The Onslaught from Rigel Part 22

"If it is a brief one. This interview is important to us."

"How many of your people are there on the earth?"

"It is inadvisable to answer that fully, but there are some hundreds.

Now tell us, are there any of these weapons near this place?"

Sherman thought. West Point--Watervliet a.r.s.enal--Iona Island, leaped into his mind. All three La.s.sans leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction and exchanged thoughts among themselves so rapidly that he could not follow the process. Then the two younger La.s.sans disconnected their helmets and the older one said,

"We are disposed to be generous to you, we will demonstrate one of our fighting machines to you if you will show us how to use these explosives."

There could be no particular harm in it, he argued to himself. The army was a thing of the past, and if there were other people out in the world, and he could take them a knowledge of the La.s.san fighting machines it would be of as much value as any information he could give.

He agreed.

The old La.s.san rose. "You will retain your helmet. It is a rule that none of the lower races are allowed in the fighting machines without them, and you would be unable to control one without our help in any case."

The car carried them to the blue-domed hall where he and Marta Lami had hidden behind the shining fish. A little pang of loneliness leaped up in him at the sight; he wondered where she was and whether she had been sent back to the machines. "No," the La.s.san's thought answered his, "the other servant has not been returned to the machines. Many of them are not working as a result of the recent trouble and the servant has been placed on other work instead. But I do not understand your idea that the other servant is somehow different from you."

"Do the La.s.sans, then, have no s.e.x?" the thought raced through his brain.

"s.e.x? Oh, I understand. The difference between two of the lower soft races that makes reproduction possible. Our birds have it. No, we have abolished it of course, as all higher races have. Our young are produced artificially."

CHAPTER XVI

A Dash for Freedom

They stood before the big machine. "You must do exactly as I tell you,"

the La.s.san informed him. "The machinery of this instrument is very delicate. First, to enter, you must reach up there, by that fin, and insert one of your fingers in the hole you will find."

As he did so Sherman saw a door, so closely fitted that when it closed there was no visible seam in the metal, swing back. They entered.

The interior of the machine was disappointingly smaller than its outside would have led one to expect. A narrow walk, railed on both sides, led down the center to the forward part. Along and slightly below this walk was a row of instrument boards not unlike those of the mining machine, and at each of these one of the ape-men lay, helmet on head, apparently asleep. "No, not asleep," the La.s.san told him, "they do not require it, like all our mechanical servants. They have merely been thrown into a state of nothingness till we need them."

At the prow of the machine the cat-walk widened into a control chamber.

One of the La.s.san couches was here and above it dangled a helmet which was connected with those of the slumbering ape-men. The La.s.san removed the helmet he wore and exchanged it for this. Before this was another seat in which Sherman took his position. A complex of controls surrounded him, most of them with the fingerholes which were the ordinary La.s.san method of handling machinery. Directly in front of this seat was a ground-gla.s.s panel, now dark but which lit up as soon as the La.s.san had connected up his helmet, to give an accurate picture of the hall in which the fighting machine stood.

"And can you see to a distance?" Sherman wondered. The answer he received was either confused or beyond his comprehension. He gathered that the four-winged birds of the La.s.sans acted in some way or other as their scouts, remaining in a kind of telepathic communication with the La.s.san in the fighting-machine they were a.s.signed to help....

Sherman was surprised to find how readily the enormous bulk and weight of the thing handled under the La.s.san's skilled control. He understood, without definitely asking, that the power was furnished by that "substance of life" to which the La.s.san had referred; in some way connected with the absolute destruction of matter....

The door swung open before them, leading them down a pa.s.sage that went up for some distance, then through an immense room where some twenty more of these giants lay stored, through it, and with surprising suddenness into the bright sunlight of a Catskill autumn day. As they emerged the viewing plate swung round to show them three of the big four-winged birds go whirring up from some unseen covert, spiral into the air above them and flying level with them, form an escort.

Like most mail aviators, Sherman held a commission in the Army Reserve and had been to West Point. It was not difficult for him to guide the great fighting machine there, to find a field gun and ammunition and load it into the fighting machine. He knew very little about artillery of any kind, but when they returned to the door of the La.s.san city, he was enough of a mechanic to get the sh.e.l.l into the breech and find the firing mechanism. The gun went off with an earsplitting crack and the sh.e.l.l whistled down the valley to burst against a green hillside where they saw a graceful pine dip and fall to the shock.

And just at that moment such a sense of disturbance and alarm invaded Sherman's mind as he had never felt before. He looked around; the group of La.s.sans who had poured out of the city to see the experiment with the gun was gathered in a tight knot, eagerly conversing with one another.

The old La.s.san who was conducting him turned round abruptly. "Into the fighting-machine at once," he commanded. "Our birds have sent a message that they are being attacked by some strange creature of your world."

As Sherman climbed through the door of the fighting machine he glanced over his shoulder to see, far down the valley a black speck against the sky. An airplane? he wondered and it suddenly occurred to him that however great his thirst for information, he should have kept his knowledge of guns from the La.s.sans; for if there were other people alive out there in the world the day might come when it would be a battle--and explosives were as new to the La.s.sans as the light-ray to the children of men.

After that it became a struggle.

Sherman found he had to be constantly on his guard; constantly he had to conceal knowledge from the probing, insistent mind-helmets. The La.s.sans seemed interested in only one subject now: human methods of making war, human guns, human armor, human ships. Once they brought him an encyclopedia and as he held it on his lap went over every word of the articles on military subjects, questioning and cross-questioning him.

Fortunately, it was an old encyclopedia, and he knew so little about it that in most cases he was able to throw open his mind and let his opponents see that it lay empty on these subjects. And still they were not satisfied.

Yet if he gave information, he also received it; for little by little an understanding of the subtle material they called pure light became part of his mental equipment....

One day, as he returned from a long session in the questioning room and his cage clicked into position behind him, he was startled by a cheery, strident voice:

"Well, well, if it isn't my old pal, Herbie. How's the boy?"

Sherman looked around. In the next cage was Marta Lami, grinning and extending her hand through the bars.

"For Heaven's sake!" he said, and took the offered hand. "How did you get here?"

"How does anyone get anywhere around this place? In one of those patent Fords of theirs."

They gazed at each other for a moment, too glad of a familiar face to make the ordinary ba.n.a.l remarks. The dancer spoke first:

"Well, did they put the screws on you, big boy? They tried to pump me about that accident but all I'd think about was how good Broadway would look with all the lights, and they didn't make much out of me."

"I'll say they put the screws on me. They've had me in there every day since, trying to find out something about guns."

"Guns? What t'h.e.l.l! Ain't they got that light-ray? They could give cards and spades to all the guns in the world with that. Wait a minute, though...." She thought for a moment. "Do you know, I think they're scared yellow about something and I'll bet a hundred dollars against a case of bathtub gin I know what it is."

"Yeh? Spring it. They keep pumping me and I'd like to know what it's all about."

The dancer glanced around. On the far side of her cage was an inattentive ape-man tossing his oil-ball about, across the corridor another. "Come over here," she said. "They haven't put me next to you for the fun of it, and they may have a dictaphone stuck around somewhere."

Obediently Sherman approached the bars of the cage.

"They put me to work making those fighting-machines," she whispered, "you know, those big shiny things like we hid behind that day we tried to make the break. They had the helmets on me most of the time because I didn't know how to use their tools and machines and I got a lot of what the guy that was running me was thinking about. He was d.a.m.n nervous about something, and I think it was because there are some people outside going to take a whack at these babies."

"People like--us?" asked Sherman.

"I don't know. I didn't get it very good, but I think they're ordinary flesh-and-blood people. They came and got a lot of the dopeys from the room where I lived the other day and put them in one of the new fighting-machines and took it out. It never came back."

"Mmm," said Sherman, "do you s'pose that was because it got cracked up or because they took it somewhere else?"

"Dunno. But something's stirring."

If the La.s.sans had set a dictaphone or some similar device to spy on them there was no sign of it in the conversation which Sherman's interrogator held with him during the next period. But when he saw the dancer again, she beckoned him silently to her side, and producing from one of her drawers a book, began to trace letters on it with a fingernail dipped in grease.

"_Be careful what you say_," she wrote. "_They know what we're talking about. They pumped me._"