FOR most of the time Aura was sedated. Engulfed in blackness, she swam in and out of consciousness. She was unable to open her eyes. The blackness swirled her in pain. She awoke from nightmares only to endure the anguish she had fled. Occasionally, she determined she lay on a metal table, her ankles and wrists clamped down tightly; she never remembered for long. At first, she could not decide if the pain was enjoyable; however, its gradual but persistent growth eventually terrified her. Never before had immediacy been so overwhelming, reducing her sense of identity to a microcosm.
It stands to reason that under such circumstances, time was meaningless. Aura did not know how long she had endured the pain when she became aware of a smug Kala and a condescending Klytus standing over her. She lay on a metallic table coated with gold finish, her wrists and ankles imprisoned by gold, mechanical, disembodied hands. The room, for its space, contained only instruments of torture.
Klytus ran his sheathed hand down her naked back. Her jumpsuit had been torn into shreds during the procedure; the sole intact section, really, was that over her stomach, and it was so drenched in her perspiration that it stuck to the table. “Your lover Barin is harboring Gordon in Arboria, is he not?”
“Is your hand sterilized?”
Klytus moved as if to slap her. She squinted, attempting to hide her face behind her arm in anticipation of the blow, but his hand merely trembled before he regained control of himself.
“No,” said Aura meekly, belatedly answering him, knowing she was on the verge of breaking.
A red light on the table to her left glowed.
“This lying is a waste of time,” said Klytus.
Kala placed her hand on Aura’s cheek; her black leather glove was smooth and soft. “You left with a pilot and returned alone. Wasn’t he Gordon in disguise?”
“No!”
Kala smiled. “Then who was he?” She ignored the glowing red light.
“Just a young pilot. Believe me, he’s nobody important. When I rejected his clumsy advances, he declared he couldn’t live without me. Before I could stop him, he opened the hatch and hurled himself onto the rocks below.”
Kala stared at her prisoner. Then she straightened, placed her hands on her hips, closed her eyes, and laughed. Her ecstatic laughter echoed in Aura’s ears long after the whip stung the air. Its tips cut deeply into the bared back, breaking open scabs and creating at least one fresh streak. For the first time since the procedure began, Aura felt drops of her blood run down her side and stomach, forming a tiny pool on the table. Kala struck Aura until Klytus impatiently gestured for it to end.
“Whom do you imagine you are protecting?” asked Klytus. “The doctor who helped you revive Gordon? We know he’s another lover of yours . . .”
“You’ve gone mad!” exclaimed Aura.
Klytus spoke into a communicating device in his hand. “This is General Klytus. Seize Doctor Lem on suspicion of treason. Prepare him for torture.”
Kala slapped her bloody whip against her thigh. “Confess and we’ll stop the torture. We don’t want to hurt you. We don’t like doing this at all!” She drew out these last words with exquisite pleasure as she prepared to bring the whip down on Aura’s bloodied back once again. Klytus caught her arm.
“Never!” said Aura. “Do your worst! I can stand it! Someday I’ll laugh about this—and you’ll both be dead!”
“We’ll see about that,” replied Klytus. “Bring me the Bore Worms, Kala.”
Several seconds elapsed before Aura found her voice. “No! Not the Bore Worms!”
“I admit their method of entry is a trifle messy, not to mention undignified,” said Klytus. “But those who have endured Bore Worms have said the pain caused when they begin devouring the colon is among the most excruciating in the cosmos. From what I’ve been able to ascertain of your likes and dislikes down through the years, I should think you’d be looking forward to this.”
When Kala stood before her, holding a large pair of tweezers and a jar filled with the squirming white worms, Aura screamed, “I’m a Princess of the Blood, Klytus. My father will have your head for this! I swear! He’ll execute you and your entire perverted secret police force! I demand to see him!”
“With pleasure,” answered Klytus nonchalantly. He touched a button on the table console.
A section of the chamber wall before Aura dissolved into blackness. A hologram of Ming the Merciless appeared; he stood sipping a drink. He had been watching the entire procedure.
“The traitor is close to confessing, Your Majesty,” said Klytus. “Should we stop the torture?”
Ming dipped a fruit into the chalice. “No.”
Since the women were not due back to the village for another two days, Prince Barin celebrated the capture of Flash Gordon in the sole method remaining to him. That is to say, he got plastered. Dreamy eyed, he sat swaying on a branch, his elbow across his knee and his back propped against a trunk rubbed smooth by generations of drunken Tree Men. Fico, a gaunt minstrel with sharp canine teeth (the result of radioactive contamination on his mother’s side), reclined on a smaller branch, kicked off his boots, and played a panpipe. The spirits had ensnared his, and he was open to communication from the celestial spheres. Normally, his music took Barin on a similar, though much more melancholy, journey, but today the Prince could not prevent his mind from dwelling on the mundane. “This damnable loyalty of mine—what is it?” Barin stared at the minstrel as he contemplated his next words. It took him a few moments, but he finally said, “Why is it that I’m reluctant to put aside my personal hatred for that Earthling who keeps upstaging me? Why do I not heed his words and join him in the fight against our mutual oppressor?”
Lowering his panpipe, Fico raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t the Princess Aura and her apparent infatuation with this primitive have something to do with it?”
Barin laughed and waved both his hands. “Oh, she may be Ming’s daughter and the heir to his throne, but I don’t care with whom or how many times she does it. She’s only a woman and there’re plenty of them.”
“Too many space hounds in the void, eh, Prince?”
“Exactly.”
But Fico knew better. He played a few random notes. “No, there must be some other reason why I’m loyal to Ming,” said Barin, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps it’s a disease of your blood, my Prince. Remember that as a child, you saw your father executed for rebelling against the Emperor. Naturally, you prize loyalty. Who the hell wants to die that way? But the question is: Is your loyalty to Ming the stronger, or is it your hatred of Flash Gordon?”
Barin leaped up, knocking over his flagon. “I’ll kill Gordon now!”
“And lose Princess Aura forever?” asked Fico, setting the flagon right without looking away from Barin. “There’s a better way. Let me tell you how to dispose of Gordon so that Ming might be satisfied, and how to keep faith with the Princess too.”
Though the surface of the dank swamp was calm, a continuous undertow pulled the prisoners under. Only a small level portion of the cage was above the surface, forcing the prisoners to hold on to the wooden bars. At first Flash believed the situation would not depress his spirits. He spent his initial minutes in the cage accepting the tremendous alteration which had come over his life; the thought of escape could wait . . . briefly. Once he had believed himself master of his destiny; because he had, within limits, shaped his life to his own ends, he had believed all men possessed similar powers, and thus was unsympathetic to several important precepts of twentieth-century philosophy. However, blind circumstance (or perhaps mysterious, more ethereal forces) had shown him otherwise. His previous achievements had been rendered meaningless phantoms as he vainly attempted to reassert a minimal control over his life. At least he now expected the unexpected. He resolved he would fight for his life—against each new danger the Mongian system threw at him. And he would rescue his friends; important philosophical precepts were inconsequential in light of his stirred emotions. His desire for Dale filled him with a saintly passion and worship; his concern for Dale and Zarkov, his fear for their fates, filled him with worry and despair. He accepted his emotional highs and lows; he did not care to think of his resolutions in terms of “going with the flow,” due to the perpetual undertow weakening his grip on the cage, but the phrase did accurately mirror his conclusions. Now his mind was free to turn to thoughts of escape.
However . . .
He soon realized the undertow demanded all his attention. The seconds crawled by as he held on to the bars with all his strength. The hot swamp water, as much as his efforts, caused perspiration to flow from his face. He breathed through his mouth to minimize the odors—the green water, the debris and waste slowly gliding by, the rotting flesh of the HawkMan also held captive. Gangrene had set in, and the poor fellow was losing strength quickly. Not that the Frigian was doing much better; his wound constantly oozed blood and pus. Flash found himself supporting the pair. After a time he did not think of escape; all his concentration was centered on holding his companions and keeping his free hand wrapped around a bar. The HawkMan’s arms encircled his neck, and the Frigian was limp in his embrace. The hissing Lizard Men occasionally tried to usurp the area, but the trio managed to kick away and otherwise intimidate the cowardly creatures.
It was difficult to see. Eerie phosphorescent plants provided this section of the swamp with a dim lighting barely able to penetrate the wisps of green fog. Flash glimpsed huge tree trunks not twenty yards away; sometimes he saw the surface break as an Arborian creature passed by; occasionally Tree Men above jeered at the prisoners. These were but impressions. Soon his entire universe was centered on the cage and his efforts to save his fellows from drowning
Perhaps they had been struggling together for an hour when the Frigian said weakly, “It’s no use. I can’t hold on.”
“Never say die,” Flash replied sternly.
“I must. My suffering must end so I may be reborn.” The Frigian pushed himself away before Flash could prevent it. He sank, hardly causing a ripple in the smooth green surface.
Flash moved to go after him, then remembered the dying HawkMan around his neck. He hesitated. Even if he managed to save the Frigian, the HawkMan would die. Perhaps it did not matter. Both the Mongians were on the verge of death anyway, and what difference—one way or the other—did a few moments of life make? Flash did not resist the white hatred welling up inside him and saturating his spirit.
Damn Barin!
Four Tree Men alighted on the cage, causing it to sink a few more inches beneath the surface. They had stepped from a platform controlled by a pulley system. Two of Barin’s men held the arms of a gaunt man with sharp canines whose hands were bound behind him. The remaining Tree Man opened the hatch. He then kicked at Flash’s face through the space between the bars, supposedly to discourage any foolhardy escape attempts.
They freed the prisoner’s hands before they threw him through the opening and into the swamp. “Sleep well, you traitor,” said one. “We’ll pull out your heart in the morning!”
“Yes, if you live till morning!” said another.
The Tree Men stepped onto the platform and tugged on the ropes. They were soon lost behind the weak glow.
The new prisoner laughed.
“That’s the spirit,” said Flash. “There’s always hope.”
“Better than hope,” said Fico the minstrel. “I stole a key to this cage.” He held it before Flash’s face. “We’ll need weapons to cross the swamp. They’re stored in the temple. Will you climb up with me?”
“Damn straight I will!” Flash helped the HawkMan get the best grip possible on the bars. Just before he and Fico opened the cage, he said, “Hold on, HawkMan. We’ll be back. I promise.”
Angry that they had been prevented from escaping after the two left, the Lizard Men hissed and beat at the HawkMan.
Prince Vultan felt the involuntary mating urges that signaled another three hours of irrational behavior and bawdy dancing just as soon as a female of his species succumbed to similar desires. As he held his dish to his mouth and picked up grain with his tongue, he was forced to admit today was a good time for mating. The skies were blue, the clouds were vivid white, and the Sky Palace shone with an utterly appealing dull luster. He set down the dish, plucked a few stray pieces of grain from his beard, and watched the procession of HawkGirls carry the trays of dessert (pastries spiked with insects and grubs) to his men squatting on benches about the banquet tables. Would a HawkGirl soon be overcome by the urges? Which lovely creature would the ineffable passions randomly select for him; with what creature would he spend a year of loving, cooing, and billing, discovering all sorts of unpleasant things about her personality (not to mention his own), only to have all emotional feeling between them evaporate into nothingness in a year’s time? One day they would be soul mates; the next he would be Prince of the HawkMen and she would be an underling; perhaps a mutual friendship would grow as the eggs hatched and they supervised the education and flight training of their little ones, but the passion would be gone forever, merely a dim memory barely illuminating his lonely nights as he waited for the unpredictable mating urges to return.
The banquet room was an open-aired circle, with partitions of silver curtains and columns of metal squares strung together, all of which were purely nonfunctional but which lent such an attractive element that Vultan insisted the area be cleaned of droppings and fumigated every day. The landing docks led directly to the banquet room, and it was here that Vultan received dignitaries (or, more likely, captives) from other moons of the Mongian system. In the center was a flat, silver disk separated from the remainder of the room by seven meters.
His rear shaking with pleasure and excitement, Luro (still thin, dark, and unruly) stood at the entrance to the dock. “Fortune has smiled upon us!” he called. “Guess who Big Blue has brought us!” He pointed to the Hawk Men approaching in the sky.
Soon Dale and Zarkov, escorted by Hawk Men, entered. Dale smiled stiffly but sincerely. “Hi there, Prince Vultan! Remember us?”
Usually Vultan did not find mammals beautiful, but he thought in this case he would make an exception. “Indeed I do, my lovely!” he exclaimed. With a great laugh, he picked up Dale and set her down amidst the pastries on the table. Her high heels did not provide much footing on the slippery repast.
“We escaped from Ming’s palace,” said Zarkov. “We throw ourselves on your mercy and beg help.”
“You escaped from the palace?” exclaimed Vultan. “That sounds like a terrific story. You must tell it to me sometime.” As he spoke, he gestured for Luro to stand beside him. He whispered from the side of his mouth, “Call Ming. Tell him I’m ready to trade prisoners for my daughter Rima.”
“Call him?” exclaimed Luro. He then realized it was imperative for him to lower his voice. “At this time? He’s knocked off by now.” Luro nervously nibbled at his shoulder. “You know how the Emperor prizes his spare time.”
“Call him,” said Vultan sternly, between his teeth.
“I agree this is important and I agree that he’ll ask why he wasn’t informed at once, but he’ll order my execution before he even gives me a chance to tell him, and what’s more, he won’t change his mind. Don’t you remember Scurvo? Ming agreed wholeheartedly that the Lizard Rebellion demanded his immediate personal attention, but he had Scurvo tortured anyway. Just for the hell of it. I suppose Ming thought it amusing or something. I don’t really care. But I . . .”
“CALL HIM!” yelled Vultan, staring at his fists. His entire body trembled as he controlled his rage.
“You wouldn’t,” said Dale, getting off the table.
Zarkov stepped forward. “Vultan, listen, I understand you owe us nothing. All right, I can accept that. Still, and as a reasonable man you must concur with me, you can’t make deals with a madman. I know what I’m talking about because we tried that back on Earth and it didn’t work. You must destroy Ming before he destroys you.”
Luro laughed. “That’s easy for you to say. Ming’s army outnumbers us ten to one, and they have superior hardware. Our weapons need at least another year of preparation before we can fight.”
Dale shrugged with a dignified air. “Humph. Ming’s not unbeatable.” She placed her arms on her hips and shook her shoulders. “All his boys couldn’t even kill Flash.”
Vultan spit out a mouthful of grain. Walking onto the table and over a bench, he exclaimed, “Gordon’s alive!”
“Where?” asked Luro, scrambling behind his Prince.
“He’s in Arboria. Prince Barin is aiding him!” Hans Zarkov, Earth scientist, man of peace, held his fist before Vultan’s face. “I tell you—now’s the time to strike!”
In the laboratory where Zarkov had been “brainwashed,” next to the chamber where Aura had been tortured, Klytus gave a sealed scroll to Ming. “Here is the confession, Your Majesty.”
Ming curled his lip as he took it; he bounced it in his hand a few times. “Excellent, Klytus. A wonderful bout of torturing, delicately performed.”
The masked man bowed. “I am honored to have received such praise.”
Ming waved it off, as if to say “Of course.”
“But I’ve one question, if I may.”
Ming nodded.
“What of the traitoress? Should I proceed with the execution?”
Placing his hands behind his back, Ming sucked in his stomach and raised his shoulders; he nearly swaggered down the steps to the lower level. “No, I think a year in Frigia should cool down my daughter. Then, who knows? Perhaps We might marry her off to someone worthy of her treachery.”
“Why, thank you, Sire,” said Klytus with genuine pleasure; he was already savoring the moment. “What can I ever do to repay you?”
“Just get me the traitors Gordon and Barin!”
Klytus bowed. “It shall be done!” He paused a moment. “With pleasure.”
Flash and Fico, the Tree Man, entered the dark temple; the former searched for weapons, and the latter knelt to pick up the sole weapon in the temple, a knife lying beneath a window.
“Where are the weapons?” asked Flash eagerly, though he secretly wondered how crossbows and knives would help him rescue his friends.
“Heh, heh, feel one,” replied Fico, pressing the point of a double-edged blade in Flash’s back. There was the heavy rustle of men making no effort to conceal their approach. Just like the cops, thought Flash. Each window was suddenly filled with Tree Men, their swords and knives bared.
Barin and the old priest entered the doorway as men standing outside ignited torches. The men in the windows were briefly silhouetted pitch black against the blinding white, and the visual effect encompassed Flash’s entire field of sight. The glow of the torches quickly diminished as the men jumped from the windows and surrounded Flash in a line of blades. The second shift hung the torches on fixtures inside the temple, then calmly withdrew their swords and knives, becoming a second row of blades as well.
Leaning against a wall, Barin restrained a smile with difficulty. “Do you know where you are?”
“Don’t you?” asked Flash.
“You have trespassed where only a Tree Man may enter!” said the old priest. “Fortunately Fico and a friend managed to see you commit this heinous crime. A stranger in our temple must try the Wood Beast or die!” His indignation could only have been the result of genuine rage; Flash guessed they both had been duped.
“It figures,” said Flash. “You guys must make up these dadblamed rules as you go along!”
“That has been our custom since time immemorial,” said Prince Barin. “You entered here of your own free will, Earthling. But I swear by the Great God Arbor, because of my word to Aura, I won’t kill you unless you beg me to.”
“If you’re so confident of victory”—Flash’s eyes narrowed—“then why don’t you try against me? How do you know your God Arbor isn’t on my side?” Improvising desperately, he knew a slim chance of victory was better than none at all.
The men regarded each other with hard, meaningful expressions. A few mumbled about the possibility Flash had been sent here by the ineffable.
That’ll be as good a reason as any, thought Flash.
As the Earthling had expected, Barin took it as a personal affront that his men would rationally consider the proposition. “The Beast lies somewhere in this stump. At all times, there are five safe passages; the Beast always inhabits the sixth. Its venom contains a substance so poisonous that the merest scratch infects its victims with a bliss so glorious and magnificent that it drives them insane. The victims slowly die witless.”
“You mean—like the Joke that Kills?” asked Flash.
“Something like that,” said Barin. “Are you scared? No? Well then, let the test begin!”
As the priest poked his staff into the stump, Flash glared at Barin. “You first,” he dared.
Snorting once, Barin removed his glove, tucked it in his belt, and walked toward the Wood Beast. When he thrust his arm into a stub, he stared at Flash as if his fate was a trifle in light of his overwhelming hatred. He withdrew his arm with a triumphant air. “What would Aura think of you now?”
Despite Barin’s cockiness, Flash could not help but notice that he had pulled out his arm somewhat quicker than the youth had. The Terran quarterback did not take the time to contemplate his approaching death or to move ponderously, as befits a man taking the loneliest walk. Returning Barin’s stare with an equal amount of antipathy, he abruptly thrust his arm into a stub. He trembled when he removed it.
Barin stuck in his arm up to the elbow. The creature hissed and growled, and Barin held his breath. But he pulled out his arm unharmed.
Once again, Flash thrust his arm. Barin licked his lips as he anticipated the inevitable. Rarely did the Wood Beast wait four times before striking. The Prince controlled himself with difficulty when, despite the Beast’s growling, it was apparent the Earthling was safe. For the time being.
“Second down,” said Flash, wiping perspiration from his brow. “Your play.”
Barin shook his head. “No, yours.”
“Are you sure these are the rules?”
“They’ve just been changed,” said Barin grimly.
Flash glanced at the Tree Men surrounding him. It appeared he had no choice but to continue. He thrust in his arm a third time, withdrawing it as soon as he dared.
With another nod, Barin indicated that Flash was to try a fourth time. Flash complied.
He gasped. The Wood Beast hissed. Flash’s mouth twitched and for a moment he had trouble retracting his arm. His hand covering his wrist where the wound should be, he whirled toward Barin. His eyes asked all the questions.
“Death is certain,” said Barin. “But only after tortured madness.”
“How—how long?” asked Flash.
Barin smiled and shrugged. “Hours—or days. Depending on your strength. I think you could last, oh, maybe two days. At least.”
Flash fell to his knees; he threw back his neck and exposed his chest to the Tree Man’s blade. “Please—end it now!”
Allowing the moment to creep as long as he dared, Barin slowly raised his sword. Flash suddenly pulled the Prince’s legs out from under him. Suffering a nasty bump on his head, Barin released his sword. He lay stunned, as his men stood frozen. Flash picked up the sword and held the tip at his throat.
“I tricked you, Barin!” He allowed the Prince to see that his wrist had not been stung. “One move and your boys’re going to be looking for a new prince.”
Standing over Barin for several moments, Flash stared deep into his eyes, attempting to reach the decent he sensed in the Mongian’s heart. His instincts, normally infallible in such matters, could not fail him a second time. The Tree Men backed away, dropping their weapons at the Earthling’s silent command.
Discarding the sword (because keeping it would hinder his escape), Flash bounded out an opening and leaped from the boardwalk. He caught a vine and slid down it as quickly as he dared.
Inside the temple, before the Tree Men had reacted, Barin cried, “He’s mine! I hunt him alone!”
The vine ended twenty feet above the swamp. Wondering if he would strike land or water, Flash dropped through the green mists. He landed in a foot of particularly fetid liquid. Without glancing about (he could not see far in any direction), Flash ran beneath the village. He did not have a plan per se; he was still desperately improvising. He hoped to return later and hijack a flier or something, but his immediate objective was to avoid recapture.
He dashed through a maze of swirling green mist. Occasionally he paused, felt his heart pounding, wondered how long he could continue running madly before he collapsed in an exhausted heap; his subsequent running was at a quicker pace, though it ultimately slowed until he paused again. The mists caressed and cooled his perspiration. His trousers soaked water up to his thighs, weighing him down as much as his fatigue; he perceived his steps as sluggish. Coherent fragments flickered through his mind as he ran. What if he traveled in a circle? What if he became lost forever? What would happen to Dale and Zarkov then? The frantic trembling of panic weakened his leg muscles. Beyond loomed what appeared to be a large shallow pool; near a huge trunk on the opposite side hung three vines. Flash smiled. Perhaps he might pick up information on his pursuers. Who knows? He might even reassert some control over the situation. He made for the vines.
He stepped on what appeared to be a carpet of leaves over mud; and immediately sank to his waist in quicksand. All manner of horrible scenarios occurred to him, each one ending with his death. He imagined himself smothering to death, gasping for oxygen and instead sucking warm gook into his mouth and up his nose. Spotting some vines that led toward solid ground, he lunged for them, an effort which only caused him to sink another foot. He wished that he could reach the vines without lunging, but he was sinking too quickly to tread his way slowly. He had no choice but to lunge again. And again. The quicksand was up to his shoulders when he realized, with a shudder, that his only opportunity to grab the vines would be beneath the surface. His skin feeling as if it was pulling up stakes and crawling away from him, he submitted to the tug of the quicksand and blindly moved his hands through the density.
He found the vines. He pulled his head above the surface, experiencing a tremendous elation. Only in retrospect did he realize how much he feared death by suffocation. He pulled himself with difficulty to the dry land, turned over on his back, and drank in the sweet, musty air of Arboria. He lay silently for a moment. The peacefulness of the swamp was suddenly, surreally broken when the ground began to slurp.
Something big and blunt pressed against him, bearing him down before he could scramble from beneath it. The slurping ground swelled up like a frog’s bulging throat. Instinctively, he grabbed at what appeared to be a huge spider leg before it weighed down his shoulder, and his free hand waved about until it, too, grasped a spider leg. He felt a tiny mouth equipped with a pair of miniature pincers working in the middle of his back. It would take that mouth a long time to eat him, but the spider legs would ensure he stayed within its pitiful range. The spider would slowly eat him for hours.
For the first time since he landed on Mongo, Flash panicked. He had endured shock after shock; he had been granted reprieve after reprieve, only to die helplessly in the grip of a giant spider. He fought back, but not with reason. He snapped off the tip of a spider leg and, rolling over, tried to pierce the inflated belly. But the skin was as tough as leather.
Standing on a gnarled root twice his height, Barin watched the struggle with a stoic façade. However, his stomach glowed with warmth, and he foresaw his future with a curious, overwhelming optimism. Soon the man he hated most in the universe would be shreds awaiting entry into the Sloth Spider’s mouth. The blood vessels in Barin’s forehead throbbed. No, he would have to produce Gordon’s body if Aura and Ming were to believe his story. He aimed his crossbow at the spider’s stomach; he fired the incendiary arrow.
Flash listened as the arrow whizzed through the air and exploded in a shower of white sparks against the leathery stomach, deflating it like a stationary helium balloon. The legs immediately eased the pressure on Flash, enabling him to push himself to one end of the spider. White pus flew from the wound in a sputtering stream whose volume drowned the creature’s last gasping slurps.
When Flash saw Barin standing over him and realized the Prince and no other had rescued him, he barely restrained a shout. He had reached Barin’s well of decency!
He, too, felt a curious surge of optimism, but it quickly sank in the despair that nurtures a fatal discouragement as Barin quietly reloaded his weapon.
These people are just a mass of contradictions, thought Flash.
Barin grinned and aimed. Flash made ready to jump, but the spider’s skin had folded over his feet. Breaking away would be difficult.
Suddenly, a laser beam blasted the crossbow from Barin’s hands. Equally surprised, the foes turned to see a Hawk Man perched on a limb, with several of his fellows hovering nearby.
“Vultan wants a word with you, Barin.”
“This arrogant scum begs a thousand pardons for having the impertinence to wake you, Most Imperious Leader,” said the pilot of the transport flier. “Truly my head should be shorn from my shoulders and my precious jewels stuffed into my mouth for daring to distract you from the pleasant dreams which have doubtlessly ensnared you.”
“What is your report?” replied Klytus. His tone hinted at weariness and confusion. He lay nearly perpendicular to the floor in a coffinlike bed installed in the wall.
“We’ve scanned a HawkMan patrol four hundred miles east I am most ashamed to admit I anticipate your pleasure as I say that the HawkMen have Gordon and Prince Barin with them.”
Klytus stifled a yawn. “They are flying toward the Sky Palace?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Wake me when it’s in sight.” Klytus pressed a button; a panel slid down and enclosed the bed in darkness, concealing it from the crew, as it sank to a horizontal position.
Prince Vultan squatted on his silver Royal Perch in the banquet room of the Sky Palace. His mating urge had totally disappeared, but it would return soon enough, as soon as he took care of certain matters. His toes picked up straw and crushed it between them, his sole indication of nervousness as he scrutinized Gordon and Barin. (Though he ran his fingers through his beard, the allusion was to calculating detachment rather than agitation.) Pecking at either shoulder with no discernible rhythm, Luro stood beside the Hawk Man Prince; once he reached behind a guard and took a sweetmeat from a banquet table, but a disapproving glance from Vultan convinced him to return it.
Flash and Barin were flanked by guards. The awesome beauty of their journey from Arboria—in addition to their utter dependence on the strength of their captors—had so dazzled them they had forgotten the pressing issues of the Mongian kingdom, and they were only now becoming capable of coping with reality. Barin exclaimed, “You’d sell us to Ming?!”
Vultan rolled his eyes. “By the Gods, I think your surprise is genuine! Come on, Barin, do you actually expect mercy here? What would you do if I was a captive in your kingdom?”
Barin snorted disdainfully. “I would remind you of Article Seventeen of Ming’s Law: ‘No captive Prince of Mongo shall be offered for ransom without the option of combat with an opponent of his choice.’ ”
His eyes closed and his head bobbing, Vultan impulsively gestured for Barin to hurry it up during the recitation. Then he grasped the implications. His eyes popped open. “I haven’t read that stupid book in years. Does such an article exist?” he asked Luro.
“I’m afraid it does.”
Barin beamed. “I’ve read it many times,” he said proudly.
“You had good reason after Ming executed your father,” said Luro viciously.
“Now, now,” said Vultan, “I seem to recall Ming executed your father too.” He turned to Barin. “This is a damned nuisance. Who do you choose to fight?”
Barin glared at Flash. “Him!”
Stunned by this latest unexpected development, the Earthling exclaimed, “This place is a lunatic asylum!”
A giant of a HawkMan with rippling bronzed muscles swung a mallet with all his strength at a gong a third taller than he. As Dale listened to the reverberations resulting from the meeting of the mallet and the metal, she could not help but think her life had somehow become a J. Arthur Rank Production. Like a fragile sex object with no will of her own, she had been yanked from one melodramatic situation only to be thrust into another. As she and Zarkov walked to the court (glimpsing the HawkMen perched on benches and tables through the spaces between the curtains), she wondered what ludicrous ceremony her captors would soon subject her to. She noticed Zarkov making mental figures while staring at his watch. “Hans, just what are you doing?”
“I’m computing just how much longer the Earth has remaining. Making allowances for time variables and other factors which seem farfetched to the layman, I calculate the Earth has about thirteen hours and five minutes left.”
“That’s wonderful! You’re telling me we have to save the Earth and we haven’t even found . . .” Then, she saw him!
When Flash saw Dale approaching, running along the border of the opening in the center of the banquet room, he broke away from Vultan and the guards too quickly for them to detain him. The vision of her—with her arms outstretched, her cheeks red with passion, her smile so sincere and gay—molded his life into a solid thing of permanence. Though he feared he would clumsily collide with her, she drifted into his strong arms like a dream personified. Her lips touched his for the first time, and it seemed the history of his entire life had inexorably led to this moment. What did it matter if this was a deterministic universe? The point was that he was in love, questions of free will be damned! He had never before felt so free as during those ten seconds when their lips drank in passions wild and plentiful before the awestruck court of the Hawk Men (not even the most famous mating rituals of legends equalled this).
“It’s so crazy!” Dale breathlessly whispered into his ear. “Last time I saw you I prayed it was a dream; this time I’m praying it’s not! Are you okay?”
Flash grinned so wide his mouth hurt. “I am now.”
“Me too—but have I got some crazy stories to tell you!”
“Let’s save them for our kids.”
Holding her expression with an effort, Dale thought, Our kids? Should I tell him now about my operation? Oh well, there’s plenty of time. He’ll take it well because he’s such a liberal. But there’s one thing that can’t wait. “If that’s a marriage proposal, I accept.”
Their lips again became thirsty for mutual ecstasy, and they neared one another as if moving outside of their own volition. But they had touched for only a moment when two grim guards pulled Flash away from her.
Dale struck a guard on the biceps. “Will you leave us alone? I just got engaged!”
Flash smiled bravely. “See you in a while—I hope!”
“Where are they taking you?”
“Don’t ask,” replied Flash, looking over his shoulder.
As Flash and Barin faced Vultan, Dale strained to pick up some indication of what he was saying to them; she could not help but think that the Prince of the HawkMen was, despite his tendency toward rashness, a crafty devil, a shrewd judge of character. Perhaps these attributes had saved him many times from the more severe manifestations of Ming’s wrath. At any rate, Vultan had realized he was safe from a treacherous blow because Barin’s hatred for Flash took precedence over all his other emotions; Dale admitted to herself that it required no great insight to realize Flash would never kill in cold blood, regardless of the provocation. Vultan evidently spoke in low tones, for the guards nearby leaned over to hear. However, his gestures were delivered robustly; he shook his fist between them, held his palm flat, turned it at sharp angles, stabbed the air with an imaginary knife, and shook his fist again. The bronze HawkMan struck the gong; when its noise died, Vultan pointed to the flat disk in the center of the Sky Palace and said loudly, “All right, I want you two to get out there and fight!”
Barin followed Flash across a gangplank onto the disk. When Luro pulled a lever on a portable control box, the gangplank withdrew, hissing pneumatically. Flash glanced at the bottomless skies below; clouds of many colors billowed, but land was not to be seen. The disk appeared to be supported by rays generated by numerous antigravity devices, and Flash noticed panels that could insulate the disk from certain rays, thus implying it was not always stable. He gulped.
Biro threw two black whips between the duelists. “Let the combat begin!” proclaimed Vultan, Prince of the Hawk Men. “To the death!”
Flash attempted to shake Barin’s hand, but the Tree Man Prince was already taking off his gloves, disdainfully ignoring his foe. Barin casually threw his gloves off the disk.
They warily stalked one another, neither permitting the other to come too near the whips. Their leather soles provided little footing on the slick, smooth surface. Flash found himself concentrating as much on maintaining his balance as on what Barin was doing.
Barin lunged for the whips. Flash smacked him with a right cross, making a direct hit on the nose. Barin rolled with the punch, otherwise his nose would have sprayed him with his own blood. After they regained their footing, Barin retaliated, striking Flash a glancing blow on the cheekbone.
HawkMen and HawkWomen cooed with excitement, but a scowling Vultan, his mating urges suddenly prodding him to engage in less violent activities, sat tugging at his beard.
Flash and Barin exchanged several blows, repeatedly sending each other away from the whips. Then they stalked about again, each awaiting an opening. Barin found his when Flash glanced at Dale (standing between Zarkov and Vultan) to see how she was faring. Lunging forward, the Tree Man Prince grabbed a whip.
At that point, an irritated Vultan demanded that Luro hand over the disk controls.
Barin snapped his whip three meters to Flash’s left. And two meters to Flash’s right. He would have snapped it a third time to the same rhythm, but his foot slipped a bit and he was forced to steady himself. Even as he did so, Vultan manipulated the controls, causing the disk to sway at this angle and that, like a saucer balanced on a juggler’s stick. Flash regretted that his professional football career had not helped him to become more graceful; he was totally unprepared to deal with this contest of balance; even his most delicate moves on Astroturf had been brutal and swift, as befits those of a passing quarterback. Now he concentrated on maintaining his balance, on the defensive, while the more poised Barin pressed the attack. Finally, the swaying of the disk aided him in reaching his whip.
Dale bit into her fist and held tightly onto Zarkov’s arm. The scientist caressed her hand, absently attempting to comfort her while he stared in horror at the proceedings.
Though Flash flicked his whip at Barin, his only purpose was to hold off the Prince’s relentless attack. He grabbed at the tip of Barin’s whip twice, each time only clasping empty air. And he was, oddly enough, partially relieved at each failure, for he did not know if he would be able to keep his footing while he tried to pull the weapon from Barin’s hands. The futility and the insanity of this senseless combat was distracting Flash as he felt a leather snake twirl about the handle of his whip and bite into his fingers. He released his weapon just as Barin jerked his in a manner that sent Flash’s flying onto the disk. Pausing to savor the moment, Barin kicked Flash’s whip off the disk, deep into the bottomless sky. Shocked, making a token lunge toward his weapon though it was already too late by far, Flash lost his balance and slipped to one knee.
Dale screamed, immediately regretting it. Vultan, on the other hand, proclaimed, “This is boring!” He pressed a button in an impatient manner that implied he wished to end the duel swiftly.
Blunt-edged knives with sharp, spikelike points rose from the surface of the disk; when Vultan manipulated certain controls, they rose and fell in a chaotic pattern.
Aghast at this latest unexpected horror, beset by a vision of a bloody Flash with the knives protruding throughout his body, Dale screamed a second time. She habitually screamed with her eyes closed, so she did not see Barin accidentally wrap the end of his whip around a knife.
The duelists half-rushed, half-slid toward one another on the tilting disk; they grappled like demonic wrestlers. Suddenly, Barin caught Flash in a terrible grip and bent him backward, directing his face toward the point of a knife.
“Promise me something!” Flash wheezed.
“What?”
“If you kill me, team up with Vultan and fight Ming.”
Barin’s only reply was renewed pressure, forcing Flash’s face a centimeter nearer to the knife.
“You’ve got to!” said Flash. “For your own sake!”
For many moments the duelists were still, two statues engaged in an eternal struggle. But gradually, due to his advantage in leverage, Barin pressed Flash downward, downward, the progress slow but steady. Barin’s victory and Flash’s gory impalement seemed inevitable.
Suddenly, Dale shouted, “Flash, I love you! And we have twelve hours left to save the Earth!”
As if saving his own life was not enough justification, this was all the incentive Flash required. Aided by an onslaught of adrenaline coursing through his system, Flash rallied and pushed Barin away.
The Prince of the Tree Men, thinking victory inevitable, believing the Earthling to be ultimately an inconsequential vexation in the scheme of the universe, had not expected another effort on Flash’s part. Indeed, Barin found the turnabout rather astounding as the disk tilted sharply, causing him to lose what remained of his foothold, sending him flying toward the edge. He managed to land belly-first, but he was unable to grab a knife due to the fact that Vultan caused those in his immediate vicinity to sink into the disk. His fingers futilely dug into the greased surface, and a panic unlike any he had ever known welled up inside him as he felt his feet, and then his legs, dangle over nothingness.
Flash realized more quickly what was happening. He knew there was only one chance to rescue Barin, and though the Prince had tried to impale him horribly but a moment before, Flash did not hesitate to try to save him. He leaped toward the edge, grabbed the whip wrapped around the knife, and swung out, catching Barin by the wrist.
For a long moment they stared at one another. Then, wide-eyed, Barin looked below.
“Climb up my arm!” said Flash.
“You’ve won!” boomed Vultan. “Let him fall!”
Flash ignored the HawkMan Prince. “Quick! I can’t hold you much longer!”
Nervously running his fingers through his beard and involuntarily flapping his wings, Vultan absently allowed the disk to right itself. “What is this?” he asked of Flash’s deed.
“Humanity!” proclaimed Zarkov.
“Humph. Madness,” replied Vultan gruffly. But he left the controls alone. After Flash pulled Barin to safety, they knelt and stared at one another, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. Flash held out his hand, but the Tree Man Prince still refused to shake it. My God, what if Zarkov’s wrong? thought Flash, recalling his attempt to shake hands with the red-robed leader. What if the gesture is unfriendly on Mongo?
Prince Barin was dizzy, his innards swirling in a maelstrom; the Earthling became truly real in his eyes for the first time as he thought, Gordon means it! He’s sincere. Barin pondered the innumerable killings he had witnessed, the slayings he had performed himself, and the mercy killings in the sacred temple. His bloody past became a dream, and he realized that existence was meaningful only if you dared to mold it in accordance with the nobler aspects of human nature. He clasped Flash’s hand. “Where you go, I follow!” He leaped to his feet and shouted to the flabbergasted crowd, “There is something higher than Ming’s Law!”
“Oh, there is, is there?” asked Vultan loudly, moving toward the edge of the platform. He pointed at the smiling Tree Man. He spoke angrily. “Would you care to elucidate on the matter? Would you care to demonstrate the practicability of this higher law before Ming blasts both our kingdoms to shreds?”
The inner glow warming Barin, the glow even the HawkMen with the thickest skulls perceived, would not permit him to be dismayed by the questions. He appeared to have every intention of answering. Everyone, including and especially Flash, was interested in what he had to say. However, his answer, regardless of its potential brilliance and relevance to the revolutionary situation at hand, was ill-favored by the Fates. For just as Barin opened his mouth to demonstrate anew the thespiac abilities that had amused a tyrant, sirens blared throughout the Sky Palace.
A stunned populace watched through the entry to the port as the black vessel of Klytus approached.
Flash and Barin moved off the disk, walking across the gangplank.
The black shuttlecraft docked. Its doors opened.
The people waited. Vultan looked toward Luro and Biro, but he did not wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Dale and Zarkov watched their captors, searching for an indication of their eventual treatment. Attempting to conceal his nervousness, Flash ran his tongue between his teeth, biting down until the nerve endings began to throb. Only Barin awaited Klytus’s appearance with a relaxed demeanor; he smiled at Flash and moved close to him.
Finally, Klytus walked alone down the dock, into the banquet room. The very wind had stilled during his approach, as if he wielded power over the elements themselves.
Prince Barin regarded the masked man with a royal, proud air new to the eyes of Mongians.
Klytus, as usual, was unimpressed. “Agent Zarkov, you will be liquidated for treachery. As for you, Prince Vultan, you will surrender these fugitives at once or the Imperial Fleet will blast your kingdom and your subjects to atoms.” Raising his shoulders and holding his hands before his stomach, Klytus expected them all to succumb to the inevitable.
Though his baser instincts were more interested in the astounding array of luscious beauties with strategically exposed expanses of smooth skin (in an utterly delightful gamut of shades), Zarkov found his attention arrested by the alien specimens present, in particular by the contingent of HawkMen segregating themselves in one corner. Tugging at his beard, a nervous habit he sometimes exhibited while in a frenzy of scientific curiosity, he forgot all about the attack on Earth and his dire predicament. His heart pounded as the HawkMen, clad in helmets, sandals, and loincloths, flapped their large, curiously inflexible wings. They occasionally adjusted the harnesses strapped about their bare chests. Save for their wings (which Zarkov presumed to be natural), they were human in every appearance. The scientist catalogued a hundred questions in his mind. He prayed he would have the opportunity to study the HawkMen.
Dale, for her part, pretended not to examine the ladies who, for their part, made no pretense. They frankly scrutinized her, like some men she had met who believed an open appraisal of her sexual potential was somehow the modern, sophisticated thing to do. Though the sheer number of women was overwhelming, though Dale blushed and tried to appear indifferent, she nevertheless felt herself superior to them. The women were only playthings, and this palace hall was their home territory only so long as they remained playthings. However, she could not resist appraising the secrets of their youthful beauty from the corner of her eye. She was impressed with the glitter surgically implanted in the eyelids of a blonde; with the halter padding of a brown-skinned redhead; with the delicate manner and supple stomach muscles of a lithe yellow-skinned woman whispering to a red-skinned woman-child tattooed with blue glitter; with the firm breasts and high cheekbones of one of the most enticing beauties—who stood with her hands on her hips and who frequently licked her wide dark lips when she directed her eyes at Dale’s ankles. Though the variety of costumes was endless, each possessing some sort of subtle variation, there was a basic pattern from which the women deviated rarely: long, gauze robes hung from ornate headdresses, providing a semblance of modesty for the halters and scanty briefs exposing shameless amounts of cleavage and midriff, respectively. These women were obviously the most pleasing the city and the moons had to offer. Once they passed their prime, they were undoubtedly sent back to their families, who found them husbands. They were to become like the women Dale had seen from the vehicle taking her through the city, professional mothers whose one duty to the state was to be fertile. Dale tried not to think of the personal implications for her, of the pulp stories her father had once read to her.
Without warning, a howling wind of indiscernible origin swept through the palace hall; the light radiating from the ceiling flickered as if it was fed by electrical impulses (causing Flash to question his earlier deduction); the hems of the curtains billowed. Dale held her hair to keep it from flying in her face; grimacing, she looked to Flash, who put his arm about her. The people of the court reacted as if nothing unusual was transpiring, though they quieted and directed themselves toward the circular opening beside the throne. The majestic, imposing form of Ming seemed to rise before the tunnel’s bright red material.
A figure emerged from the court and walked onto the platform. “Hail, Klytus!” called the people he passed.
Though this Klytus was approximately five and a half feet tall, it was impossible for Flash to ascertain his weight—or anything else about him—due to his black robes and his gold, cubist mask. Gold strips highlighted his hood and shoulders, and upon his chest was a gold design of interconnected Vs enclosed by a circle. Flash could not see his footwear, but he would not have been surprised if he wore goat’s hooves. Klytus held up his hand in a perfunctory manner, exposing a golden glove that, extended far beyond his wrist; on his other hand was a black velvet glove. He called out in an impersonal, toneless voice which nevertheless demanded respect, “Hail Ming, Rightful Ruler of the Universe!”
The court repeated the salutation as Ming emerged from the opening. Flash felt the cold clutches of fear grip his heart; Dale tensed beneath his arm and Zarkov inhaled sharply. There was a final gust of the howling wind, rustling Ming’s flowing robes, and then it suddenly died, casting a pall of silence over the palace hall.
Ming surveyed his court with brooding eyes flickering with alertness, eyes simultaneously burdened with an unfathomable weariness. Highlighted by gold, the bottom portion of his wide, rose-colored collar was formed by two triangles with slightly curved borders, while the top was circular, concealing the rear of his bald head. Below the collar and running down his torso was a strip of a rose hue, the gold sewn into the fabric outlining the five points of a star. His arms were concealed by his crimson cape, though his hands at his abdomen and the jeweled rings of his fingers were exposed. Ming possessed the lean face of a wolf, with pointed eyebrows and a goatee jutting beneath his chin. His nose was straight and narrow, his black mustache prim and sinister. Standing before the court with the ease of a man alone in his private quarters, Ming was indifferent to his subjects even as he acknowledged them with a half-hearted movement of his fingers. He possessed the aura of a man whose voracious appetites were eclectic and insatiable. His manner was as weary as his eyes, but there lurked in his thin limbs and soft belly a tremendous strength awaiting its opportunity, a strength both physical and spiritual. The captives were mesmerized by his presence.
However, upon three or four separate occasions, Flash could not help but notice a particularly voluptuous, aristocratic young woman, wearing a scanty gold outfit, peeking from behind a curtain. Yanking a leash attached to a collar about the neck of a curious, red-faced midget, she did not notice, or acknowledge in the least, the court members automatically making a narrow pathway through the palace hall, as if they were performing what was expected of them with the tiniest effort. Her only words were barked to the midget: “Come along, Fellini!” Once she had ceased to move, she occasionally appraised Flash frankly, her mouth twitching and her breathing becoming heavy in proportion to the torridity of her thoughts.
Ming made an impression in his thin upper lip with the long nail of his left forefinger. He gestured for Klytus to approach him. They spoke as if they were perfectly alone, though the palace acoustics carried their words clearly to every individual in the court.
Klytus bowed, a purely mechanical gesture of respect. “Were your meditations satisfactory, Sire?” he asked with an equally mechanical air.
Ming sighed. “Oh, there were a few brief moments of illumination, but the glow has deserted me, the insights have fled.”
“That is to be regretted, Sire.”
Ming raised his right eyebrow. “Klytus, I order you to correct me if I am mistaken, but I thought you were unable to regret anything save the loss of your personal power.”
“An eventuality I pray will never occur,” the masked man replied with another mechanical bow.
“It seems odd that a man without a soul would pray.”
“Even the hopelessly fallen have their personal gods, Sire.”
“So it would seem. What is first on the agenda for Us today?”
Klytus turned toward the court. “The tribute of the Hawk Men will be first!”
The people of the court parted to make way for the three HawkMen approaching the throne. The leader was Vultan, Prince of the HawkMen, a barrel-bellied, bearded man who walked proudly, his shoulders straight, the habitual flapping of his stiff wings firmly under control. He held his burly hand on the handle of his sheathed three-pronged weapon. Like those of his companions, his loincloth was decorated with layers of leather pieces, creating an illusion of feathers. His chest harness, studded with gold chips shaped like a sun, was the largest, due to both his rank and his size.
Walking behind him, carrying a hollowed stone, were his lieutenant Luro (thin, dark, and unruly) and an elderly adviser named Biro (whose wings were becoming as white as his hair).
Dale whispered to Flash, “I know it’s a little late to ask, but are we dreaming?”
“I’d like to think so,” said Flash, though in his heart he hoped it was real almost as much as he hoped he survived.
Halting at a respectful distance before the steps, his chest swelling with pride, Vultan proclaimed in a soaring bass: “The fabled Ice Jewel of Frigia! We seized it in battle from the royal crypt.”
Vultan lifted the crystal from its stone casing. It froze the air about it, creating wisps that immediately dissipated, but true to the legends of its magic powers, its frigidity did not harm Vultan’s fingers. The crystal’s interior sparkled heliotrope and jasmine; however, the exterior radiated a soft, soothing white accentuating the subtle beauties of its crevices and blunt points. Vultan raised the Ice Jewel above his head so all could see the HawkMen’s tribute.
Save for the fuming, silent Queen of Frigia (clothed in a white, conical gown with a crown that resembled an inverted icicle), the court gasped and mumbled among themselves. One side of Ming’s mouth moved upward; he gave no other indication of his approval or disapproval. Klytus was, as usual, devoid of a discernible reaction.
Followed by his men, Prince Barin of the Tree Men pushed his way through the crowd. He wore a green cape, emerald-hued trousers, and a golden vest. “Stop!” he shouted. “The Ice Jewel is our tribute, not Vultan’s!”
Barin halted only when he reached the steps, though he did have the audacity to place his foot on the lowest one. Flash clenched his free hand into a fist as he saw that right eyebrow of Ming’s perk up.
“We took it,” said Barin, gesturing to include his green-clad men. “Vultan stole it from us while we were burying our dead on Frigia!”
The Tree Men looked at various members of the court and nodded, smiling grimly, not as yes-men but to personally attest to the accuracy of Barin’s words. Though it was probably quite true that they feared Ming to their marrow, it was very plain that their loyalty to their bold and dashing prince knew no bounds. Barin’s physique fit his personality: He had a muscular, well-proportioned body, short brown hair, a mustache of a lighter shade of brown, a square dimpled chin, a perpetual scowl, and a nose which looked like it had only been broken once. Bet he swung right into a tree, thought Flash.
“Liar!” exclaimed Vultan to Barin, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him away from Ming. “For that I shall plummet your father’s grave with my pellets!”
“I doubt it,” said Barin. “He’s buried in a cave. He knew you cowardly HawkMen would never defile him there because you fear darkness, and artificial light”—he gestured at the ceiling—“eventually hurts your eyes. Not only are you cowards, but rebels as well. Night and day your HawkMen plot strategies to overthrow this citadel!”
Vultan’s only reply was to raise his weapon.
“Vultan!” bawled Klytus. He paused menacingly. “Nobody, but nobody dies in the palace except by command from the Emperor.”
Barin instantly spun on his heel, saluted with his sword, bowed, and said, “Hail, Ming!” He sheathed his sword. Grumbling, Vultan reholstered his weapon, but only after he hesitated in a manner that implied he had considered open defiance.
Ming now allowed both sides of his mouth to rise, but the result could not exactly be called a smile. “An excellent performance, Barin. We are certain We are not alone in Our enjoyment. We quite agree with your claim to the tribute, especially since we know full well the cause which forced Vultan to adopt such desperate tactics. Our illustrious ancestors had always presumed the Ice Jewel to be merely a legend. We accept it. And now, Ice Queen, We command you to make a full report to Klytus—at his convenience—on how and why this fabled jewel was concealed from Our knowledge for so many years.”
The Queen of Frigia bowed stiffly. “It shall be done, Sire.”
“Barin, you and your men shall remain in court. Some of today’s new business might interest you.”
As Barin and the Tree Men bowed and withdrew into the crowd, Klytus said, “You owe the Emperor something else this year, Vultan.”
The Prince of the HawkMen paused before replying. “Not yet. My daughter is still only twelve.”
“Have you brought Rima?” asked Klytus. Though his tone was similiar to that of a man ordering breakfast, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of menace in his voice.
Still, Vultan moved his hairy hand toward the hilt of his weapon, halting its progress when it was only half an inch away. A bead of perspiration flowed down his cheek, into his beard.
A young HawkGirl, dressed in a pink and gold gown, with pale skin, blond hair, and a thin face, walked toward the steps. She stood beside Vultan.
Why, she’s just a child! thought Flash.
Ming and Klytus were as impassive as ever as they examined the HawkGirl before them.
Finally, Ming said indifferently, “We will keep her.”
The pale skin of Rima’s face flushed red with fear. “Oh, no! Please, please!” Then, realizing that an appeal to Ming would be futile by definition, she turned to Vultan. “Father . . . can’t you . . . ?” She embraced him. She sobbed loudly, her wings trembling with the violence of her spasms.
Vultan stroked her hair. “Ming has spoken, child. He . . . honors us.” The hatred blazing in his dark eyes as he stared at the Emperor more than adequately revealed his true sentiments.
Rima suddenly broke away from her father’s arms. Her stiff wings made tentative motions, in anticipation of flight, presumably through the passageway which still remained open. But she hesitated; she was indecisive. What she might have chosen to do had the freedom of choice remained hers was destined never to be revealed, for the golden globe whirred above the people of the court and halted directly over the top of Vultan’s head. Rima stared at it for several seconds. She slowly brought her hand to her mouth. Her wings ceased their movement. “I love you, Father,” she said. “I understand.”
The globe returned to its place above the captives as Rima walked as one dead to a group of Ming’s harem women standing near the platform. Vultan stared at her, once making a move to go after her, or to touch her, but he dropped his hands to his side and lowered his head.
Luro placed his hand on Vultan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sire,” he whispered, not realizing the acoustics had carried his simple words to every pair of ears.
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Vultan, quickly assuming his more zestful manner. “She’ll come back to me someday. Besides, I’ve got plenty of other eggs in my nest.”
“Rest assured We shall inspect them when the proper time comes,” said Ming, dismissing the HawkMen with a wave of two fingers.
“Thun will approach the throne,” said Klytus.
In moments a black man wearing a robe covered with dangling strips of heavy gold coins bowed before Ming. “Your Majesty, my kingdom has suffered a serious economic disruption since you blasted it. We have no wealth to offer you.”
“Have you no daughters?” asked Klytus.
“Sire, I regret to inform you that my only daughter of eligible age defiled herself with the captain of the guards. After she presented us with the indisputable evidence of her debauchery, I had her executed.”
“I trust it was a . . . painful execution?” asked Klytus.
“Painful . . . and prolonged, to set an example for my other daughters, the eldest of whom shall be eligible in another year. However, I regret to say that this year I can offer you nothing but my own loyalty.”
Ming’s eyes narrowed; he formed a steeple with his forefingers. He and Klytus exchanged glances. What they communicated soon became obvious, but how they communicated it remained a mystery.
“The Emperor prizes nothing more highly, Prince Thun,” said Klytus. “How great is this . . . loyalty?”
Thun bowed. “Without measure.”
Ming said, “Fall on your sword.”
Thun gasped and stepped backward, bringing his hand to his throat.
Boy, these guys have tough standards, thought Flash.
The sound of Thun’s sword leaving its scabbard echoed throughout the silent palace hall. The Prince stared at the blade for several seconds and then kissed it. He turned to the crowd. “Let this deed of Prince Thun be an example to all the kingdoms of Mongo!”
Suddenly, Thun rushed toward Ming, taking the steps two at a time.
Ming stood immobile. Not a trace of interest manifested itself on his lean face.
Just as Thun lunged onto the platform and was preparing to make his thrust, the golden globe inundated him with a blue glow. The atmosphere crackled with the disturbance. Thun strained with all his might, but he was unable to move.
Ming effortlessly reached into the blue glow, taking the sword. The Ruler of the Universe examined the weapon. He stared into Thun’s wide eyes, permitting the Prince a lengthy vision of his fate.
The transformation that came over Ming as he turned the point of the blade toward Thun was awesome and frightening. Dale covered her face, but Flash and Zarkov were so mesmerized they were unable to look away. All traces of boredom and weariness had left Ming. He fairly radiated the energies of life. The outline of a black aura, the manifestation of his evil soul, surrounded his red robes. Savoring the myriad sensations of each second, Ming thrust the sword directly into Thun’s heart. The hilt pressed against the Prince’s breast, the blade protruded six inches from his back.
When Ming withdrew the sword, the globe shut off the blue glow; the dead Prince dropped into his followers’ arms. Ming stared at the bloodstained blade and then tossed it away. Already the irrepressible passions were leaving the Emperor; already the boredom and weariness were regaining their control over him.
Thun’s followers carried away his body, presumably to bury it on their native moon.
Quivering with resentment at the cold-blooded murder, Flash mumbled, “This Ming is a psycho!”
The globe above them repeated for all to hear: “THIS MING IS A PSYCHO!”
Flash and Dale looked at the globe in shock. Zarkov slapped his palm on his forehead.
Ming merely looked at Klytus.
“Who said that?” demanded Klytus.
“THE FAIR-HAIRED PRISONER,” said the globe.
The masked man indicated the captives. “Come forward.”
“Well, this is it,” Flash mumbled. “Zarkov, I hope you can turn on the charm.”
Zarkov’s only reply was a helpless shrug.
“Will you stop that?” asked Dale between her teeth.
“What?” asked the dumbfounded scientist.
Putting his finger over his mouth, Flash quieted them before Dale could explain; it looked like petty squabbling on Mongo could lead to some disastrous consequences. As the crowd made way for them, they were subjected to a wholly different sort of examination; now they were to face Ming, who held absolute power over them, and the crowd, made bloodthirsty by the murder of Thun, anticipated a satisfactory conclusion to their audience. Flash returned the stare of the crowd with unflinching eyes; though the touch of Dale’s hand pleased him, he did not have the opportunity to see how Dale and Zarkov were bearing up. As for himself, he was finally beginning to adjust to the barrage of new information; now the sights and smells of Mongo began to take on meaning, and each second promised unlimited possibilities. He was well aware that among those possibilities was his imminent death, but rather than depressing him and filling him with defeat, the potential infused him with a hopeful spirit that made the time of his living all the more precious.
The young woman in the scanty gold costume moved closer to the steps. Flash looked at her closely for the first time. The vision of her overwhelmed everything else. He had met, even experienced, women whose only purpose in life was to drink in all available sensual delight, who lived only for the pleasure they could receive and bestow—he had noticed many such women among the crowd—but never before had he seen a woman whose sexual magnetism and thirst was so overpowering. The scent she conjured in his mind eradicated the stench of Thun’s death.
She looked as if she had stepped from a portrait by a dreaming, passionate artist. Stray strands of brown hair appeared auburn when the light struck them in a certain way. Her oval, tanned face possessed a mien both innocent and perpetually pouting, despite the lustful appetites Flash sensed. He almost allowed himself a fantasy concerning his favorite position, that is, until he noticed a certain familiarity to the shape of her eyebrows.
“Hey, remember me?” asked Dale.
Flash looked at Dale and squeezed her hand, as if to say “Of course.”
When the captives halted, Ming stared at them as if his mere gaze could turn the weak into cinders.
“Who are you?” asked Klytus.
Flash presented them with his number-four smile, the one he used during preseason interviews. “I’m Flash Gordon. Quarterback, New York Jets.”
Dale swallowed audibly, then she, too, smiled. “Dale Arden, Your Highness. Live and let live—that’s my motto.”
Zarkov cleared his throat. “My name is Hans Zarkov. I’m a scientist. I kidnapped them in an effort to save our planet Earth.”
Ming looked at Klytus.
“That is the planet we were toying with earlier in an effort to relieve your boredom, Sire. You remember: the world of cosmic pawns.”
Ming nodded.
“But why?” asked Zarkov. “We’re only interested in friendship. Why do you attack us?”
“Why not?” asked Ming.
Zarkov opened his mouth, only to close it in shock when the implications of Ming’s words sunk in.
“Go ahead; reason with that!” said Flash sharply to Zarkov.
Ming leaned forward as if he wished to leap down upon them and personally choke them. “Pathetic Earthlings—hurling your bodies out into the void without the slightest inkling of who or what is out here,” he hissed. “If you had known anything about the true nature of the universe—anything at all—you would have hidden from it in terror.”
“I think that’s a matter of opinion,” said Flash.
Ming laughed loudly, from his belly. “Opinion? Flash Gordon, I am the Ruler of the Universe. My every statement has the effect of law.”
“A law is not a truth,” said Flash. “That’s something the Founding Fathers of my great nation, the United States of America, realized when they threw off the yoke of ruthless tyranny!”
“You tell him, Flash!” Dale urged. Zarkov frowned, but nodded in approval.
“You call yourself the Ruler of the Universe,” said Flash. “As far as I can see, all you rule is a puny little system surrounded by a maelstrom. And as far as your ‘law’ is concerned”—he turned to the court—“you people must be ashamed to face yourselves, toadying to this paper tiger the way you do. The only reason he holds the power of life or death over you is because you permit it.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “You should rebel. As my friend Steve Rogers once said, ‘Freedom is the only cause worth dying for!’ You should never die at the whim of a worm such as this Ming.”
“He’s right!” said Zarkov. “Take away this Ming’s title and what do you have: a being such as yourselves, no better, no worse!”
“Is that so?” asked Ming dryly. “I daresay not. And the reason? We Ourselves personally augmented the tracking ray which undoubtedly guided your landing so that it would automatically implant rudimentary knowledge of the Mongian language into the brains of any intelligent species inside, thus sparing Our kingdom many precious man-hours in labor. It is far more convenient to have the audience with guests as soon as they have arrived, while We still have some small interest in the matter. Have you not wondered how you’ve come to understand Our language?”
“Yeah! Once!” said Flash defiantly.
“We personally programmed the vocabulary. Perhaps you have grasped words which stood for shades and nuances of the stages of spiritual heights, stages you may have reached but did not possess the words to describe.”
Uh-oh! He’s right! thought Flash. Looks like this Ming’s holding all the cards.
“We have educated you as well,” continued Ming. “We made Our improvements one weekend while We were tinkering around with some equipment. You imply democracy must have some virtues; it does not. The masses must have a ruler, that is the order of the universe. You imply I am not first among men; my accomplishments and the accomplishments of my ancestors prove I am first beyond a doubt. You imply Mongo is not the center of the universe; it is. Do not the cosmic whirlpools bring all the matter of space to Us, and thus provide Our system with plentiful natural resources via Our mining operations?”
“We had some people who thought the entire universe, including the sun, revolved around the Earth,” said Flash, “people who shunned the progressive ideas of Copernicus. But it turned out they were wrong!”
Suddenly Ming seemed to lose all interest in the conversation. He stared at a fingernail. This was his way of telling Flash the matter was closed. His scowl indicated deep concentration on his part. Then his facial muscles relaxed, and he looked at Dale as if seeing her for the first time. His manner practically intimate, he spoke softly, calmly. “Come closer; let Us see you.”
Dale tensed, took a step backward, put her fist over her mouth, and stared at Ming as if he was a rattler in the desert.
Something in the vision of Dale recoiling excited Ming. A barely perceptible tremor coursed through him. Flash realized that in one respect the tyrant was absolutely correct, for Ming’s passions imbued him with a charisma definitely beyond the reaches of the common man.
Ming turned his hand so the jeweled rings faced Dale. He pressed a near-microscopic button and a yellow beam emanating from the jewel of his middle finger bathed her. She immediately relaxed, her shoulders slumped and her arms dropped to her sides, her eyes closed, her mouth opened, her breathing became heavy. She turned her head at little angles as if responding to an immensely gratifying pleasure.
She saw the silver-haired man push down the emergency brake and switch off the ignition. The moon was full, the sky studded with stars; the trees and the grass and the lake smelled so fresh and potent. Her companion wore a blue three-piece suit. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and then looked at her. Soulfully. Frankly. There was no mistaking his meaning. “I’ve some wine in the cooler in the trunk,” he said, retrieving a blanket from the back. “We’ll drink some . . . afterward.”
Ming grasped Klytus’s sheathed lower arm. It had been some time since the Ruler of the Universe had made an impulsive gesture in the palace hall. “Did you ever see such response?”
“No, Sire. Truly she rivals your own daughter.”
Flash made a motion toward Dale, intending to tear her away from the yellow beam, but Zarkov detained him. The scientist ran his hand through his beard as he watched her respond to the emotional stimuli. Hoo-wee! he thought. I guess still waters really do run deep.
Sitting naked on the blanket, the silver-haired man gave Dale a glass of white wine. She watched the lines of his middle-aged body, examining how his chest muscles moved with his arms. He was so cool, so experienced. The wind rustled the trees. An owl hooted.
Ming released the button on the ring and the yellow glow instantly disappeared. Dale, flushed and shaken, stumbled as if she was about to fall; Flash grabbed her shoulders to support her.
“What happened to me?” she asked Flash.
“I don’t know, but I still respect you.”
Ming scowled at Flash. That little expression communicated to all that the audience would soon reach a conclusion.
The woman in gold who had stared at Flash put her arm about Ming’s waist. He looked to her as she ran her long fingernails down his chest with a chilling familiarity. “Don’t kill him yet, Father. I want him. Give him to me.” She possessed one of those voices whose inflections are in the ear of the listener, a voice like a precocious child.
Ming permitted himself the trace of a smile. “What would your Prince Barin say?”
“I can handle Barin. I’ll even return his pin if he becomes too much of a bother. Please?”
“Really, Aura, your appetites are too dangerous. You’re becoming too much like your mother, may the cosmic whirlpool spit out her soul. I refuse.” As Aura grimaced and clenched her hand, Ming moved toward the edge of the platform. He pointed to Dale. “Remove the Earth woman. Prepare her for Our pleasure!”
Though his chest had suddenly become numb, Flash stepped between Dale and Ming. “Forget it, Ming! Dale’s with me!”
The Ruler of the Universe looked to Klytus, who looked to the officer on the platform, who gestured to the dark shadows. A dozen men in red emerged. The basic design of their clothing was that of tightly fitting sweatpants and sweatshirts, but augmented by golden pieces resembling helmets and shoulderpads. Each was approximately the same height and weight; each possessed unnaturally large buck teeth. Must be the fluoride, thought Flash.
“All right, you ugly bastards,” said Flash, suddenly relishing the challenge of fighting them, “let’s see how you do against someone who fights back. Let’s see how you do against an American!”
The red squadron grunted in several different tones, but most sounded like linebackers whose intelligence had been blunted by too many blitzes across the offensive line, the kind that enjoyed twisting their cleats in the pile-ups. Flash held up his fists, inviting the foremost man to a formal bout. He responded merely by booting Flash in the groin. Of all pains, this was the sort the quarterback had the least experience dealing with, though he had frequently made allusions to the debilitating sensation in metaphors. He sank to the floor. His foes smothered him.
He spun in a dizzying ocean of agony. His entire identity had been stripped from him, and he became a mysterious creation whose mind (enshrouded in blackness) was the sole universe and whose only purpose was to flee the torture its existence inflicted upon it.
When the squad moved away from him, Flash shook his head and staggered to a standing position, swaying like a tree stump on the verge of being uprooted. Their legs apart and their arms folded across their chests, his foes stared at him, waiting for him to fall. However, they could not have possibly been aware of Flash’s indomitable will; though his existence had suddenly been reduced to a blazing red river of pain, he would not permit himself to admit defeat.
A squad member advanced.
Flash became dimly aware of Dale standing beside him, preparing to defend him from the coup de grace. “Stay back,” he managed to mumble.
She smiled. “It’s all right. I’m a New York girl. I took karate at the Y!” As if to demonstrate her statement, she delivered to the advancing Mongian a ferocious kick to the groin. The sound of it echoed throughout the palace hall. Her toes dug deep into his skeletal system. Hardened men who had stoically witnessed all sorts of ruthless torture grimaced and writhed, victims of sympathetic pains. They breathed sighs of relief that his immediate suffering had ceased when Dale followed her onslaught with a powerful karate chop to the back of his neck. He landed on the floor like a meteor plummeting from above. Save for the twitching of his foot, he lay absolutely still.
Dale turned to face her foes. She waded into them.
Flash stood like a crumbling pillar as the bodies moved back and forth about him.
Zarkov grabbed a tribute from a Mongian standing beside him. He briefly examined it—an object wrapped in a glimmering green substance, somewhat resembling a football. Bet this is made out of chocolate, he thought as he hefted it in one hand. He threw it at Flash.
The blond quarterback caught the tribute instinctively. Through his groggy haze he saw the red squad running about, attempting to subdue Dale. He ran forward, stiff-arming the first man in his way. Somehow he managed not to trip over his own feet, though Dale was pushed into the court by the tide of men rushing to tackle him.
A lamellar-clad soldier pressed a weapon into Dale’s back. She understood she was no longer to participate in the row. However, the threat did not prevent her from shouting, “Go, Flash, go!” like a cheerleader.
A squad member landed on the floor at Vultan’s feet. The Prince of the Hawk Men looked upward to the ceiling as he cracked his weapon on the man’s head, knocking him unconscious despite his helmet. Vultan glanced about to ascertain if his timely aid had been noticed. The narrow, piercing eyes of Prince Barin were fixed upon him. Barin stood nearly thirty yards away, but there was no doubt he had seen the Hawk Man’s assistance, a deed Ming would certainly disapprove of—if he knew. And thanks to Barin, Ming would know. Vultan was certain of it.
Then a squad member flew into a group of nobles beside Barin. The nobles prevented the man from falling, pushing him back toward the conflict. Barin stuck out his foot. The squad member landed with a resounding thud and then lay still.
Well, may all my eggs be putrefied. thought Vultan, twitching his mouth as he regarded Barin. The Prince of the Tree Men pretended to ignore the HawkMan. Vultan believed it was very interesting that one of Ming’s favorites—if the tyrant could be said to have favorites—would aid this Gordon, however surreptitiously, however futilely.
During this time, Flash had recovered his full wits. He ran back and forth through the hall, his adrenaline flow encouraged by the unsolicited approval of the court. He knocked men right and left; he ran over others. Zarkov, by now, was throwing tributes similar to the first with an accuracy Flash appreciated; each toss struck a guard on the head, dazing him and forcing him to collapse momentarily.
Ming spat at Klytus, “Are you certain your men have been taking the right pills?”
Klytus nodded and called for his men to huddle in his corner. Though the tone of his instructions was flat, his gestures were emphatic. The men left the huddle with a collective grunt, rushing out to greet Flash with renewed energy and determination.
However, they had not expected Flash to charge them with greater effectiveness, and when he ran through them, he scattered more than before. The court cheered louder, verging on open defiance of Ming.
Zarkov’s passes of tributes were also more successful. Unfortunately, he misjudged an angle and threw a tribute at the wrong trajectory, knocking Flash unconscious. The game was suddenly over.
Ming waved his hand at Flash. “This one has defied Us before Our subjects. We order him disposed of tonight by public execution.”
As the squadron carried Flash out of the palace hall, Dale turned to Zarkov and said, “What about you? Can’t you do something?”
Yet again, Zarkov shrugged helplessly.
“Don’t shrug! Do something! Say something! But I can’t stand it when you shrug like that!”
“Dale, I can’t help it. As a scientist, I’ve been trained to shrug whenever I face a problem I cannot solve or become involved in a situation where my greatest effort is of no avail before I begin. Sometimes there’s no point in being emotional or sentimental or even poetic. That’s one of the first things I learned in graduate school.”
Dale shook her fists beside her face and ground her teeth. “Ooh! You analytical men get me so mad. I could . . .” She suddenly terminated her verbal barrage. She and Zarkov looked into one another’s eyes; in this way, they communicated their mutual sorrow, their pain, their love and respect.
“The scientist will be conditioned by the Imperial Police,” said Ming. “Klytus, I assume you will wish to supervise?”
His hands concealed in the sleeves of his black robe, Klytus nodded.
As the soldiers took Zarkov away, Dale spat on the floor. Acting nearly as one, the members of the court babbled, expressing their shock and dismay to their neighbors.
“This is what I think of you and your kingdom,” said Dale, punctuating the sentence by spitting again. “You’re cruel, pitiless . . . you’re merciless!”
Throwing back his head, Ming laughed in a tenor that echoed throughout the palace hall several moments after he had ceased. “Merciless! Indeed, that’s exactly what I am! Ming the Merciless!” Suddenly growing thoughtful, he placed his forefinger on his lips. “Ming the Merciless. I like it. Where’s my Minister of Propaganda?” This last was spoken angrily, devoid of patience.
“I am here, Sire,” croaked a wheezing old man wearing immaculate yellow and black robes. Wild tufts of white hair grew like weeds from his liver-spotted skull. He nervously scraped together his toothless gums and twitched his chin as he bowed before the throne.
Ming regarded him with disdain. “You have failed Us. You have been charged with making Our name feared throughout the kingdom, and now this primitive Earthling has coined a nickname much more frightening than your uninspired concoctions.”
The Minister of Propaganda fell to his knees and hung his head. “You are correct, Sire. Have mercy upon this pitiful old worm, this useless conglomeration of rank grease and slime.”
Ming snorted. “I, Ming the Merciless, should have mercy?”
The old man grinned, the inkling of a crafty light gleaming in his gray eyes. “The inconsistency will intensify the fear you inspire. For if a man knows to expect death, he can make peace with himself and thus be prepared for it; but if he should not know his fate, then he will cling to the hope of life regardless of the odds, and thus he shall fear all the more your royal wrath.”
“If I might speak a word in the minister’s behalf. Sire?” said Klytus.
“You?” Ming actually sounded surprised.
“Until now, the minister has performed his duties well. But even the lowest and most insignificant of Earthlings has a talent for advertising and propaganda unique in the entire universe. It must be something in the soil, or perhaps the very air they breathe.”
“You may go,” Ming said to the minister after considering Klytus’s counsel. “But remember this: We have yet to decide your fate. Our decision may arrive at any moment between this instant and the hour of your natural death. Each breath you take is Our gift of mercy to you. You may use the phrase ‘Ming the Merciless’ as frequently as is artistically desirable in your work until such time as we find a suitable Earthling to replace you.” As the Minister of Propaganda bowed and shuffled away, Ming turned to Dale. “And now, my dear, I believe I have already decided your fate, have I not?”
