The Greatest SF Classics of Stanley G. Weinbaum. Stanley G. Weinbaum
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glanced apprehensively at the young doctor's face.
Evanie turned ashen pale.
"I—feel—dizzy," she choked. "I'm going—to
The doctor sprang forward. "You mustn't!" he snapped. "We can't let her sleep again. We must walk her! Quickly!"
Between them they dragged the collapsing girl from the bed, walking her up and down the chamber. A measure of strength returned, and she walked weakly between them, back. and forth. Then, abruptly, they paused at the sound of a sharp rap on the chamber door.
The doctor called out a summons. Two Urban guards in glittering metal strode through the entrance, and stood like images on either side of it. One of them intoned slowly, deep as an anthem:
"Margarita, Urbis Regina, Sororque Domini!"
The Princess! Connor and the doctor stood frozen, and even Evanie raised weary eyes as the Princess entered, striding imperiously into the room with the scaly gold of her kirtle glittering crimson in the last rays of the sun. She swept her cold eyes over the startled group, and suddenly her exquisite features flashed into a flame of anger. The glorious lips parted.
"You fool!" she spat. "You utter fool!"
Connor flushed in sudden anger, then realized that the Princess addressed, not him, but the doctor at Evanie's left, who was fear–stricken and pallid.
"You fool!" repeated Margaret of Urbs. "Walking an electroleptic! Put her to bed—instantly. Let her sleep. Do you want to risk brain fever?"
The frightened physician moved to obey, but Connor interposed.
"Wait a moment." He shot an accusing glance at the Princess. "Do you know anything about this? Are you a doctor?"
He received a cool glance from her narrowed green eyes.
"Do you think," she drawled, "that I've learned nothing in seven hundred years?" And he alone caught the full implication of her words. She was subtly reminding him of how once before she had given him evidence of how vast was her knowledge. She turned imperiously. "Obey!" she snapped.
Connor stood aside as the doctor complied in panic. "Where's Kringar?" the Princess demanded.
"Your Highness," babbled the medico, "he gave the girl a stimulant and left. He said—"
"All right. Get out." She nodded at the impassive guards. "You, too."
The door closed behind them. Margaret of Urbs bent over Evanie, now fully conscious, but pale as death. She placed a dainty hand on the girl's forehead.
"Sleep," she said softly.
"Leave me here alone, please," Evanie begged, trembling. "I'm afraid of you. I don't trust you, and I won't sleep. I'm afraid to sleep again."
Connor stood miserably irresolute. While he hesitated, the Princess fixed her eyes on Evanie's; they glowed emerald in the evening dusk as she repeated, "Sleep!"
He saw the fear vanish from Evanie's face, leaving her features as blank as those of an image. Then she was sleeping.
The Princess faced Tom Connor across the bed. She took a black cigarette from a box on the ebony table. Itglowed magically as she removed it, and she blew a plume of perfumed smoke at him.
"Worried, aren't you?" she asked mockingly.
"You know I am."
"Well, rest your mind. I mean no harm to Evanie."
"But do you know what you're doing?"
She laughed, low laughter soft as rain in a pool.
"See here," she said, still with a taunt in her eyes, "I conceived the vitergons. Martin Sair created them, but I conceived them. I know what harm they can do, and I know the cure for that harm. Do you trust me?"
"Not entirely."
"Well, you have small choice." She exhaled another cloud of scented smoke. "Your little Weed is safe." She moved toward the adjoining room. "There's a bath in here," she said. "Use it, and then put on some Urban clothes. I'm inclined to dine with you this evening."
He was startled. He stared back at the mocking perfection of her face, but the green eyes carried no readable expression, as she came closer so that only Connor could hear what she said.
"Why?" he asked.
"Perhaps to recall a more pleasant meeting," she said gently. "Oh, I have not forgotten you—if that is what you are thinking. I recall every word of that day in the woods, but it may be better if you forget it, publicly. Margaret of Urbs does not care to have her private business broadcast to the city. Nor is it the affair of anyone here—or any business of yours—that I choose to get away from them all occasionally, with only the birds and the trees to bear me company. You will do well to bear that in mind, Thomas Connor!"
Suddenly her voice took on a taunting note, and the mockery in the emerald eyes was plain. "Perhaps," she said, "I have another reason for commanding you to dine with me. I may want to steal your knowledge—then kill you. I might have more than one reason for wanting to do that, but you fired a dozen shots at me on Sunday, Thomas Connor, as I stood on the balcony of the Tower. I do not fail to repay such debts."
"It will take more than you to steal what I will not give," he growled, and turned into his room, closing the door.
He stepped instantly to the hall door, opened it and gazed squarely into the impassive eyes of an Urban guard standing quietly opposite. So he was watched!
He turned back into the chamber, stripped, and entered the water of the pool, reveling in the refreshing coolness. As he bathed he could look out a window; he saw that the colossal Palace was built as a hollow square. Opposite him rose the mountainous spire of the South Tower, and far below were the wide pool and green–bordered walks of the Inner Gardens.
Drying his glowing body, he glanced distastefully at the sweat–stained pile of Weed clothing on the floor. In a closet he found Urban dress. It gave him a queer, masqueradelike feeling to don the barbaric metal corselet and kirtle, but the garments were cool, and befitted his great frame.
Ready at last, he flung open the door to Evanie's room.
Margaret of Urbs sat cross–legged on the bed, beside Evanie, smoking her black cigarette. Her green eyes passed appraisingly over Connor, and the glint of mockery was again in their depths.
"I always thought the ancient sculptors exaggerated their contemporaries' physiques," she said, smiling. "I was wrong…But you're to kneel when you enter my presence, Thomas Connor. You didn't before."
"And I don't now. As an enemy, I owe you no such respect."
"As a gentleman you do, however. But never mind—I'm hungry. Come."
"Why can't we eat here? I won't leave Evanie."
"Evanie will be dull company for a dozen hours more. I'll send a maid to undress and bathe her."
"You're very considerate, aren't you?"
She laughed maliciously.
"I have no quarrel with her. But I have with you. Come!"
The glorious green eyes swept him. Both eyes and voice—a voice that now seemed to glory in malice—were so different from those of the girl of the woods that it was hard for Tom Connor to believe they were the same. But he knew they were. And now that he and she were alone every gesture seemed to admit that.
She rose without a glance at Evanie's still, white faceand Connor followed her reluctantly past the guard, whose challenge she silenced with a peremptory word, and over to the bank of elevators.
"Where to?" he asked as the cage dropped, plummetlike.
"To a room of mine in the South Tower, I think. We'll have to go all the way down and walk across."
The cage came to a sickening halt. He followed her through the vast emptiness of the room of thrones, noting curiously that