grevellon now gripped cylindrical ray projectors. They were ready to start.

Grevellon frowned when Waring revealed that Sally was to accompany them. “As few as possible would be safest. But if you wish it, then so be it. Now come.”

Grevellon chose a roundabout route to the Arsenal, one which led through a series of corridors that were least likely to be heavily guarded by the rebels. They started forward, the projectors eating narrow tunnels through the debris which filled the blocked passages. At first the going was comparatively rapid; the nearer corridors were entirely free of guards, since they had been so effectively blown down that Varranagh obviously had not thought them worth watching.

Soon, however, their progress had to be made with the utmost caution. As Grevellon and Evansu emerged once from a tunnel made by their projectors, they found themselves confronting three startled rebel guards. Fortunately, these were dispatched before they could give an alarm. But from then on, they went more slowly as the element of surprise could not always be counted upon.

Grevellon and Evansu developed a tactic which was greatly successful in its results. They would carve slowly through the debris of the blocked passages with their projectors until only a thin wall separated them from the space beyond. Then they would listen for the location of the rebels. Having determined this, they would burst suddenly through the thin crust, raking the corridor with their deadly rays. In this dangerous and painstaking fashion, they made much progress.

And then Grevellon turned to Waring, his large eyes glowing excitedly. “There is not much further to go. We will soon reach the Arsenal.”

Waring nodded, though he could not shake off a premonition of impending disaster. Things had been going entirely too smoothly. It just couldn’t last.

And disaster struck. They had turned from a branching corridor into one that was still intact, and were making their way swiftly toward its upper end. Suddenly, from the lower end behind them, a shrill challenge rung. There was but one answer to make.

“Run!” Grevellon snapped.

They plunged forward, all caution now abandoned. Behind, them, the rebel guard released shriek after shriek of alarm.

Down the corridor they raced. A turn—and then, set in a deep recess in one wall, they found themselves before the massive doors of the Arsenal.

“Quick—the combination,” Grevellon told Evansu. “Varranagh and his pack are warned. We have not an instant to waste.”

Evansu fumbled the combination device from his belt. He adjusted several small dials on its face, then pointed it at a circular grid set in the Arsenal doors. The device hummed faintly.

Waring gripped Sally’s arm, a grin of joy and relief starting at the corners of his mouth. It was over. Incredibly, they had won through.

But the doors of the Arsenal did not open. Evansu’s face paled.

“What’s the matter?” Grevellon prompted.

“The adjustment of the frequencies was not sufficiently exact,” Evansu stammered. Again he set the dials—and again the doors failed to open.

The clamor of voices and footfalls grew louder and ever louder. The rebels were approaching with dismaying rapidity.

Evansu’s hands trembled as he sought frantically to find the correct adjustment of electronic frequencies. His breath sobbed in his throat.

Waring snatched up Evansu’s ray projector and leaped to the edge of the recess. He had watched the method of the weapon’s operation, and now he knew just what to do. Pressing the stud in its side, he pointed the projector into the corridor. The disintegrator beam flashed out, and the nearest of the oncoming rebels vanished abruptly.

Grevellon hurried to join Waring, and for a moment they managed to stem the advance. But soon ray after terrible ray licked toward their refuge, and at last they were forced to duck back.

Evansu released a sudden yell of triumph. Waring whirled, his eyes widening in delight. The doors of the Arsenal were open!

Almost simultaneously, the rebels reached the recess. Waring and Grevellon were caught napping by their momentary diversion of attention. Before they could do so much as complete their individual motions of turning, the rebels swarmed over them.

Waring went down beneath a surge of stick-thin bodies. For some seconds, he struggled fiercely, but sheer weight of numbers soon overcame him. His arms gripped by fully a dozen rebels, he was finally hauled to his feet. He found himself facing a Drurian whose splendor of garb outrivaled even Grevellon’s. But there was no sympathy and gentleness in this face. It was sternly and coldly cruel.

“Varranagh!” Grevellon spat.

The rebel smiled with malicious triumph. “At your service, my dear Chief Coordinator. But not for long, I might add. We shall part very soon.” Varranagh’s smile broadened. “I see that you have managed to open the doors of the Arsenal. It was indeed thoughtful of you to provide me with the old weapons. They will make the remainder of my task that much easier.”

“They would have meant your death, if I had but had a few seconds more,” Grevellon said evenly.

“You didn’t, however,” Varranagh reminded mockingly. His features abruptly hardened. “But enough of this chatter. You die, my dear Chief Coordinator, and with you your alien companions!”

Varranagh snapped an order. Waring and the others were released. They stood together, a tiny group of four, while the execution squad of rebels lined up before them.

Varranagh raised his hand, narrowed eyes glittering. When it came down, Waring knew, death from a dozen projectors would leap out at them.

And then—strangely and illogically—the thought made him recall something. Out of this recollection he formed an abrupt plan. It was wild, almost silly, yet with extinction only split-seconds away, Waring did not waste time in doubt. He acted. Bending toward Sally, he whispered urgently into her ear.

Varranagh’s hand tensed preparatory to lowering. The rebels gripped their weapons more tightly, waiting for the signal. The scene held for an instant like a tableau of wax dummy figures. All was very quiet and still.

And then—before Varranagh’s hand could descend—Waring sneezed, a loud, lusty sneeze that exploded startlingly into the tense silence. A moment later Sally sneezed also.

Again Waring sneezed. He clutched at his chest and frightening grimaces writhed over his face. Strangling sounds came from his lips. His eyes rolled madly.

There was a stunned, utter silence. The rebels gazed at Waring and Sally as if they were the sudden materialization of every supernatural fear ever known to Drurians. Then the corridor echoed to a sudden bedlam of screams, shrieks, and yells. Flinging away their weapons, the rebels fled in terror. Kicking, clawing, and cursing, they fought frenziedly to get away.

“It’s a trick!” Varranagh shouted. “Come back, you fools!”

But the rebels were too intent on fleeing the scene to obey. The confusion had become ordered flight. The rebels streamed down the corridor and away. Within seconds only Varranagh was left in sight. His face was a distorted mask of insane hatred.

“Curse you!” he shrilled it Waring.

“I’ll finish it—myself!” His hand flashed to a projector hanging at his hip.

Waring left the floor in a leap. His clutching arms caught Varranagh about the middle. They sprawled violently backward to the floor. Waring was the first to his feet. With one hand he pulled Varranagh upright. The other, balled into a vengeful fist, leaped out from his shoulder. There was a dull crunching sound.

The rebel leader bounced from the opposite wall of the corridor and slid slowly to the floor. One glance at his queerly dangling domed head showed clearly that he would never move again. His neck had been broken by Waring’s blow.

Waring turned triumphantly to Grevellon and Evansu. But the two backed quickly away from him, covering their faces with their hands.

“Keep away!” Evansu cried. “You’ve got it—the Sneezing Death!”

“You are my friend,” Grevellon said. “I cannot thank you enough for what you have just done. But—please do not come any nearer.”

Waring threw back his head and released peal after peal of laughter. “It was a trick,” he explained. “I haven’t got the Sneezing Death any more than you have. You see, when the rebels faced us, their projectors made me think of flashing death. And that reminded me of the Sneezing Death. Knowing how greatly Drurians fear the disease, I got the idea of sneezing, just to see what would happen. And…well, I was more surprised than the rebels were!”

A moment later it was all Sally could do to pull the two wildly delighted Drurians from off Waring. “Give me a chance at him too,” she pleaded.

Waring translated. Grevellon smiled.

“She can have you for the present. Right now Evansu and I have work to do. Once we get the robot soldiers activated, there won’t be a rebel left on all the face of Drur!” Gesturing to Evansu, he disappeared into the gloomy depths of the Arsenal.

“Look at me,” Sally ordered Waring. “What do you see in my eyes now?”

“You looked darned glad to be alive,” Waring decided.

“Is that all, Lon? Can’t you see something else?”

“Yes,” Waring answered softly. “Yes, Sally.”

She went on eagerly. “And, Lon, can’t you see the future—your future and mine? With the Aliens back, the cities will no longer be almost entirety deserted. More colonists will come, and more. Faltronia will enter a new life. But most important, someone will have to act as go-between for Terrans and Drurians, and only you will be able to do that, because only you will be able to communicate with them. You won’t be tied down to a desk job any longer. You’ll be famous—and needed. Lon…can’t you see?”

Waring saw. His eyes were a little moist with the seeing…