The Complete Works. Stanley G. Weinbaum
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of Urbs kicked a lever with a daintily casual foot. The blast roared out—too late! Or was it? Irresistible weight oppressed Connor as the sea rushed upward. So close it was now that he saw the very waters hollowed by the blast. That near!
But far enough. They were receding until the girl cut the blast again and set the rocket gently on the heaving swells of the Pacific.
Connor gulped.
"Nice flying," he said steadily. "How often can you do it?"
"I don't know," she laughed. "I've never tried before. Scared?" The reiteration of that word was getting on his nerves as greatly as had the speed of the rocket.
"Did I show it?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not." Her voice changed suddenly. She rose, whipped the beam– pistol from her side. "If I can't frighten you," she said, her eyes glittering, "I can at least kill you!" The beam flashed over him.
He took the shock without flinching. She slid her finger along the barrel until it stabbed harder, racking him. He bit his lips and gazed back into eyes, now deeply emerald. At last she laughed and returned the weapon to its place.
"Were all ancients like you, Tom?" she murmured.
Somehow he managed a calm reply.
"Some stronger, some weaker," he said carelessly.
"I think I could—love you," she whispered.
She thrust a hand suddenly toward him and involuntarily he started.
"Afraid of one thing, at least, aren't you?" she jeered. "Afraid of—me!"
Without warning he caught her arm, swept her suddenly to him. He pressed a fierce kiss on the perfection of her lips. She yielded instantly, returning the caress. For a moment her lips burned against his like strong wine, and lights coruscated in his spinning brain. With the Black Flame of Urbs in his arms, the world seemed to fall away as it had from the rising Triangle.
He felt her lips move against his, heard her murmur: "Tom! Tom! I do love you. Say you love me!"
"Love you? Love you?" he said. But just in time he caught that familiar gleam of mockery in her eyes. "Yes," he said. "Just as I love a drink of strong liquor!"
He pushed her roughly away, grinning sardonically. Margaret of Urbs laughed, but he fancied there was a quaver in her laughter. It was the first time he had seen the diamond hardness of her poise so much as ruffled. That is, since he had seen her in her role of cruel Princess, the role she had played for seven hundred years. When he had seen her as a child of the woods she had been different.
But she quickly regained her hard control over herself. She slapped a trifle viciously at the controls, and the Sky–Rat soared away from a boiling circle of ocean toward Urbs.
Arrived there, the Princess said not a word, but left Tom Connor at once. He wandered irresolutely to his room and opened Evanie's door. She sat propped against some cushions while a man in the garb of a Palace servant leaned above her. Both turned startled faces toward him. In amazement he recognized the man as Jan Orm of Ormon!
Tom Connor opened his mouth to cry an involuntary greeting to Jan Orm, but checked it at the sight of Jan's warning look and a gesture from Evanie. Of course! Jan was here in disguise, and there was the scanner with unwinking eye and attentive ear. Connor advanced to the side of Evanie's bed and bent over her.
"Don't look at Jan when you talk," she said softly.
"I won't. Lord, I'm glad to see you, Jan! I didn't know what might have happened to you."
"I'm working in the kitchen," whispered Jan, nodding at a tray on the wall–arm. He added eagerly: "Tom, you can help us! We need you."
"Help you to do what?"
"To finish " Jan began, but Evanie interrupted. "Help me to escape," she whispered, then shot a glance at Jan Orm. "Be careful of him, Jan," she warned. "He's been around the Black Flame."
Connor reddened. "Look here!" he muttered. "Here's exactly how I stand. For safety sake, I've sworn to the Master to make no move against him for the present, and to tell him what I know of mathematics. That can't hurt you, can it? Evanie's safety is worth more to me than that."
"What's the value of an oath to the Master?" he growled. "That needn't bind you!"
"I keep my word," Connor said, as grimly.
"But your oath doesn't keep you from helping me to escape, does it?" whispered Evanie.
"I guess not—but what's the use of it? To suffer another Messenger?"
"This time," declared Evanie, "I'll fight off any Messenger. I was worn out before, exhausted, almost helpless."
"What can I do?" asked Connor, a little reluctantly.
"Are you free to move as you will about the Palace?"
"Not entirely."
"Well, I want to see the Master. I must see him."
"Why don't you call him and ask for an interview?" Connor asked. That seemed simple enough.
"I have. All I can get is a statement from the vision room that he's busy in his quarters and can't come. I'm not supposed to leave my bed, you know." She paused. "It's probably true. Jan has heard that there's a Conclave of the Immortals of the South day after tomorrow." She glanced at Connor imploringly. "Can't you get me to him, Tom? Please—I must see him."
Connor smiled, amused, as a swift thought crossed his mind. Margaret of Urbs must indeed have been perturbed this morning. She had forgotten to reclaim her medallion. If he were to use it before she remembered
"Perhaps I can help you reach him, Evanie," he whispered. "If you'll come at once."
The Conspirators
The guards passed them without question, with only a glance at the medallion.
When they reached the anteroom beyond the arch they at once saw the Master at his littered desk. Evanie dropped gracefully to one knee as they neared the ruler. But Connor stood erect and stared at Margaret of Urbs, who sat in a chair by the window, a book on her lap, a black cigarette in her fingers spiraling smoke as she stared back at him.
The Master's eyes flickered over them.
"May I ask how you two managed to arrive here?" he inquired mildly.
Connor tossed the medallion on the desk, and his lips twisted in wry amusement when he saw the quivering start that twitched the dainty lips of the Princess. She arose quickly and moved to the Master's side. She and Evanie gazed at each other across the desk. The eyes of Margaret of Urbs were faintly disdainful, but Evanie's were hostile.
It was Tom Connor's first opportunity to make a first–hand comparison of the two. He hated himself for making it, but here it was thrust upon him.
The Princess was a trifle taller, a bit more slender than Evanie, and infinitely more beautiful, lovely as Evanie was. It wasn't fair, Connor told himself bitterly—terribly unfair, in fact, to compare Evanie's beauty with the unearthly beauty of the Black Flame of Urbs. It was like contrasting the simple loveliness of a wild rose to the splendor ofan orchid, or a blown milkweed butterfly to a starflying Luna moth.
The Master spoke.
"I presume you have a reason for coming."
"Yes," said Evanie. "I can't stand it—being imprisoned in a single room. I had to see you." Her lips quivered. She was a consummate actress, Connor suddenly realized. "You know I—I have—metamorphic blood in me. You know what that means. I have to move about in the open to breathe air that comes from the sky, not from Palace ventilators. So I've come to ask you for a little freedom. Just permission to walk now and then in the Inner Gardens."