THE globe guided the captives through the parting crowd of the main palace hall and took them to a small area in the rear, where they stood before a red curtain. The crowd faced a circular opening before a long flight of steps. Nervously rubbing his chin and mouth, hoping he appeared stoic, Flash studied the Spartan yet colorful décor. A dark crimson tile, the floor was the shade of a sparkling scab. The ceiling, twenty-five yards above them, emitted a soft, fluorescent light; as there were no fixtures, Flash could only surmise the light was the result of the material’s chemical composition. The opening, through which there were a number of curved silver bars, lending it the appearance of a portal from another dimension, dominated the palace hall. There was no furniture; everyone was forced to stand. Flash searched for clues to Ming’s character from this décor, just as if he were in an office preparing to negotiate a salary increase. Eventually, he realized the lack of furniture was a deliberate attempt on Ming’s part to dominate all in the room; each individual was inconvenienced and subliminally rendered faceless. Flash wished he had a lawyer with him, just as he did during his contract negotiations. Well, this Ming can’t be much worse than the IRS. At least I won’t have to worry about them for a while.
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!”
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.
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.”
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!” 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.
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.
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.”
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ming waved his hand at Flash. “This one has defied Us before Our subjects. We order him disposed of tonight by public execution.”
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.
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?”
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