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                     Minions of the Crystal Sphere

                           By ALBERT DE PINA

         Like a monster flashing jewel, Plastica hovered over
         Neptune. And burning at its heart like the malignant
         sparkle of a gem was the blazing hate of millions of
       slaves, ready to flare into raging battle at the ringing
          tocsin of Vyrl Guerlan, the man without a country.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Summer 1944.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The vast globe of transparent plastic, infinitely stronger than the
most powerful columbium steel, hung suspended in space, ablaze in
brilliant pyrotechnics of light. And as cold and impersonal as the laws
of the empire it ruled.

Within it was the City of the Inner Circle. Patterned after the City
of Plastica itself, it rose within the globe in graduated tiers, but
unlike Plastica, there were no graduations of caste--they were all
Protectors, these scientists of the Inner Circle, and above them ruled
the legendary figure of _His Benevolence_, the "Protector in Chief."

Six thousand feet below, the turbulent ocean tossed restlessly as
if resentful of the awful pressure of the stupendous anti-gravity
beams that kept the glittering sphere in space--sacred, inviolate,
invulnerable. Above the ocean's shoreline, set amidst low hills, rose
Plastica, entirely enclosed in a shell of the same transparent plastic,
and rising tier on tier--each one a small world unto itself, and each
barred from communication with other tiers. Here the millions toiled
and loved and died ... and entered the portals of Blessed Sleep.

In the vast reaches of Neptune, only this continent--Adamic, was
livable, thanks to immense volcanic valleys where constant volcanic
activity of titanic proportions maintained a temperate atmosphere in
contrast to the frigid, desolate continents to the north and west. And
dotting the valley of Plastica like transparent beehives, the twelve
jewels of the diadem--twelve cities where five million human beings
dwelt in each, formed the empire of sixty million descendants of the
original immigrants who chose to follow the Council in their flight
from Venus.

There was no other sign of man, except among the virgin forests of the
volcanic valleys, where the Irreconcilables who fled the rigid laws of
the Protectors, carried on a precarious existence, assailed by fierce
wild beasts of prey, and hunted for sport with lances and long-swords
by the members of the Inner Circle, and the Scientists of the first
order. Burdened by the awful gravity of the great planet, and without
adequate arms to defend themselves, they were doomed quarry.

Within the capital, Plastica, and in each of the twelve cities, each
individual life had a definite pattern known only to the members of
the Inner Circle. Any deviation from that pattern brought instant
retribution. There was no appeal, for each judgment was based on
cold, inexorable law. Ever since the great exodus from Earth, when
the original Council had fled Terra, and forced colonies on Mars and
Venus, and later after their disastrous war with Europa, the Council
itself had been given the alternative of leaving the inner planets
or being executed, the members of the Council had colonized Neptune
with millions who unable to live without the "controls" had chosen to
accompany them into space. As the centuries passed and a new ruler of
the Council had been elected, changes had occurred in the laws, methods
had been perfected, until now, all Neptune was ruled by the City in the
Flaming Sphere, and to the millions in Plastica and the other great
cities, the Protectors (as they now styled themselves), had become
legendary figures. The Law was supreme. And behind the Law, was the
"Blessed Sleep."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the fabulous hall of the palace, where the reeling torches in relief
threw faces of ink and of gold, there was a sudden silence as an
unearthly voice rose limpid, supernally lovely, in a single ululating
note. It was as if a gargoyle were singing with the voice of an angel.

But the bizarre assemblage of jaded, pleasure-sated "Protectors" of
the _Inner Circle_ had no eyes for the cadaverous Minister of Justice,
whose distorted features seemed uglier as he directed a stream of
modulated notes upward toward the gigantic doors at the top of jewelled
stairs. All eyes peering through the slits of black and golden masks
that completely hid their faces, were directed at the great red doors,
shining like gigantic, square cut rubies under the primitive light of
resinous torches. Every detail of the masquerade was perfection itself,
copying faithfully the conditions of primitive ages thousands of years
past. The magnificent costumes of the guests harked back to pirates and
slave-dealers, to vanished kings and oriental potentates. Back to an
era when humanity was young, as if these scientists who had the command
of miracles at their finger-tips, had wearied of their scientific
perfection.

Bejamel, Minister of Justice, had conceived the idea, and His
Benevolence had approved. From the current "favorite" of His
Benevolence, to the newest neophyte of the Inner Circle, the Masquerade
had immediately become a command performance.

Only one thing they had no need to imitate, one thing that harked back
to the darkest annals of Terra and surpassed anything that Planet had
ever known--their utterly ruthless intrigues for the favor of His
Benevolence. Assassinations were a commonplace, besides it provided a
constant incentive to the Scientists of the First Order, for from them
were chosen the fortunate ones who filled the vacancies of the Inner
Circle.

The audience gave a vast sigh, like a susurrating breeze, as the
ponderous doors began to open under the exact tonal vibration of
Bejamel's voice, for Bejamel, Minister of State, was the only one
who could open those doors, aside from the "Protector in Chief"
himself. Within the inner chamber nothing was discernible as the doors
opened--nothing but a vast radiance intolerable to their eyes. As if
a command had been given, all of them kneeled with bowed heads. At
last, Bejamel's ululating chant ceased and when they looked again, the
jewelled door had closed, but on the dais at the top of the stairs
immediately above them reclined a figure--a monstrous figure of man,
whose sharp, pale-yellow eyes gazed at them with bored contempt from
amid folds of bulging flesh.

"Benevolence!" The roar of thousands of voices rose in servile tribute,
and left hands were flung upwards, fingers extended in salute. His
Benevolence looked them over with cold, cruel eyes that seemed to miss
no detail, and a little smile extended the bulbous lips. Languidly he
waved a massive hand to the masqueraders, noting that none had achieved
the bejewelled opulence of his Mandarin's costume, and instantly
the revelry burst into tumult. The corps of exquisite dancers until
now frozen in motionless attitudes, began a series of provocative
movements, while barbaric drums and percussion instruments wove a theme
of madness and desire. Over all, the shrill _passionata_ of the reeds
and strings winged insistently to combine in a diabolic pattern that
plucked at raw nerves and bared hidden jealousies and hates and bared
the instincts of the jungle, red in tooth and claw.

A group of dancers weaving and undulating in the suggestive rhythms
of the Venusian "_Vuda_" passed like an uncoiling serpent before the
august dais and burst into bacchanalian frenzy before the sardonic
yellow eyes of His Benevolence. The fantastic splendor of the scene
was heightened by the young, supple bodies of the most beautiful girls
in the empire, the Virgins of the Sacred Flame, chosen yearly for that
sacred trust.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well," an impassive voice inquired of a tall, dark-haired _guest_ who
stood in the side-lines, stiff and uncertain, his conventional black
mask too small to hide the firm, square-cut mouth, his blue-black mane
of shoulder-length hair betraying him as a newcomer lacking as it did
the curled and perfumed artistry of the other guests.

"I suppose it's superfluous to ask your reactions to your first visit
to the mysteries of our City." The faint laughter that accompanied
the words brought a flush to the cheeks of the newcomer, fortunately
covered by the mask.

"How did you know I was a newcomer?" The youth inquired in turn.

"Simple," the cold, impassive voice replied. "You have no jewels save
that ring of a scientist of the First Order you're trying to conceal.
Your costume's far too simple.... When do you begin your probationary
period for the Inner Circle?" The speaker was below medium height,
slender as a sheathed rapier, and dressed in a single garment of
tight-fitting silk literally emblazoned in diamonds of the first water.
His square-cut mane of red-gold hair was starred with myriad blue and
red and yellow flashing stones, but the face was thoroughly hidden by
the golden mask.

"Tomorrow!" The words were spoken with a vast regret. "I'm afraid I
don't quite understand.... I hadn't expected this. Why I thought Sacred
City was a heaven of achievement of ..." he stopped as if words failed
him.

"Go on!" The sexless voice had a hint of mockery in its depths now.
"This is merely a preamble." He waved a marvelously slender hand in the
direction of the revellers. "Later ... but then, I always manage to
slip away before the real feast commences. If you wish, you may come
with me."

"But who are you? I might as well tell you who am I," the youth began,
but his unknown acquaintance waved his words aside with a gesture.

"I know who you are--scientist of the First Order Guerlan, as for me,
it does not matter who I am--you will see me again ... soon." He turned
to leave.

"Wait!" Guerlan exclaimed. "Take me with you out of this ... this
welter of vice and ..." words failed him in his disgust.

"Traitor ... Blasphemer!" A hoarse cry of rage rose above the music
and tumult. The swirling dancers split asunder as if a giant's hand
had flung them back. In the center of the cleared space, Guerlan found
himself facing a stocky, powerful figure of a man, costumed in the
ancient garments of a Pirate, eyes gleaming through the slits of
his golden mask. In his hand he hefted a long columbium sword with
bejewelled hilt. "Draw, vermin!" He taunted the dazed youth. "Draw
before I spit you on my sword like a spider!"

On the dais, still reclining as he gulped superb white grapes, His
Benevolence had begun to show signs of interest for the first time. The
veil of boredom had left his yellow eyes, an expectant grin split his
lips hungrily. Here was an unscheduled diversion of the first order.

Guerlan wore a long, thin rapier for a weapon, it had come with the
costume, or he'd never have thought of wearing it--nothing like this
fantastic nightmare could possibly have occurred to him. "Why did they
have to choose me!" He groaned inwardly. But with a swift movement
he drew the blade and stood _en garde_. He sensed dimly that it was
a true weapon, flexible and needle-sharp, not a costume-toy. And
once he had it in his hand, all his relentless, austere training in
fencing and sword-play came flooding in his mind. It was not considered
sportsmanlike to hunt Irreconcilables with atmo-pistols, only swords
and spears were used--but the end was the same for the defenseless
rebels.

Dimly Guerlan was aware of the dispassionate voice whispering in his
ear, "Watch out for tricks ... and win! The penalty will be far less
severe."

Guerlan wondered if his unknown acquaintance of the frigid voice meant
that his rebellious words had reached the awesome figure on the dais,
and that by winning he might be shown mercy. But he had no more time to
think irrelevant thoughts, for with a cry of drunken fury, his accuser
struck without preamble, slashing downward in a mighty blow calculated
to have cloven anything in two. But Guerlan smiled contemptuously at
the transparent maneuver; he merely shifted sideways and flicked his
rapier, and the sword slid harmlessly along the shining columbium
steel rapier. But the pseudo-pirate had no intentions of giving up
the initiative, he whirled the saber over his head and again brought
it down in a glancing blow that would have sheared through Guerlan,
and the young scientist again parried it with such precision that the
razor-sharp blade slid off singing to one side.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a superb struggle, and His Benevolence had directed his palace
minions to clear space for his unobstructed view. He now held a
gigantic uncut, but polished diamond to one eye, which he alternated
with an emerald and then a ruby, watching the battle through various
colors. An immense golden platter of viands and fruits slowly
disappeared down his capable maw.

Suddenly Guerlan closed in. His rapier flashed with vertiginous speed,
flicking in and out, so rapidly that it barely seemed to touch the
brawny forearm of his attacker, but when it came away it left a flowing
gash from elbow to wrist. With a bellow of humiliation and rage, the
pirate-costumed scientist lunged with a tremendous slash, but his
sword-point speared the air and before he could recover his balance,
Guerlan drove his rapier deep into the fleshy shoulder.

His attacker was silent now, an ominous rage contorted the brutal face
from which he'd torn the golden mask. He had but one single idea, to
kill and kill quickly. Laughter and jeering shouts rose around him.
As did the acrid odor of blood mingling with the exotic fragrances
that cloyed the atmosphere ... his own blood! His reaction to the
audible scorn of the other inner circle scientists was instantaneous.
He came in whirling his saber until it was like a silver vortex, then
he brought it down in a savage slash to shear Guerlan's head off his
shoulders. But the youth leaped back, engaging the Pirate's sword at
the same time and with a strange flicking motion accomplished faster
than the eye could catch, he twisted suddenly at a precise instant and
sent his attacker's sword flying through the silent hall.

It was an all but forgotten, ancient Italian trick whose origins were
lost. But the Scientist of the Inner Circle, sweating under his gaudy
pirate's costume knew nothing about Italian fencing tricks--he only
knew that one moment he'd thought to shear his opponent's head off his
shoulders and the next he was disarmed. A look of sheer horror came
into his blood-flecked eyes and next an uncontrollable scream escaped
his lips. That sealed his doom. Guerlan saluted and made no motion to
finish him. But from the fabulous dais where the jeweled stairs were
like a flowing stream of fire, a mocking, infinitely sardonic laugh
chilled every scientist present in that room.

"Our unfortunate brother is afraid, he is tired, is he not Bejamel?
After such an ordeal he deserves sleep ... soothing 'Blessed Sleep!'"
Again that demoniac, perversely cruel cachinnation that travestied
laughter, while the scientist, grovelling now, babbled in a frenzy of
appeals for a mercy that didn't exist. He was led screaming to a side
door and then once more there was silence in the hall.

"Bring the rebel!" Once more it was the voice of His Benevolence,
purring now, silky, filled with anticipatory pleasure. But Guerlan
needed no one to bring him before the dreaded presence. He walked calm
and erect to what he sensed would be his death. He knew that from
this soulless being he could expect no justice--nothing but death.
But there was to be a surprise in store for him. His Benevolence was
an adept at ringing the changes of torture on a human soul, and this
was a magnificent occasion. "We have heard you disapprove of us?" His
Benevolence's voice was light, cheerful, there was no hint of danger in
the silky tones. But Guerlan knew. That partly developed extra-sensory
perception that was a part of his heritage was prenaturally alert now.
He was not fooled.

"I expressed a misunderstanding, Your Benevolence," Guerlan bowed
and slowly took off his mask. Above the wide-spaced deep-green eyes,
flashing like tourmalines, a tiny tattooed six-pointed star seemed to
tremble with the pulsing of a vein.

"You see, Bejamel? I told you that 'Perceptives' would never do, yet
you so persuasively sold me the idea of how useful they could be if
their extra-sensory perceptive powers were developed." He sighed. "It's
that genius of yours for intrigue.... But it has failed. We can allow
no dissidents to enter the mysteries of the inner circle, Bejamel!"

"I kneel before your Benevolence," Bejamel's gargoyle features were
painfully contorted as he tried to grovel. "In my zeal for service to
your Magnificence, I have failed, but there's always the Blessed Sleep
for this blasphemer, O Symbol of Charity!" He finished ominously and
pondered what a jewel of a victim he would make.

       *       *       *       *       *

But His Benevolence gave Bejamel a look of such cold, devastating evil,
that _he_ should dare to offer a solution, that the cadaverous Minister
of Justice seemed to shrink, pale and desperate, against the wall of
scientists who watched avidly the _miseen scène_.

"No mercy, no finesse." His Benevolence again was wearing the mask of
merciful forgiveness. "No Bejamel--not the Chamber of Blessed Sleep,
just ..." and he held up two fingers weighted with jewels. Then he
turned to Guerlan.

"My son!" Guerlan flinched. "Having been offered the sacred honor of
entering the Inner Circle, you failed to understand your first test
of the lesser mysteries ... all this ... this pitiful show of human
frailty and weakness, this odious travesty on the sins of the flesh,
was staged to test you. And you." A world of sadness seemed to darken
His Benevolence's voice, "and you condemned us! Instead of seeing it as
a mere test, and valuing it for what it was worth, you believed that
we were such monsters of hypocrisy as to entertain such lives." He
wagged his head from side to side in inexpressible disappointment and
grief. "I would pardon you from the depths of my heart, but The Law is
inexorable--I can but soften the harshness of your retribution.

"And so, my son," he held up two fingers again, "you not only are
barred from entering the sacred inner circle, but are demoted from
scientist of the first, to that of the second order. There is one
plastic center where a problem has not been solved. Achieve its
solution and you will be promoted to your original place, and
perhaps ... perhaps as you grow older, you may again be considered for
the priceless boon, the blessed destiny you have lost tonight."

A brooding sadness mantled the obese face, lending it dignity and a
transitory greatness. The soft echoes of the august voice ceased, and
Guerlan found himself being led by members of the Inner Circle Guard
back to the atomo-plane that had brought him here from Plastica. He
was too dazed to think, a vast, anguished feeling of defeat and shame
filled his mind, the words of His Benevolence whom he had dared to
doubt, were etched in acid in his brain. But, deep in the recesses of
his consciousness, something mocking, something not quite articulate,
struggled to plant in his chaotic thoughts, the swiftly growing seeds
of doubt.

Behind him, had he only been there to see and hear, a cataract of
laughter had engulfed the great Hall, and His Benevolence, surrounded
by his favorites and the most magnificently beautiful girls of the
empire, shook in paroxysms of mocking laughter.

But Guerlan knew nothing of this. His muscles ached from the battle and
his brain was awhirl. Once out in space again, he noted that a great
storm was in progress.

Hurtling under guard through the stormy reaches of space, he idly
watched through the plane's transparent dome how lightning danced
a drunken saraband. But although Guerlan strove to re-direct his
thoughts, the echoes of His Benevolence's voice were like a sunset gun
in his brain--final, incontestable, a sentence to the obscurity of the
Second Order, and problems ... he had mentioned a specific problem. And
Guerlan remembered with chill apprehension the sentence for failure to
solve problems in the second order. Three failures brought a warning,
five a probation and the sixth ... final judgment.

The upper air of the First Level, reserved for the Scientists of the
First Order, had the exhilarating quality of Burgundy. As far as
Guerlan's eyes could reach, the opaline and prismatic domes of the
First Level's exquisite structures extended in every direction. The
light was soft and caressing, thanks to the illumination and climate
conditioning of the mammoth Weather Stations. A soft, lilting melody
reminiscent of the ancient ballets of another age of centuries past,
was like a ripple of melodic laughter, enhancing a background of
ineffable peace. But Guerlan knew how illusory all this was for him.
Only enough time--a few hours to arrange his affairs and move to the
Second Level had been granted him. A profound pang of regret was like a
dull ache in his heart.

He had been trained from childhood to be a scientist of the First
Order, his mental coordinates had warranted it. So he had never seen
any other level but the First. Vaguely he had heard of that Second
level where spartan simplicity was a virtue, luxury-less, where
toil was constant, and thinking--a dangerous luxury, except where
work-problems were concerned. And the columbium steel band around his
young heart seemed to constrict more and more. Quickly he finished
packing his personal possessions. Nothing else was allowed him--a
sentence of demotion entailed complete personal loss.


                                  II

"In twenty-seven seconds," an impassive voice vaguely reminiscent,
predicted from the inter-connecting catwalk above, "the vat will burst,
flooding the safety moat with acid."

The marvelous tonal quality was startling, for in its depths there was
no emotional content--almost as if it were a sexless voice prophesying
the most natural thing in the world.

With a swift movement that sent the muscles rippling along a
Leander-like torso, Vyrl Guerlan abandoned the precision tool with
which he had tackled a gigantic refractory coupling. Gleaming with
perspiration, his square-cut mouth compressed into a line of fury,
he gazed up at the speaker and wondered where he'd heard that voice
before. Above him rose the titanic vat of processing acid, that treated
the materials and converted them into gelatinous masses in the first
process.

"I was a First Order Scientist, I'm now an Analyst," Guerlan said
brusquely. "Nothing in my tests indicates such an accident." But the
whining crescendo of the vat's machinery was threnody in major and
minor warning of sudden, devastating trouble, as its originally smooth
purr changed to a cacophony of sound.

"Twelve seconds!" Came the placid voice in reply. "Care to test _my_
prediction?"

For an answer Guerlan scrambled up the hetero-plastic ladder to the
upper catwalk with the agility of dread, his mane of blue-black hair
tangled and dishevelled, his face white and strained.

Guerlan towered beside the fragile figure of the scientist, whose
wasp-like waist and marvelously slender hands gave him an elfin
quality in comparison with Vyrl's streamlined strength. For an instant
Guerlan felt an overpowering desire to seize the delicate body in his
own great hands and break it in two. But the luminous violet eyes
on the abnormally lovely face, appraising him now as if he were a
particularly obnoxious specimen, held him in check with their utterly
calm detachment. It was then he remembered where he'd last heard those
impersonal tones, that sexless voice that seemed devoid of all emotion.

"Why ... you're the scientist of the golden mask when I was at
the ..." but a cool hand was suddenly pressed against his lips. A vague
fragrance as of Venusian jasmines was in Guerlan's nostrils and before
he could say any more, a livid crack appeared down the length of the
vat, growing swiftly until the vat where Guerlan had been working on
the defective coupling, split into two halves with a prodigious hiss,
like an apple cloven in two.

A cataract of spuming acid flooded into the safety moat, while
hundreds of analysts and technicians came scrambling up the opaque
hetero-plastic ladders that surpassed columbium steel in tensile
strength and cycle-endurance for unlike metal, there was no fatigue
factor. A babel of voices rose above the broken hum of the machinery
and the swirling hiss of the released acid. Intolerable fumes taxing
the conditioners in the safety towers, burned the membranes of their
nostrils and mouths as they gasped for air.

And, above the hum of the machinery, the growing turmoil of
panic-stricken technicians and tumult of excited voices, rose the
crystalline tones of the slender scientist once more:

"_Vat 66 explodes in twelve minutes!_"

A desperate look--the look of a trapped animal glazed Guerlan's green
eyes. If this was true, it was the end for him.

"The organic acid vat!... But, it's impossible!" He gasped.
Yet, inwardly, even as he denied the possibility, he knew with
soul-wrenching dread, and the certitude of a _perceptive_ that it was
true.

But he didn't have time to think, to plan a solution of the problem,
for already the outpouring technicians were sweeping him onward in
a desperate exodus toward the multiple conveyors that reached every
section and floor of the titanic structure that was known as Plastic
No. 15. Once as he was being pushed forward by the press of horrified
analysts, synthetizers, selectors, graders and all the technical
complement of the Second Order who actually transformed all foods,
materials, minerals and in fact everything produced in Neptune, he
glimpsed the calm features of the scientist he had first seen at the
Feast of the Jewels in the City of the Sphere, and it seemed to him
there was a hint of pity in the violet eyes.

Guerlan's face was white as _Jadite_ as he roared orders in an effort
to stem the maddened flood of men. He exhorted them to don their masks
of crysto-plast and try to hold back the expected explosion, but no
one paid any attention; it was doubtful if they even understood him
in their growing horror of the dread, corrosive acid that converted
organic matter into a secret formula that none but the Scientists of
the Inner Circle were permitted to know anything about. They never saw
the final product under the penalty of death.

       *       *       *       *       *

At last they debouched into the conveyors, and Guerlan, among a
group of others, was taken to the Dispersors--platforms where the
ultra-sensitive dispersal machines sensitized to the vibrations of
their individual plastic wrist-band of rank, unerringly sent them to
their proper levels.

Guerlan's generous mouth was compressed into a pale scimitar. His odd,
slanting green eyes with long dark lashes, were almost black with
rebellious fury. Suddenly he was shunted into a special conveyor and a
platform where the conveyors to the inner corridors revolved.

"They already know!" He exclaimed bitterly. And he was not wrong.
For presently a plastic arm the color and texture of aluminum, but
incredibly stronger gathered him in and gently pushed him into an
alcove that immediately became hermetically sealed the very moment he
had entered. Guerlan saw that he was in an Efficiency Cubicle where
technicians were periodically tested. Before him stood a towering
Neuro-graph entirely fashioned of several types of plastics including
crystallite, as transparent as its namesake. It was an invention so
complicated that it resembled nothing so much as a multiplication
of tesseracts. Presently it became activated by Guerlan's mental
frequency, and one of its slender rods moved forward silently.

A magnetic current went through the analyst and held him rigid, while
another rod clamped a plastic helmet over the young man's head. For
several seconds the almost inaudible sighing of the complex machinery
was the only thing that disturbed the silence. Then, in precise,
clipped tones an uncannily human voice began in sonorous tones to
summarize his mental and physical coordinates:

"Efficiency totally neutralized by intense mental stress. Subject
suffering from psycho-atavistic retrogression. Paranoiac tendencies
with delusions of persecution. Immediate fear of death ... intense."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a pause in which Guerlan had time to remember how many times
he had attended councils with other Scientists of the First Order, when
the readings of the Master Neuro-graph on the First Level from which
he'd been ejected, had been tabulated from the readings of the various
neuro-graphs in the Plastic Centers and transmitted to the Council of
the Inner Circle in the City of the Sphere. Guerlan, his eyes flaming,
his face mutinous, awaited for the recommendation. It was not long in
coming.

"Report to Psychiatry III for amnesiac treatment for removal of
_superfluous_ knowledge. Recommendation: _Reclassify for Level III_."

"Damn them!" The desperate rebellion of a man condemned to worse than
death rose from his heart as the magnetic rod freed him and the helmet
was removed from his head.

He began to circle the cubicle like a trapped animal. "Level III!"
He wailed inwardly. The Level of the Automatons conditioned to
slave-labor, dwelling in semi-darkness and squalor, on a diet
restricted to barest essentials of energy units, until finally the
Blessed Sleep claimed him--whatever that was, he shuddered. He'd
had six failures in his section--Plastic No. 15, and six meant the
ultimate sentence. There was no trial, no jury, no opportunity even of
explaining or seeking in a rational manner the reason for those ghastly
explosions. Inexorably, the Law was final. But who was _The Law_?
From the high Level of a First Order Scientist engaged in scientific
work that had resulted in the miraculous array of plastics that had
made their civilization a thing of undreamed-of power and wealth,
he was cast without recourse to the Level of Darkness--memory-less,
reflex-conditioned, practically mindless except for slavish toil and
animal needs.

Little had he dreamed, even when a Scientist of the First Order, that
there existed such stupendous extremes as the fantastic splendor of
the City of the Sphere, and the hellish misery of Level III. The
Neuro-graph was speaking again in the sonorous, purple period that made
his hackles rise.

"Analyst Guerlan," it intoned and paused impressively. "You have failed
in your _Allotment_. Six accidents have destroyed enormous wealth
and caused inexcusable damage. You had not less than five previous
repetitions of the same type of accident to study and find a solution
to the problem ... a problem given you because of your blasphemous
attitude toward the Inner Circle. The sixth explosion was your epitaph.
Retribution _is_ The Law.

"You will be immediately conditioned for Level III. Amnesiac Treatment
will be administered to save needless suffering--we are merciful--a
robot-proctor will guide you henceforth through the various stages. A
Protector has spoken." The icy voice was silent.

Guerlan wondered which Protector had passed sentence. The hum of the
machine told of coordinators falling into place as his mental and
psychic state was recorded, the amount of energy of his metabolism
checked and the time potential of his servitude unerringly estimated. A
livid glow enveloped the strange instrument, and then, silently, a part
of the seemingly blank wall behind him slid aside for a robot-proctor's
entrance.

Guerlan knew that the inexorable sentence had been transmitted by
remote control through incredibly delicate processes to the machine
before him. But who'd decided on the sentence, or why the reason
for its harsh cruelty, he had no way of knowing. He doubted if the
elephantine Protector in Chief had bothered to pass it. But Guerlan had
no time to dwell on this question, for the bery-plastic robot-proctor,
its non-abradable crystallite eyes gleaming, had grasped him firmly by
the elbow to lead him away.

It was then that Guerlan acted without preconceived plan. His
magnificent chest arched as he sucked in air; then with a sinuous
movement of vertiginous speed, he twisted free and swooping downwards
at the same time he grasped the robot by its legs and then heaved with
a muscle-wrenching effort, flinging the plastic man with shattering
impact into the Neuro-graph. A dry, staccato rattle followed the
rending crash. Part of the robot-proctor protruded from what had been
the machine's crystallite dome and fragments of delicate mechanism and
scintillating shards of priceless _Jadite_ showered on the plastic
floor.

Instantly the cubicle was illuminated by a vivid, crimson fluorescence,
while the opening in the wall began rapidly to close. But Vyrl Guerlan
was already speeding toward the closing aperture. Instantly he was
through, seconds later only a blank wall showed where an opening had
been. A series of alarms in coordinated prismatic flashes flared in
every direction, activating the Safety Machines. Long, crane-like
alumi-plastic arms extended from ramps and conveyor-heads to trap
him; all efficiency cubicles became hermetically sealed cells, and
over all, a shrill maddening whine rose in fiendish wail, insistent,
nerve-shattering.

Guerlan knew death was at his heels. He dodged the gasping arms and
magnetic traps, straining his extra-sensory perception to its fullest
power without slowing down the killing pace he maintained. Still he
wondered how long he could last against the diabolical ingenuity of
the Inner Circle. If he only had some human to go up against, with
atomo-pistols, or the more devastating supernal fire of the electronic
flash, forbidden to all but the Inner Circle Scientist--or even the
primitive swords and rapiers used to hunt Irreconcilables in Neptune's
vast forests. But machines! Soulless, cold plastic machines! His
capable hands clenched and unclenched as he flung himself toward the
ascending conveyor before him, his breath labored, his chest heaving.

"No, idiot ... not that one!" There was an intense urgency in the
crystalline voice that speared into his consciousness. Even before he
turned to locate the speaker, he recognized the voice. Twice before in
a moment of crisis he'd heard it.

"You!" Guerlan breathed explosively. He tensed himself to leap upon the
fragile figure at the least movement. But once more the preternaturally
calm gaze from the violet eyes held him in thrall.

"That conveyor was purposely set in motion to trap you ... it leads to
Psychiatry III where you would have been neutralized, Guerlan. Take the
blue, lapiz-lazuli conveyor behind you to the right. Hurry! We've only
seconds before the chamber is gassed!"

Suiting action to his words, the slender scientist dashed to the
gleaming plastic conveyor that imitated in all its sapphirine
perfection the blue glory of lapiz-lazuli. In an instant Guerlan was
beside the scientist in a leap. He grasped the fragile shoulder with
fingers that dug into rounded flesh.

"If this is a trap, you die with me," he said briefly.

"Your fingers," the scientist remarked impassively, "are like columbium
steel. Suppose you await developments before indulging in atavistic
impulses--besides, a real man offers no violence to a woman!"

"A woman ... you?" Guerlan's dazed expression was ludicrous. "I thought
you were one of those repugnantly beautiful 'Intermediates' the Inner
Circle uses for intricate mental synthesis."

"Am I repugnantly beautiful?" the scientist asked in cold detachment,
luminous violet eyes gazing inscrutably into the reddening features of
the young analyst.

       *       *       *       *       *

Guerlan gazed at the exquisite face before him, and said laconically,
"On the contrary." He was too confused for words just now.

"My name is Perlac," the girl scientist said without preamble. "Listen
carefully. This conveyor happens to be the only one that leads to the
aero-dome. All the rest have no exit, for although you do not know
it, every rest period you are directed to exit-conveyors by magnetic
coordinators that act on impulses sent by Selectors. These selectors
are attuned to the mental wave-length of the individual. No scientist,
analyst or technician may leave a plastic center without being tested
and their fitness for even limited temporary freedom established ...
_not even to rest_! That is why the direction of the conveyors is
changed for every allotment period and no one is permitted to know
which is the exit conveyor! Had you remained in City of the Sphere and
joined the Inner Circle, you would have learned all this."

Guerlan stared at Perlac in incredulity. "But ... where are the
Selectors? I've never seen them!"

"Is that strange? They're in the walls, imbedded in the flooring
beneath your feet ... oh, in a thousand places! But we've no time for
involved explanations just now. We're nearing the Aero-dome. Prepare
for the worst; but if we can get to my plane, we'll be beyond capture."

"In a slow, propulsion type craft?" Guerlan asked unbelievingly. "We'll
be captured in minutes, if not blasted out of the Second Level by
Robot-Proctors!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Perlac turned and gazed into the young analyst's eyes; a gentle, slow
smile illumined her features like a tardy dawn.

Suddenly they were at the vast platform that exited into the Aero-dome,
but where the great section of wall should have slid aside, it remained
blank and hermetically closed. It was a definite dead end.

Far below them a greenish opalescence began to rise in tenuous,
billowing clouds, and the faint odor of new-mown hay came almost
imperceptibly to their nostrils. From the bowels of the gigantic
plant, robot-proctors began to debouch onto the blue conveyor in
serried ranks, impervious to death. Guerlan gazed curiously at the
girl scientist. "Looks like your plan has failed, Perlac. What I can't
understand is why you've thrown your lot in with me. I'm condemned ...
first it was to Level II, then for six failures to the living death of
Level III, and now that I have rebelled, I have no end but death. You
must have known there were _six failures_!"

"Yes, I knew ... that's why I'm here." The unearthly voice was barely
a whisper. "Ever since the night you were at the Feast of the Jewels
and you were appalled at the debauchery of the Inner Circle, you
have been chosen. And my plan has not failed!" There was a world of
conviction in the exquisite voice, yet she said it softly, very softly
indeed.

Slowly Perlac raised her hand, and Guerlan saw it held a tiny, slender
instrument the butt of which was a round ball concealed in the palm of
her hand. It was the dreadful electronic-flash, and she calmly aimed
it at the blank wall, playing it up and down its length. The seemingly
impenetrable wall of toughest bery-plastic parted from top to bottom
under the supernal fire of the electronic-flash, as the electronic
balance of the plastic's atomic structure was disrupted and literally
dispersed into space. There was no flash, no explosion, nothing but
a silent widening of the breach, until it was wide enough to permit
Guerlan's herculean shoulders to squeeze through.

Nothing seemed to have issued from the instrument in Perlac's hand, no
beam of force, no light--literally nothing, yet, the strongest material
known to their civilization, surpassing even the heaviest columbium
steel armor, had been riven in seconds.

[Illustration: _Guerlan followed Perlac through the gaping hole._]

Once out in the immense Aero-dome, the platform was filled with
ships of every description under robot-proctor guard, from tiny
electro-copters with retractible vanes, to a large, powerful cruiser
reserved for Inspectors of the First Order. The moment Perlac and
Guerlan came into view, the robot-proctors aimed their electro-pistols
and atomo-pistols, but Perlac already had covered them with her
electronic-flash and their plastic bodies disintegrated in seconds.

"The Cruiser!" Guerlan was exultant. "That's what we need, it has the
speed and endurance, and perhaps we can get by the robot-guard at the
outer gates of the shell, and reach the forests!"

"No," Perlac shook her gold-red mane, "we'll take my ship, no time
to argue now ... you'll see!" She was already running toward a
blunt-looking four-seater of the electro-type usually reserved for
scientists of the First Order who were not inspectors.

Guerlan hesitated, exasperation written in his face. To disdain a
powerful cruiser for this slow-going, vulnerable craft was beyond
his comprehension. But Perlac without slackening her stride made a
peremptory motion with her slender hand and shouted: "Follow me! I've
been right thus far; trust me, you fool!"

Behind them, through the breach in the wall a phalanx of robot-proctors
was emerging, and wisps of green gas were beginning to reach the
Aero-dome.

In giant strides Guerlan covered the distance to Perlac's plane and
entered its cabin. The die was cast, after all he owed her his life in
a way. But for her he would be in Psychiatry III right now.

       *       *       *       *       *

He had scarcely strapped himself, when the ordinary-looking craft shot
forward in a dazzling burst of acceleration that pressed Guerlan back
against the mullioned seat with almost paralyzing force. But even then
his trained faculties noted the sheath of columbium with which the
plane was completely lined, and his ears detected the unmistakable hum
of powerful atomic engines. One glance at the complex instrument panel
told him that here was a craft that was far more than it seemed to be.

But he'd scarcely time to begin to think order out of chaos, when a
growing nausea born of the steadily increasing acceleration cleaved his
tongue to his palate, and his lower jaw slowly twisted to one side.

Perlac, an immobile figurine of alabaster, eyes closed, seemed crushed
against her seat. On and on the plane sped slanting upwards as if
determined to crash the transparent barrier that separated them from
the next level. And then as suddenly as it began, their terrific speed
slackened and the plane levelled off. The intense agony Guerlan had
momentarily felt dwindled and disappeared. He saw the girl manipulate
what was evidently a robot control, setting it for a new direction and
rate of speed, then lock it in place.

"Look downwards, Guerlan, there to our right," Perlac whispered.

An umbrella of atomo-planes in all the sleek glory of deadly
interceptors, spread below them in battle formation; behind them the
immense plastic pylons that supported the next tier, and the crenelated
superstructure of Level II, combined with distance to dwarf them
into toy-like dimensions. The semi-transparent roof of Level II was
dangerously near, Guerlan saw, and the forest of pylons dead ahead that
marked the center of their level was another fatal hazard. But Perlac
manipulated the intricate controls with casual ease, leaving the rate
of speed and general direction to the robot-control, she merely made
minute adjustments.

"We outdistanced them!" Guerlan was awed. That anything in the
possession of even an Inner Circle scientist could outdistance the
Pursuit Fleet of the Protector in Chief was unimaginable.

"This spacer's something His Benevolence would give the Diadem Jewel
for--or rather for the secret of its construction!" The girl laughed
softly. "It's atomic, of course, but a variation based on a principle
that goes beyond Terran equations."

Guerlan gazed wonderingly at the exquisite features of the fragile
girl-scientist, marveling at the incredible courage of this puzzling
being who unaccountably had chosen to throw in her lot with his own.

"Perlac," Guerlan spoke thoughtfully. "I'm afraid today has been
something of a mystery. From what I've seen you do to that Aero-dome
wall, the inexplicable accidents of the acid vats were undoubtedly your
doing. Yet, you've saved my life and in so doing forfeited your own.
Why? What interest can you possibly have in a doomed life such as mine?"

The girl smiled slowly, ineffably, in a mixture of melancholy sweetness
and inexpressable sadness. She turned her golden head slightly and when
she spoke her voice had sombre overtones rich with emotion.

"Do you know what is piped into the so-called organic vats, Guerlan?
No, you wouldn't know. Plants, you thought, beasts and cattle and dead
flesh.... Dead, yes. The murdered bodies of human beings, such as _you_
would have been!"

All Guerlan's rigid training rose in protest at the charge against
the Protector in Chief. It could not be! There could be no murder in
Plastica, duels yes, honorable combat between men ... but murder!
He acknowledged that the Laws of Plastic, Inc., were ruthless and
harsh, and the Inner Circle had become lax in their supervision,
until Plastics, Inc., had become an octopus. But to imply that His
Benevolence would countenance cold-blooded murder ... every fiber of
his being revolted from such a charge.

And then he remembered the Feast of the Jewels, and the travesty of
justice in his case, and he was silenced.

"His Benevolence and the Inner Circle _are_ Plastics, Inc." Perlac
continued imperturbably as if reading his thoughts. "Don't argue now,
strap yourself in and prepare for an orbital fall, we'll wheel in
direct ratio with the rotation of the planet then dive in a concentric
spiral that will become tighter and tighter until we reach our
objective. It is the only way we can elude the robot-proctor patrol....
Look, they are climbing already. The plane's robot control is set
and timed--it will take us there. No human being can possibly retain
consciousness to guide the plane in such a maneuver," she explained,
pale as alabaster.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before Vyrl Guerlan had time to do else but tighten the broad straps
and lean back against the mullioned seat, the girl had touched a series
of knobs. Suddenly the craft began to wheel with meteoric speed, then
dived with a violence that sent the landscape spinning into a fantastic
pattern that quickly blurred. Guerlan felt as if the very marrow in
his bones had liquefied, an intolerable pain lanced at the back of
his brain like an atomic needle, and his face was contorted into a
spasmodic grimace he was unable to control. He tried to close his eyes
but couldn't, tried to shout and suddenly plummeted into an abyss.

They were diving downward into the outskirts of the immense city, down
a secret inter-communicating passage that connected the various levels,
past the third, fourth and finally into a yawning chasm where all
was darkness. The hurtling craft sped on unerringly as if drawn by a
magnetic beam.

When Guerlan finally awoke, he found himself in intense darkness. Only
his labored breath disturbed the silence. Motionless, his body a living
pain, he tried to adjust his thoughts and piece together the jig-saw
puzzle of the last few hours. Groping into his tunic he brought out an
atomo-torch. By its discreet illumination, he saw that the girl was
quivering like a being in torture. Gently he massaged her temples and
the base of her neck then her soft, white throat; with infinite care he
opened her mouth and inserted a pellet of _alphaline_ to stimulate her
heart, then stroked the gleaming red-gold hair back from her forehead
until the girl showed signs of coming to.

"Have you any stimulants aboard?" he asked her, when Perlac opened
her eyes. "I feel drained, but that's nothing to what you must feel,
Perlac!"

She gave him a pallid smile. "There," she pointed weakly, "to the left
of the instrument panel."

Guerlan pressed the combination lock and found in the compartment a
full kit of surgical instruments and bandages in a superb _Jadite_
case. A priceless flask of _Sapphirac_ filled with sterile water, and,
to his intense surprise, a Platino-plastic bottle, encrusted with
tourmalines more brilliant than emeralds and filled with the utterly
proscribed _Sulfalixir_!

"That ... that's it," Perlac gasped and reached for the bottle in
Guerlan's hand.

"But, it's deadly!" Guerlan was aghast. "How can you risk addiction to
that dreadful drug?"

"You're a victim of conditioning." Even as weak as she felt, Perlac
managed a low laugh, "_Sulfalixir_ is a miracle drug--not what you've
been taught to believe." She drank sparingly and offered him the
bottle, but Guerlan drew back in categorical refusal. "As you wish. Now
we must leave the plane."

"But where in ten thousand Hellacoriums are we?" Guerlan's voice was
mutinous. "I've been a pawn in a game ever since I went to the sphere
and blasphemed, since you burst the acid vat and exploded Organic 66!
By Neptune's Moon I'll be dissolved if I stir another step without
knowing what this is all about!" His green eyes were wide and gleaming,
his handsome face set in rigid lines.

"All right, atavism! You're on Level Five, and you're going to a
meeting. I want you to appraise what the Amnesiac treatment does to
human beings, and how the condemned live on this level. The third
level is sheer luxury compared to this. You Scientists of the First
Level have no conception of what happens on the third, fourth and
fifth levels, where life ceases to be even existence and becomes...."
But words failed her, and she fell back against her mullioned seat
breathing heavily. After a pause she asked: "Will you come now?"

"No," Guerlan grinned. "I'll lead the way. It was an experience seeing
you in a fury; blessed if I thought anything could disturb you!" He
stood up and pressed the plane's dome release and the stale, fetid air
of the nether regions of the city swept in. Only the conditioners broke
the silence with their constantly iterated and reiterated subconscious
homily of simple, child-like thought-patterns for the amnesiacs. It
was an eternal reiteration of the "Conditioning Controls" which no
amnesiac could ever escape, except at intervals when the amnesiac
counter-reaction set in as their metabolism building up a resistance
to the administered drug rendered them impervious and they regained a
measure of their former memories as consciousness returned. That was
the period of danger, when they were at the verge of any madness, in
their utter hopelessness. Deliberately they invited death. But here in
these vast catacombs, their end was but a detail, and the organic vats
eventually received them.

"Listen!" It was Perlac's voice indistinct with indignation, "listen to
the 'conditioners,' Guerlan!"

"Sleep ... sleep now. Deep, dreamless sleep ... for the conservation
of your energy is your noblest effort ... so you may conserve your
strength for work ... work ... you must, you absolutely must
_Achieve_ ... so that you may fulfill your maximum allotment ...
maximum ... and be rewarded.... Sleep ... sleep...."

Endlessly the fiendish mosaic of lies and psychological half-truths
went on and on, imbedding itself in the violated minds that slept in
the stupor of the utterly exhausted.

Guerlan shivered. A malefic aura of death and torture seemed woven into
the matrix of darkness that surrounded them. The very odor of death
was in their nostrils as they left the atomo-plane by the light of his
torch and faced the narrow, tortuous thoroughfare that wended its way
from the wide circle where the plane had come to rest.

Perlac pressed close to him and her slender hand gripped his arm.
There were no robot-proctors in sight, none were needed here where
no amnesiac ever left alive. No victims were in sight, for the day
workers rested and the nocturnal shift toiled in their prisoning
workrooms. Behind them, in front of them, from every side, the
Conditioners continued their endless chant: "Loyalty ... obedience ...
unquestioningly you must achieve ... for our glorious State."


                                  III

In the abysmal darkness their atomo-torch was a pool of light that
advanced before them. But Perlac unerringly went directly to a building
whose front seemed to be an impenetrable, blank wall. She pressed a
hidden mechanism near the far corner of the structure, and presently
a door slid aside, revealing a passageway to the beam of the torch.
Once within, Guerlan became aware it was some sort of dormitory, for
stretched on rows of cots made of cheap plastic, the amnesiacs slept in
their leaden tunics. These were the pitchblende workers who had but a
brief life-period, due to the radiations.

In another corridor slept the brown-tunics, the organic-matter workers,
blood-stained from their gruesome labors, their stertorous breathing
witness to their exhaustion. Perlac kept on rapidly going from corridor
to corridor until she stopped at a door leading to the cellar, opening
it, she scrambled down a plastic ladder, followed by Guerlan, and
finally into a sub-cellar gallery that wound tortuously into the very
bowels of Neptune.

Here were the sightless wrecks who lived in eternal darkness and whose
task was to tend the machinery that air-conditioned and kept reasonably
warm the dreadful Fifth Level. Some seemed strangely twisted and had
the loathsome whiteness of fungi, others mindlessly tottered by like
automatons. Guerlan drew aside in a mixture of nausea and profound
pity. A welling, terrible anger strove to rise within him at the sight
of these horrors that went by like Dantesque shadows of the damned.

At last Perlac stopped and made six curious rasping sounds at a heavy
rocky section of the dripping wall.

As if in a nightmare, Guerlan saw part of the stone surface pivot
silently inward, and before them was another passageway. But this
one was immaculately clean, completely sheathed in neutral grey
hetero-plastic, and the aura-lumes diffused a gentle light that was
soft and yet perfectly measured. The murmur of voices reached them, and
the air was fresh and exhilarating after the fetid, miasmic air of the
Fifth Level and the sub-cellars.

"We have arrived, Guerlan!" Perlac gazed at the young scientist, as
if essaying to appraise his reactions to what he'd seen en route.
"You're going to meet the leaders of the Irreconcilables ... not those
poor creatures of the forests and jungles, but the real 'underground'
that has but one purpose--Freedom from the Protectors. Now, do you
understand why you were brought here?"

Guerlan nodded in silence. His face was impassive, but the odd,
slanting green eyes were burning with lambent fires and his powerful
hands were knotted.

       *       *       *       *       *

Within seconds the passageway led them to an immense cavern--on Terra
it would have been unthinkable, but in keeping with Neptune's bulk,
the cavern was a gargantuan retreat. Stupendous stalactites pending
from the ceiling defied adjectives, their bases lost in darkness.
The walls as far as the eye could reach were sheathed in a gleaming
plastic new to Guerlan. The floor, too, was resilient plastic, smooth
and perfectly laid, as if an army of workmen and machines had labored
on its perfection, which indeed they had. Buildings clustered at the
far distant end, like a miniature city; and in the very center of the
vast grotto, surrounded by an army of scientists and technicians, an
atomo-Spacer, super-armored and longer than any Guerlan had ever seen,
rested in its cradle in all its sleek, shining glory.

Testing and repair machines were scattered around the great
subterranean chamber, driven by technicians and coordinators who worked
feverishly, silently, as if engaged in a life-and-death race with time.

Toward the left, where the cavern extended into another vast grotto,
an ordine-plastic building caught Guerlan's eye because of the
fact that it was ordine. That plastic was used only where need
for the staunchest material existed. Ordine, an adaptation of the
plastic mineral principle, could withstand a siege--was practically
indestructible, and Guerlan wondered what it housed. Perlac sensed his
curiosity and gazed in turn at the great structure. Her eyes brooding
and dark with an emotion he could not fathom slowly filled with tears.

"That's the psycho-clinic," she told him. "We try to neutralize the
amnesiac treatment, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Under
certain conditions, it can be neutralized, but remember the amnesiac
treatment here on Level Five is an intensification of the treatment
applied on Levels Three and Four.... They're practically lost when they
come here, but our work in the higher levels is too dangerous to be
carried out in large numbers. Care to go in and watch the therapy used?"

"Yes." Guerlan's laconic reply was an index of his mental state.
Words came with difficulty in the face of this ghastly drama that had
suddenly unfolded before his eyes.

He wondered about the other cities, Perdura, and Telluria and
semi-tropical Columbia, with its warm springs and teeming soil where
the most exquisite delicacies for the Inner Council, and to a lesser
extent the First Order were grown. Wondered if they, too, were
condemned to this inhuman rule of death and oppression.

Perlac made a signal to one of the technicians, and a two-seater
"Treader" with its revolving belt instead of wheels moved out from
among the parked vehicles. But before Guerlan and Perlac could enter
the swift surface car, a dull roar that seemed to shake the very
foundations of the cavern paralyzed all movement, as if in a slow
motion-picture of ancient days, a tremendous section of the cavern wall
fell in a shower of rock and plastic, and through the gaping breach,
rank upon serried rank of "Intermediates" poured through. They wore
the Inner Council's conventional plastic armor, vividly scarlet, with
tight-fitting helmets of crysto-plast. Silently they deployed with grim
precision and aimed their atomo-rifles.

But if they had expected to wreak havoc aided by the element of
surprise, they were mistaken. Technicians and scientists working on the
super-spacer, instantly entered the armored ship, while the army of
mechanics, graders, coordinators and workmen, who labored on treaders
and tended the mechanical appliances and repair machines, took cover in
and behind their charges.

For a second Guerlan had been frozen in his tracks. The thought that
flashed into his mind was one of exultation instead of despair. Here
was an enemy he could really fight. All the pent-up fury, the terrible
anger of a decent man who has had all his beliefs swept away in a
matter of hours, who had seen depths of human degradation he had never
dreamed possible, was like a bath of cold fire that left him calm,
determined and with one desire ... to exterminate.

As if she were a doll, Guerlan swept Perlac beside the armored
"Treader" and without preamble snatched the Electro-Flash the girl
wore at her waist. "Keep covered. Let me do the fighting!" He
exclaimed, impervious to her outraged stare. Carefully he aimed at the
foremost leader of the Intermediates, and the obscenely beautiful,
sexless warrior, crumpled as part of him instantly dissolved. A vast,
coruscating sheet of blue, atomic fire swept forward from the deadly
atomo-rifles of the invaders, and vehicles, technicians, and several
machines, became a welter of smoking flesh and melting metal.

It was then the super-spacer went into action with its two frontal
atomo-guns, the thunderous echoes vibrated with tympani-shattering
force, and Guerlan saw a phalanx of Intermediates vanish as if they
were leaves in a wind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Unaware of doing so, Guerlan was bellowing exultantly, as he played the
Electro-Flash horizontally across another phalanx that had succeeded
in gaining the proximity of the Spacer. They had seen him now, and
the survivors aimed their atomo-rifles at the treader that sheltered
them from the blue fire. But before they could bring their fire into
focus, the supernal fire of the electro-flash had decimated them. A few
managed to direct the stream of atomic fire on the treader, however,
and half of it was a molten mass while the rest was already cherry red
and the heat becoming unendurable.

Electro-rifles, atomo-pistols, the guns from the giant spacer and a few
electro-flash weapons were concentrated on the Intermediates who by
sheer force of numbers had gained the center of the Cave.

And then they were met by a wall of flesh. From the buildings at the
further end and from every vehicle and machine a wall of humanity
surged forward, firing ceaselessly, hacking with long-swords and
poniards; and the carnage under the brilliant plastilumes was without
quarter ... to the death. Slowly, inch by inch, the Intermediates were
driven back. Scores had died, and the losses among the defenders were
appalling; it seemed as if a Pyrrhic victory was to be the end. And
then, like creatures from a nightmare, released from depths of living
hell, a motley, ragged, maddened multitude came shrieking, shouting
and hurling imprecations from the chaste building Perlac had called
the Psycho-clinic. Like avenging furies, they flung themselves at the
hard-pressed Intermediates. Wounds did not stop them; atomic-fire left
gaping holes in their ranks, around which the survivors raced on.
Impervious to pain, and welcoming death, these travesties of human
beings fought with the savagery of madness.

They were the Amnesiacs. Deprived of the hypnotic drug, partly in
possession of their faculties and their memories, they remembered! And
remembering, they paid back for the torture of a lifetime!

Assailed from every side, the crack Inner Circle battalion of
Intermediates split into two halves and strove to meet both fronts. But
Guerlan with a cry that would have done credit to a Venusian _Calamar_,
snatched the sword from a fallen technician and raced to where the
Amnesiacs were tangled in a death struggle. With the electro-flash
in his left hand, he stabbed and hacked at exposed limbs and through
shattered crysto-plast. And the battle turned slowly, increasing in
tempo until it was a rout that pressed the remaining Intermediates
into a demoralized race of life. But they were not to escape. Out of
all control, all semblance of humanity now, the remaining Amnesiacs
were a screaming horror that pursued the quarry and pulled it down
like the giant _Calamar_ of Venus pulls down its prey in the virgin
forests, until only the moaning wounded and the dead remained on the
blood-drenched plastic flooring of the titanic grotto.

Guerlan never knew when the battle was finally over. His tunic was a
crimson stain from top to bottom; a long slash across his ribs to the
center of his powerful chest, had left a shallow gash that dripped a
slow gout of blood. His shoulder was seared by a slanting atomic-blast
that would have taken half of him had it come any nearer. He became
aware of the ghastly silence only when Perlac's marvelously slender
hand was pressed to his cheek, and her melodious voice was repeating:
"Guerlan, Guerlan, my dear!" He turned and saw her eyes were aswim with
unshed tears.

He took her hand in his powerful ones without a word, and held it
caressingly, while all about them was a shambles of death and wreckage.

"My initiation," he said slowly, huskily, with a hint of a smile in his
long, green eyes.

"I knew I was not wrong in choosing you," Perlac replied and bravely
essayed a smile, too; but she had reached the end of her physical
resources and with a whispered, "Oh, my dear," she wilted unconscious
in his arms.

Guerlan lifted her fragile form as if she were a precious doll and
walked toward the super-spacer; a group of scientists who had emerged
from its interior, watched his approach with a hint of anxiety as they
motioned for him to hurry. Among them, a tall, elderly scientist of
the second order, whose white mane was like an aureole about the pale,
sharp-featured face, hurried forward as if unable to contain himself.

"Is Perlac wounded?" He inquired with a world of worry in his voice.
"Tell me, man! Hurry!"

"Peace," Guerlan answered wearily. "She's not harmed, just fainted ...
the miracle is that she's been able to stand as much as she has. Have
you restoratives?"

"Bring her into the plane, we have everything needed, stranger. Praised
be the Ultimate Power she has not been harmed!" Then he drew himself
erect as he and Guerlan came abreast of each other, and said with
quiet dignity:

"I am Paulan, ex-scientist of the first order, now Leader of the
Underground. I saw you fight with us. Welcome, my son." His eyes
were as clear and as blue as a child's, but the fires of a profound
intellect shone from their depths.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The time," Guerlan was speaking, "is now, not at some supposedly
psychological moment logically thought by the Board. I'm a new member,
true, but it is evident the Inner Circle has been aware of your
activities for some time, or they wouldn't have sent such a well-armed,
ultra-trained battalion of Intermediates. The time to strike is now!
Unless you want to await an attack in such force that this cavern will
become a hecatomb."

"We are already harassing them in every city," Paulan said
thoughtfully. "Vats are exploding regularly, amnesiacs are being
restored to usefulness and our forces are increasing day by day. What
more would you propose, my son, an attack on the city of the sphere?"

All eyes in the heavily guarded and armed Board meeting room were upon
the young scientist. At the head of the long, exquisite Platino-plastic
table sat Paulan, the leader, and at his right sat Perlac. All down the
length of the great table, scientists of the first and second orders,
analysts, technicians, and even members of the lower strata chosen
for their value to the movement, sat to consider the crisis. Their
underground movement was in the open now, and they could expect nothing
but extermination at the hands of the Inner Circle.

"That would be madness at present," spoke a tiny Venusian, not more
than four and a half feet tall, wrapped in his long, scarlet wings that
joined to the sides of his fragile body, reached from wrists to his
ankles. "Although," he grinned impishly, "I would like to take a crack
at them in their holy of holies!"

Morluc, the Martian, snorted.

"Mars will help, but we must have a share of the machinery and plastics
of Neptune ... a _preferred_ share," he emphasized gazing disdainfully
at the Venusian member.

"Equal shares!" the latter snapped dryly. "Mars' help is still to be
seen, as your excellence is aware!" The Venusian drove his point home
with emphatic gestures.

"We've offered our fleet!" Morluc, the Martian member, said stiffly.
"Can any more be asked?"

Carladin, the Venusian, shrugged his shoulders. "We don't offer,
Morluc, we've _delivered_ one hundred electro-flash pistols, and
it took genius to analyze and copy the design and manufacture them
secretly, not to speak of smuggling them here!"

"Peace!" Paulan thundered. "Scientist Guerlan is unable to reply to my
question!"

Both the Martian and the Venusian members were silent, although they
still glared at each other across the table. The rivalry of Venus and
Mars was legendary and had endured for centuries. Little eddies of
whispers and conversation, came to a standstill, and once more their
eyes were turned expectantly toward Guerlan who stood up from his seat
toward the foot of the table.

"I have a plan," he stated quietly. His bandaged shoulder and chest
were living aches, and breathing was difficult, but a great enthusiasm
transfigured his features until with eyes alight with the fire of a
great purpose, he seemed boyish for all his magnificent height and
musculature.

"Unless we divert the power of the Inner Circle.... I say _divert_, but
decisively, we're doomed. Any army we can muster would be met by the
legions of fanatical Intermediates who from pre-birth are conditioned
and scientifically bred for battle. An Intermediate's glandular
structure has been modified to heighten unbelievably the combative
instinct. If atomo-rifles and atomic fire don't crush us, they'll start
using electro-flash. Their fleet is legion, and they have at their
command the Scientists of the First Order, as deluded as I was, not to
speak of the Neophytes of the Inner Circle. Don't forget that the City
of the Sphere has two million scientists, not counting the women.

"But, if we divert their Intermediates, cut off their sources of
supply, and breed revolt _on every tier, in every city_, their forces
will be divided, and we will have a chance to win. When I was a child,
I had access to the ancient records which were translated by my father
for the Inner Circle. Among them I came upon a parchment so ancient
that it was ready to crumble into dust. After it had been treated for
preservation, I read the translation made from that forgotten language
by my father; it was about a great city that once ruled most of Terra,
and their motto was--Divide and Rule. And that," Guerlan paused, "is my
plan."

He sat down a little abashed when he realized the vehemence with which
he had been talking. His eyes sought Perlac's, and a wave of color
suffused his face as he saw the open admiration in the girl's eyes.

"Magnificent, if it works," Carladin said with a satirical smile in
that husky voice of his that seemed too big for so small a body. "But,
my friend, who is going to 'Muzzle the Calamar'? In other words, who is
going to breed revolt in every city and tier ... and, above all, just
how?"

"My son, you can't rouse emotions in amnesiacs--they haven't any, even
in the higher levels where the treatment is mild. As for the scientists
of the Second Order--they'd consider revolt blasphemy, not to speak
of the First Order. Unless you have a complete, thought-out plan, I'm
afraid you've been carried away by your own enthusiasm," Paulan said
very gently.

"My plan _is_ complete, Paulan. And I have work for both Venus and
Mars. I'm sure they would like to share in our victory. Listen!"


                                  IV

It was not only a garden of vast dimensions, it was an Eden riotous
with the most exquisite blooms of Venus, and myriad bright-plumaged
birds that sang with a complete abandon that bespoke no instinct of
fear, for they were sacred. In the near distance, the rose and white
crysto-plast temple of the Virgins of the Sacred Flame was a triumph in
architecture, for here within the inviolate garden of His Benevolence
was the sacred shrine.

A muted orchestra was playing, hidden in the foliage, and the
incredible re-creation of sunlight drew an iridescent aureole from the
alabaster fountain that constantly renewed a miniature lake in the
center of the garden.

Rose-colored _Garzas_ and sparkling, blue azurines searched for
tid-bits in the shallows, while a flight of _Albas_, the snowy-white
nightingales of the Volcanic Valley, swept overhead in an ecstasy of
song. It was idyllic, a spot instinct with peace under the soft hand of
beauty.

But near the shore of the small lake, idly moving his hand in the cool
waters, while with the other he stuffed roasted doves into the red,
cruel mouth, His Benevolence listened in ominous silence as the Chief
of the Intermediates made his report. Standing behind the gargantuan
corpulence of the 'Protector in Chief,' Bejamel listened, too, and his
gargoyle's features slowly registered a rising fear that whitened his
repulsive face. It was incredible! Had anyone else dared to make such
a report, he would have instantly banished him or her to the 'Blessed
Sleep.' But the Intermediates, be they either of the warrior class,
and trained to fight to the death, or of the scientist category, were
cold, unemotional beings whose precision could not be questioned. As
for their loyalty--that was under control, for their only _imperative_
was Vanadol, reacting on them curiously instead of drugging them to
sleep--compensating them for their sexlessness with an unearthly
ecstasy. And Vanadol was under absolute Inner Circle control ... under
Bejamel!

"Only three Intermediates escaped alive from the caverns under the
fifth level?" Bejamel inquired incredulously in that magnificent voice
that was a melody in itself.

"Silence!" There was nothing lovely in the harsh command of His
Benevolence. "Bunglers! Should condemn you and your strategists to
the Blessed Sleep, but the quota of jewels is filled.... What do you
plan doing now? Or are you going to let those Irreconcilables become a
cancer on the side of the empire?" His voice became indistinct as he
stuffed golden nectarines into his mouth.

"Magnificence! If your Benevolence permits...." Bejamel's attempt at a
smile was a ludicrous failure. But the sulphuric stare he received for
his pains, left him wordless and pale.

"Proceed!" His Benevolence nodded at the Intermediate. The pale yellow
eyes were blazing.

"Our plans are to destroy the cavern immediately, and utilize our
Intermediate Scientists to ferret out the dissenters for disposal
at your Effulgence's orders." The Chief of the Intermediates replied
calmly, evenly, as if his life were not hanging by the thinnest thread.
He bowed profoundly, and then stood erect, in all the glory of his
golden tunic and platino-plastic helmet.

"Also, a flight of pursuit atomo-planes awaits disorders in every tier
of every city, Your Benevolence!"

"Like over-fed blackbirds," His Benevolence observed scornfully. "They
didn't prevent Guerlan and that unidentified companion of his from
escaping! And that reminds me, Bejamel," his voice changed to a silken
purr. "I thought you had checked the safety coordination of the plastic
centers. Surely, with all the safeguards you reported installed, the
machines supplied you by scientists, and the robot-proctor guard, not
to speak of the selector-controlled tests of the workmen, I still fail
to understand how Guerlan escaped retribution." His lips parted in a
smile of sadistic pleasure, as Bejamel went green.

       *       *       *       *       *

"And," His Benevolence held up a hand that flashed with a vortex of
prismatic fire from the many jewels, "what has become of your daughter,
Perlac? I seldom see her any more."

"Since Your Benevolence said that her hips were too narrow and her face
too sharp, I banished her from your presence, Effulgence!"

"Well, bring her back!" He snapped in fury. "Sometimes I think you
usurp my authority, Bejamel." His eyes narrowed speculatively, and the
enmity he felt for the Minister of Justice because of the latter's
silent opposition to allowing his daughter to become a Virgin of the
Sacred Flame, smouldered within him.

Bejamel bowed profoundly, but a glint of savage rage shone in his eyes.

"Send the Virgins ... let them sing!" His Benevolence commanded, "and
convey my forgiveness to Estrella; she may enter the presence!"

"Your Benevolence's favorite will rejoice at the magnanimous decision!"
Bejamel replied in a soft murmur that was sheer music. But the
expression on his averted face belied his words.

He hurried away through the foliage of the Venusian Jasmine trees and
the tangles of fragrant Maravillas, until he came to the pavillion of
white _Jadite_, so exquisitely planned that in its white simplicity it
might have been an idealized Greek temple.

"Estrella," he called the moment that he entered. "Hurry, child!" And
seeing her curled on a couch worth a respectable fortune, "_He_ will
see you ... mind you, he's in a vile temper--as capricious as I've ever
seen him. But evidently he has need of you. Soothe him from this evil
mood, or we'll all suffer!" He paused out of breath.

Estrella uncoiled languorously from the Sapphirine couch and stood
lightly swathed in filmiest draperies of spider silk, that revealed
the distracting beauty of her limbs and full, firm breast. The large,
brilliant dark eyes, shadowed by curling lashes were rebellious
and scornful, and the flower-like red mouth mutinous. A cascade of
pale gold hair tumbled curling about the marble shoulders, and sent
gleaming tendrils to the satiny throat, encircled by a necklace
of star-sapphires, rarest of all jewels because of the tremendous
difficulties in creating the star in the depths of the jewel.

"Let _him_ wait ... I have had to wait too long!" she blazed.

"Sheesh! ... even the walls have ears, Star of the Evening! And
remember his saying: 'A favorite in disfavor is a jewel that has
crystallized'. He means that literally; I couldn't bear to see you as a
ruby in his finger ring."

Estrella paled, shrugged her shoulders and dashed out of the pavillion.
Out in the garden, she was like a butterfly in the sunlight, a gorgeous
creature that came to rest at His Benevolence's feet. A choir of
Virgins sang softly and undulated with the rhythm of the music, while
His Benevolence fondled Estrella with one hand and with the other ate.

Meanwhile, in the sumptuous Audience Chamber, a multitude of Protectors
of the Inner Circle, Scientists of the First Order, the Directors of
various cities, and even Intermediate Scientists moved restlessly,
pacing up and down the imposing length of the chamber. Their faces were
pale and anxious; some seemed distraught, rehearsing silently, over and
over in their minds what they had to say.

But among themselves they barely spoke. A careless word, flung in a
moment of anxiety, might be the beginning of a fatal intrigue. They
were taking no chances.

The dour, ascetic visaged Marvalli, Scientist of the Inner Circle and
Chief of Columbia, seemed on the verge of nervous prostration. He
wondered in anguish what would His Benevolence say when he learned
that the warehouses filled with exquisite tropical and semi-tropical
delicacies for his table and that of the Inner Circle, had been
destroyed by a raging holocaust that had left nothing but blackened
cinders, and that the priceless machinery for the Vibroponic farms,
which speeded up the growth and maturity of exotic plants and fruits,
and a multitude of legumes and vegetables, was a twisted, molten
mass--he quaked inwardly and a cold sweat oozed out of his pores.

Vidal, Chief of Plastica had a harrowing report too. Vat after vat of
processing acid had split in halves and flooded moats and safety levels
until the acrid fumes made the Plastic Centers of his city untenable.
Conveyors had been disrupted and even robot-proctors dissolved as if
they'd been made of _papier-mache_. All his efforts at locating the
source of these depredations were in vain. Meanwhile, the plastic
industry in Plastica was paralyzed. That as bad as it was, however,
could be remedied temporarily by the installation of more vats, but an
amazing thing was that even the replacement vats had been found damaged
beyond repair.

       *       *       *       *       *

But of them all, Weiman, "The Butcher", as he was called, was the most
distraught of all. Never in all the history of Perdura, his beloved
Perdura, where the Neptunian _Bagazo_ plant was processed into the drug
for the amnesiac treatment, had such depredations been committed. A
veritable nightmare of explosions had shattered the intricate machinery
of the processors; the receiving vats of staunchest plastic had been
found in shards and slivers, while the stores of the sacred drug had
disappeared. An emergency order sent to the nurseries where the plants
were grown obtained no response and investigation disclosed that the
nurseries had been destroyed.

It was then he had ordered a search party to go into the semi-tropical
forests far up the valley in search of wild plants and they were met
by a savage mob of Irreconcilables! But not the gravity-burdened,
frightened Irreconcilables he had been used to hunt with lances
and swords, but a grim, determined company of fighters armed with
atomo-pistols and atomo-rifles who exterminated the searching party
except one member, whom they sent back with the insolent warning: "Stay
out of our land!"

The atmosphere of the Audience Chamber was electric. A wave of
rebellion seemed to be sweeping the Empire.

When Bejamel, Minister of Justice, entered the Chamber, there was a
concerted rush to meet him.

"Excellency, I request an audience!" And from another Chief of a City.
"Nay, Excellency.... Mine cannot wait, it's a catastrophe!" "I crave
a hearing...! Your Excellency!" Pandemonium had broken loose in the
chaste precincts of the Audience Hall.

"Peace!" Bejamel shouted above the tumult, and strove to present a
calm exterior. But an icy fear constricted his throat, and his usually
commanding tones of unearthly beauty failed him. Nevertheless he
stemmed somewhat the rising confusion.

"You, Vidal!" Bejamel singled out the Inner Circle Scientist in charge
of Plastica. "Your report."

"I demand Martial Rule, and sufficient troops to insure order," Vidal
gasped. "Plastica's paralyzed. Most of the plastic-acid vats have been
destroyed; conveyors in shambles and robot-proctors disintegrated.
I know of only one weapon capable of shattering Columbium-Plastic
and Bery-Plastic--and do it without a sound. These weapons are
electro-flash, and assigned to the Inner Circle. When an Inner Circle
Scientist loses the one assigned to him, he is under penalty to report
it immediately. I can't conceive how these weapons could have fallen
into the hands of whoever these depredators are, and in sufficient
numbers to wreak such havoc in such a short time!"

"I didn't ask for a diagnosis, and least of all for a cure!" Bejamel
said frigidly. "I asked for symptoms. Your report, Vidal!"

And Vidal gave it, freed from the fear His Benevolence's presence
always inspired, he gave it bitterly, in complete detail.

"And you Marvalli?" Bejamel's voice shook a little despite his efforts
to control it. From Marvalli's expression he feared the worst.

"Columbia has been unable to provide its quota of special foods for
forty-eight hours, and all its reserves have been destroyed." In a
voice filled with foreboding, he told his story, wringing his hands
from time to time, unconscious of doing it.

Weiman was next. He gave a minute account of depredations in Perdura.
"And so," he finished in an anguished voice, "we not only have no
Bagazo for the amnesiac treatment ... we are unable to procure any, and
even if we had it, the machinery is a shambles, Excellency!" His voice
ended in a wail.

On and on the audience continued, each account adding to the
seriousness of the situation. At last Bejamel rose. His face was
inscrutable. "What a gargantuan indigestion His Benevolence is going to
have today," he thought grimly.

"Remain!" He exclaimed peremptorily, and strode in the direction of the
enchanted garden.

       *       *       *       *       *

He didn't even pause to watch the gyrations and posturings of Virgins
of the Sacred Flame. Brushing aside the tall Intermediates that stood
guard over the recumbent form of His Benevolence, he bowed slightly,
and in a cold, tight voice explained his mission.

"Your Benevolence," his voice never had been lovelier, "the empire is
in open revolt. We are not facing isolated cases of vandalism. Nor the
underground opposition of the Irreconcilables. This is a fiendishly
planned and perfectly executed strategy of destruction. Unless we meet
it with overwhelming force, we lose control of the empire!"

"Don't exaggerate, Bejamel!" His Benevolence snorted disdainfully.
"A few vats have been shattered--others can be made. Bagazo has been
destroyed ... we'll get all we need from the forests, and later have
our chemists synthesize the drug. Just issue the necessary orders, I
can't be bothered now."

Bejamel's smile was feline, and feral lights gleamed in the eyes that
gave him such a gargoylish expression amidst his twisted features.

"No, Effulgence. This calls for a meeting of the Inner Circle. You may
not know it, but hundreds of thousands of amnesiacs, now deprived of
the drug, _remember_! Death to them is a boon, and before they die they
will be sure to take as many of us as possible. And _they are being
armed_!"

"Let a few thousand die!" He exclaimed heartlessly. "They'll pave my
new Hall of Rubies!" But he knew now that Bejamel was not exaggerating.
The great intellect of the evil ruler, had grasped the disastrous
consequences of such a revolt, and instantly he acted.

"Very well, Bejamel. Call the Council. Hold all witnesses for the
session. Meanwhile, mobilize all the Intermediates of the warrior
order, and the Scientists of the first and second orders. Every Inner
Circle Scientist who is still worthy of his rank, and all Inner Circle
Neophytes to be in readiness. Make a survey of robot-proctors, and
coordinate all available defenses. We can at least be ready at a
moment's notice. And, find out how long our present stores of food will
last ... we should have enough for months! Think you can remember all
this?" He purred mockingly.

"To hear your Benevolence is to obey!" Bejamel replied imperturbably.
And left to carry out the orders. A little smile was at the corners of
his mouth, and the feral light was still lambent in his strange green
eyes.

He could hear His Benevolence's harsh tones as the latter told His
Virgins: "Get out!" Only Estrella remained by the side of the obscene
bulk. Bejamel pitied her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Once back in the Audience Chamber, pandemonium broke loose, but with
a peremptory wave of his hand and the words: "You will remain as
witnesses for a full meeting of the Council tonight," Bejamel quelled
them. He watched them file out with a speculative gaze. "When the sea's
disturbed," he murmured softly, "creatures from the bottom rise to the
top." Then he walked slowly to his own chambers, singing softly to
himself, and it was as if the voice of an angel were issuing from the
throat of a Gargoyle.

Only one thought worried him, and that was the protracted absence of
Perlac. She had been gone for days. Perhaps he had missed her in
his preoccupation with duties of State, he thought. Bejamel shrugged
his thin shoulders and sat down at a jewel-encrusted desk worthy of
an Inner Circle Scientist ransom. Silently he began to write with an
electro-stylus on a sheet of transparent plastic. Nothing showed.

It was to Gualdamar, whom to give the full plenitude of his titles was
Chief Guardian of the City of the Flaming Sphere, The Leader of the
Intermediate Warriors, Chief Strategist, and Scientist of the Inner
Circle.

As Bejamel wrote, he thought with part of his mind of the many minor
revolts that had occurred when the amnesiac treatment failed because of
the defense against the drug that human metabolism built periodically,
but nothing like this had ever happened in the annals of the Empire.
Plastic Inc., as the Inner Circle taught the people to believe, was
part of them, and they rose and fell together. It occurred to Bejamel
that he was very old, it was indecent to thrust such a crisis on his
fading intellect. The thought made his smile acidly. There was nothing
decadent about that Machiavellian mind that enabled him to remain in
power through decades of intrigues, pitfalls and traps, and lately, the
growing enmity of his Benevolence because he would not allow Perlac to
become a chattel of his Obese Effulgence in the Temple of the Sacred
Flame.

He wondered if he would be able to weather this crisis. Still he wrote
swiftly, invisibly on the transparent plastic, and as he did so, the
thought of Venus, great in its first bloom of advanced civilization, of
Europa, transmuted into an Eden by the courage of its Terrans and the
strange unearthly science of the Panadurs. If all else failed, he could
seek sanctuary on either one of these two planets. Mars repelled him,
none of that grim land for his weary bones. But if he had to flee, he
meant to flee along with Perlac, and he had a score to settle before he
went.

When he had finished, he pressed a button, and a robot-proctor entered
noiselessly, received instruction and as quietly disappeared. Bejamel
knew that his robot would deliver the message in person, nothing could
take that plastic message from him short of destruction.


                                   V

"Tonight we attack!" Guerlan persisted uncompromisingly, but his eyes
sought Perlac's and found confirmation in her swift smile. "I offer
the counsel of daring--all or nothing!" A roar of approval greeted his
words, the echoes dwindling down the series of subterranean caverns
that formed a continental link in the bowels of Neptune and was used to
shelter the army of scientists, technicians, analysts, coordinators,
mechanics and workmen. They were now under Columbia's Fifth Level, and
rising to the crysto-plast dome, each tier was now under the domination
of the Irreconcilables.

But Paulan, the Commander in Chief, arose in all the dignity of his
great age. He frowned in disapproval, sighing before he spoke.

"I fear too great an army has been assembled against us, Plastica,
Telluria, Perdura, the eleven remaining cities will have to be
conquered, and remember, since we captured Columbia with comparative
ease while the Inner Circle's Army was engaged in destroying the
caverns beneath Plastica, all the other cities swarm with Intermediates
and the Scientists of the First and Second Circle, not to speak of
those fiends of the Inner Circle themselves. We have converted millions
through the use of the Ethero-Magnum, thanks to our loyal Perlac,
who taught us to use it as the Inner Circle used it to condition the
amnesiacs; we have paralyzed the Plastic Industry; destroyed the
machinery for processing _Bagazo_ into the amnesiac drug, and we
control all the stores of _Bagazo_. We have achieved the arming of
thousands of our followers. Surely, that is a great victory. I feel
that should be enough for the present; besides, the Inner Circle will
want to come to terms with us."

And it was true. Hunger and privation stalked the tiers of the
great cities; chaos reigned. Even the great Plastic centers now had
become a shambles of exploding acid vats; conveyors bore a welter of
half-asphyxiated humanity, gaunt with hunger and the spasms lack of the
amnesiac brought on; transportation was paralyzed, and everywhere the
amnesiacs flared into madness as the effects of the drug wore off; and
in a frenzy of remembrance and need of the drug, they attacked all in
the ranks of scientists, destroying everything they could lay hands on.
Thousands died under the trained precision of the Intermediates, and
Scientists of the First Order, but the casualties they inflicted in the
serried ranks of the Chief Protector were appalling.

"A compromise is not enough!" Guerlan was pitiless. "We have but one
Ether Magnum here in Columbia with which to carry our message to the
Second Level of each city and the workmen of the Third Level. True
we have close to a quarter of a million warriors, but in a war of
attrition, they have the greater resources. Besides," his voice was
acid with scorn, "who wants a compromise? Not I!" His great green eyes
under the long dark lashes flashed fire and the generous, square-cut
mouth was bitter. He pointed an accusing finger at the legion of men
and women that filled to overflowing the immense central cavern.

"You have asked for enough food to insure health in your children
and have been told that synthetic-parturition will take care of your
offspring, as indeed it does, and you never see them again! You who
have asked but a measure of happiness and have been giving all you
possess in energy, loyalty and obedience, and are given in return a
brutalizing drug that robs you of the will to live! You who through
the intrigues and machinations of the Inner Circle have been brutally
thrust into the Second, the Third and even the Fourth Levels without a
trial, without a hearing merely to satisfy the sadistic minds that rule
us from the City of the Sphere.... YOU, would you want a compromise?"

The negative roar that rose in response, shook the lofty ceiling of the
cavern and was like a whirlwind. When it had died down, Paulan stood up
again.

"I resign," he said simply. "Younger hands than mine will have to lead
you. Perhaps you're right, Guerlan, if so, take my place as Commander
in Chief, my son."

For a moment there was silence, and then another multi-throated roar of
approval.

Guerlan was silent before the majestic dignity of the old man, and
something akin to pity welled out of his heart for the great patriarch;
but Perlac was on her feet, her sculptured arms flung above her head
demanding attention from the great multitude.

"I second the nomination!" Her limpid tones carried far.

"And I ... and I ... and I!" Thousands of voices strove to be heard,
down into the farthest reaches of the linked caverns, as those who
could not see, heard through the inter-connecting teleradio.

"Then," Guerlan spoke firmly, almost coldly, "the Council of War is
called to session, we will meet in the Venusian spacer. All troops
stand by for orders."

"Lead, Commander!" exclaimed a rich baritone voice.

It was Carladin, winged, diminutive, proud that the first session of
the Council of War should be held in his magnificent atomo-plane,
the one that had been repaired in the cavern beneath Plastica. He
was proud, too, of Venus' inventive genius in converting the secret
electronic formula of the electro-flash into a magnification of that
weapon, to the size of a cannon, and raised to the sixth power, enough
to practically blast an atomo-plane out of space. As for his special
gift to the cause, that was an ironic touch that only a Venusian mind
was capable of conceiving, for although unbelievably kind, they never
forgave. "Poetic Justice," Carladin had called it, and insisted on the
use of his special gift, even bringing a battalion of Venusians to
handle it.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Telluria reporting ... Telluria ... Fourth Level cleared. Entrance to
Third Level forced.... Fighting intense ... Telluria...." The voice of
the announcer faded and the magnified face in the telecast dissolved
before their gaze.

Guerlan, Perlac and Carladin listened intently in the control cabin of
the Venusian spacer which hovered like a great bird in the darkness
above Columbia.

The enormous ethero-magnum that occupied a large section of the control
room, came to life again as an ascending whine warned them, it was
Perdura calling:

"Perdura calling ... Perdura ... Commander Guerlan!"

"Come in, Perdura!" Guerlan exclaimed impatiently, his nerves taut from
inaction, but plans had to be observed. "Come in!"

The shifting swirls of light on the telecast became steady and a young,
pale-featured youth could be seen speaking with great intensity.

"We're on the second level, Commander. The defense has been terrific,
they're bringing robots into the battle. One electro-flash cannon
destroyed thus far, but we're pushing forward. No further news."

It was disappointing. In a concerted attack in eleven cities, thousands
of Irreconcilables had emerged from the bowels of Neptune, striking
upwards from the fifth levels of the cities, aided by crazed amnesiacs
who fought with tooth and nail when no weapons were available. But it
was Plastica that worried him most, for here was the strategic city
they must capture at all costs. Unable to control his impatience any
longer, he asked Perlac to contact Plastica. The girl's slender fingers
played over the banked keys, adjusting tiny levers and driving home the
activating selectors. Swirls of magnificent colors flooded the Telecast
screen, while the ascending whine of the complex instrument went beyond
the auditory limits of the human ear; and presently scene after scene
of ghastly destruction showed on the telecast, the fifth level came and
went a shattered welter; the fourth where destruction was appalling
showed great rents in the crysto-plast dome that separated it from
the third. There was fighting still in the second level, as isolated
parties strove to decimate the remaining, fleeing Intermediates;
the fallen forms of robot-proctors littered the conveyors and
inter-connecting avenues, the carnage was incredible.

But it was in the first level itself where the battle without quarter
was now taking place. Divisions of ordine-plastic robots charged
great masses of Irreconcilables, only to be shattered in great waves
as the electro-flash cannon, gift of Venus, disintegrated their
electronic balance. Thousands of lurid flashes from atomo-rifles and
atomo-cannons, laboriously hauled to the first level by the attackers,
belched destruction at buildings laden with Intermediates and Second
Level Scientists; aero-tanks with treads instead of landing gear,
were attempting to settle on the vast first level, their atomo-cannon
slashing at the attackers with great scimitars of lurid blue light.
It was a titanic holocaust that would long live in the annals of the
Universe, for Venus, Mars, Mercury and Europa had their Tele-Magnums
trained on the fantastic struggle.

And then the face of the Commander of the Irreconcilables attacking
Plastica, showed on the Telecast, a great gash over an eye still
oozing a gout of blood that trickled down the left side of his face.
Grim, with an awful determination in his young eyes, the Commander
spoke hoarsely. "Commander Guerlan, we need aircraft to engage the
aero-tanks. Plastica is surrounded without the crysto-plast dome, and
thousands of Inner Circle Scientists await the precise moment to enter
in their Treaders and annihilate us. In reaching the first level,
our losses have been too great, Commander!" He saluted and the face
withdrew, as if having delivered his message there were nothing more to
be said.

"Carladin," Guerlan's voice was vibrant with pent-up emotion, "you've
brought with you eight-hundred atomo-spacers better than anything the
Inner Circle has, if the speed and strength of Perlac's atomo-spacer is
a sample. There is _your_ task!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Not mine, Commander!" There was an edge of keen delight in the superb
baritone voice of the tiny, winged figure. "I also brought with me a
great warrior of space to lead my fleet. I have another task I shall
relish even more! In one of my spacers, the flag-ship, are the hounds
of Mother Venus, with which we hunt in the great virgin forests. One to
each member of a battalion of my people ... on a fragile leash! I shall
communicate with my fleet immediately, may I take one of the emergency
planes?" And as Guerlan nodded assent, Carladin was gone.

Guerlan wondered what the Venusian had meant by the hounds of Venus,
but he was too preoccupied with the battle to care, all that mattered
was that he was willing to use his fleet in accordance with the plan.

"Gloriana calling.... Gloriana calling Commander Guerlan...." The
monotonous iteration and reiteration of the announcer demanded
attention. Perlac touched a bank of jet black keys as Guerlan said:

"Come in Gloriana, report, we're listening!"

"Gloriana reports a stalemate. We have gained second level, almost
took the first, but the fleet is above the first level, we can't combat
it. All levels cleared but the first. Gloriana sounding off."

Other reports came in, but still Guerlan waited for the one thing
that was imperative. And at last, through an eternity of waiting,
Columbia came on the Ethero-Magnum, then like bursting flowers of fire,
the atomic flashes from the emerging atomo-spacers of Venus as they
launched themselves straight up into the heavens through the vertical
funnel-like channel that rose from the caverns, straight up into the
upper reaches of the first level. Spacer after spacer soared aloft and
disappeared in the direction of Plastica. All but the last. It rose
majestically upward and then, describing a parabola in midair, began to
lose altitude, its atomic flashes like falling stars.

And then began the most bizarre attack in the history of six planets,
for as the fleet attacked the swarm of atomo-fighters and aero-tanks of
the Inner Circle, the last Venusian spacer had landed outside Plastica,
and a multitude of Venusians each one leading a gigantic _Calamar_, the
dreaded, armored tiger of Venus, launched themselves upon the besieging
Scientists of the Inner Circle that awaited the propitious moment to
enter Plastica during the battle and destroy the Irreconcilables by an
attack from their rear.

The roar of the ravenous beasts was a crescendo that drowned the wild,
agonized screams of the scientists as mammoth claws ripped through
plastic-breast plates and Venusian silks, and fangs found fat throats
and steaming blood. Overhead the clash of the two air armadas was a
holocaust of fire, as the two armies beneath fought also for supremacy
on the first level.

What the outcome would be, was beyond prediction, for neither
side entertained any doubt now but that it was a struggle to the
death--there could be no quarter. If Plastica fell, most of the
Empire went with it, for within it was the very life-blood of the
nation--Plastics, the beginning, the reason and the end of their
existence. For plastics were clothing and shelter, and weapons
and furniture, and even medicines and synthetic concentrates that
went under the name of food. Besides, they had Columbia, where the
sustenance of the City of the Sphere and the first levels was grown
and manufactured.

Slowly at first, imperceptibly, the battle turned in their
favor, objectives that seemed unattainable were reached by the
Irreconcilables, and the defenders fell back. The invulnerable fleet,
the much touted and dreaded air armada, as being decimated by the
unearthly speed of the Venusian spacers; and Intermediates and robots
alike fell before the supernal fire of the electro-flash cannon
and electro-rifles. Still, the battle wore on and on, with such an
intensity that it was incredible that anything that lived could endure
it. Without Plastica itself, a horror of carnage, blasted Calamars
and torn bodies, marked where the Inner Circle Reserves had been, but
Caladin's spacer was nowhere in view.

"The time," Perlac said softly, "has come, my dear."

       *       *       *       *       *

Guerlan gazed at the exquisite features of Perlac in misery. He was
silent. But the girl laid a hand on his shoulder caressingly, and
forced him to look into her eyes. "We must face it, Guerlan, unless we
do, this war may last for years, and oceans of blood will flow. It is
the better way."

"I know, I know Perlac. But let me do it alone. I can't ... I just
can't bear to have you risk your life, my dear." Impulsively he crushed
her to him in a fierce embrace and kissed the flower-like mouth. Then
he released her.

"I will be in less danger than you; after all I am Bejamel's daughter.
And don't you think that I, too, could not bear to have you go alone?
No, dear, we are in this together, for life or for death."

As if the gods of war relished the appalling daring of their plan,
suddenly the way was opened to them, for on the immense Tele-Magnum,
the heavenly tones of Bejamel's voice could be heard, as slowly, his
gargoyle face came into view. Hurriedly Perlac threw the switch which
prevented him at the Palace on the Sphere from seeing them.

"Commander Guerlan! Bejamel, Minister of Justice, speaks." There were
rich undertones of irony, and bitterness, too, in the superlative voice
of the speaker.

"I have learned that my daughter is your prisoner. We have captured
important prisoners, too. Paulan, your ex-leader, and that misguided
Martian who has chosen to espouse your cause. But all this is of
no moment, I am willing to ransom my daughter on your own terms,
barbarian!" Even in his grief, Bejamel was unable to suppress the
insulting epithet.

"What do you offer, Bejamel?" Guerlan spoke calmly, although a seething
maelstrom swirled within him. "But make your offer worth listening to,
I have no time for barter."

"A thousand prisoners of war, and a coffer of jewels, Guerlan!"

Guerlan laughed shortly. "Your fame for sagacity has been overrated,
Bejamel, the jewels ... we shall shortly make our own--The Ultimate
Presence knows there will be enough dead when this is over. As for the
prisoners," his voice became indifferent, "we'll take them, of course,
but we have more men than we need, Scientist. Offer me something beyond
my means and I'll send your daughter to you, unharmed!"

"Speak, Dissenter, I am a man of reason!" Bejamel's voice was filled
with cunning. "Speak!"

"Since you are the only one who can open His Benevolence's doors,
outside of the mechanism he can activate from within, destroy the
mechanism. Take away his invulnerable robe of force, and then ... then
forget to sing! Let him starve slowly in his enchanted garden, after he
has devoured all his birds and pets." Guerlan's laughter was mocking.
But within he was tense with anxiety. Would his strategy win, he
wondered? One could not deal in a normal manner with Bejamel.

"Agreed!" The celestial voice had risen to limpid heights.

The fleets of atomo-spacers and aero-tanks stood poised, withdrawn,
marking an invisible, aerial lane through which hurtled the slim,
silver flash of an atomo-plane. The most powerful Tele-Magnum in the
palace of His Benevolence was focused on that ship, without pause,
until every detail of its interior was exposed on the great tele-screen
at the palace. But its interior revealed only the pale, haggard face of
Perlac, inexpressibly lovely in its sadness, and motionless beside her,
the gigantic robot-proctor of bery-plastic, embossed with the insignia
of the House of Justice and Bejamel's own intricate emblem. It had
been sent to act as a guard and bring her unharmed to the palace.

Forming a perfect target, a trio of transports carrying a thousand
Irreconcilables, prisoners of war, came from the opposite direction,
released from the City of the Sphere, as per agreement. The vessels
neared each other, crossed and passed en-route to their opposite
destinations. At last, Perlac's plane reached the outer air-locks of
the Sphere, where pressure was adjusted, and entering ships were guided
to their berths at the base of the immense globe, where the machinery
of the anti-gravity repulsor beams was housed also, and where the
glittering tiers rose upward to end at the great Hanging Gardens of His
Benevolence, where the palace stood.

And then the armistice was broken. Hundreds of swift, deadly
interceptor planes, atomo-powered, dived after the retreating
transport; tremendous aero-tanks rushed in for the kill spewing a blaze
of livid radiations. One of the transports managed to dive into the
inter-connecting, ascending and descending chamber of the city, but the
others, trapped, rather than be rayed like sheep, courageously turned
and fought. But to no avail. Outside the tropical city of Columbia,
they crashed in great flaming gouts, like miniature volcanoes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ahead of Perlac and her robot-proctor was the City of the
Sphere. Majestically it blazed like a cosmic jewel against the
impenetrably-black backdrop of space. It grew immense, fantastic, like
a minor planet glowing in space, but suddenly, their speed slackened
as the robot-control began to decelerate; and presently they slid with
a vast hiss into the first airlock, where the synchronized magnetic
fields instantly checked their speed. A terrific force jarred them
until their bones seem to melt, then doors were opening, voices could
be heard shouting orders, and the official pilot entered the ship and
with an obsequious salute to the girl, he took seat at the controls and
guided the ship into the second lock.

The entire length of both the first and second locks were lined
with the titanic coils of the synchronized, magnetic degravitation
fields, which stopped the vessels in a graduating net of force. But
the transparent sides of the sphere gave a curious sensation of lack
of solidity, of fragility even, as if they had entered a vast hall
of glass. Only those who really knew the secret composition of the
Sphere, were aware of its near-invulnerability, even beyond that of the
strongest known metal-alloys.

At last the long, slim atomo-plane was berthed, and the tall,
cadaverous figure of Bejamel hove into view. He waited for Perlac
closely followed by her robot guard to approach him, in accordance with
the etiquette of Plastica. Then, unable to suppress any longer the
profound emotions that stirred his complex being, he opened his arms
wide and rushed forward to enfold the only being he had ever loved,
in the fragile embrace of his skeletal arms. A suspicious brilliance
swam in the long green eyes, and the ordinarily limpid voice was husky,
uncertain, as he exclaimed: "Perlac, O my dear!" He could say no more.
Perlac was touched. She brushed her lips against his cheek, then she
gently pushed him back, to gaze into the inscrutable green eyes of the
Minister of Justice, who was also her father.

Behind her, looming unnoticed, as a piece of activated mechanism, was
the Robot-Proctor, both servant and guard.

"Father," she said impulsively, "Don't take me to the Palace! I
couldn't bear to enter the temple as one of the Virgins ... rather
would I prefer to be a prisoner of the Irreconcilables."

Father and daughter gazed at each other in silence, surrounded by the
deep, far-away hum of the throbbing generators as the incredible stream
of atomic power fought the gravity of Neptune. Great opaque doors at
the far end of the second lock led into the inner chambers where the
robot-tended machinery never faltered for a second. Bejamel smiled
slowly, ironically, and shook his head. "We're not going there!"

He waved an emaciated hand at the guard of honor that awaited his
pleasure at a respectful distance, and instantly the Intermediate
Officer in charge came forward. "Command!" he said laconically. It
was the same officer that had reported the defeat of the Intermediate
battalion in the caverns beneath Plastica. His superbly beautiful
face was impassive, but the brilliant eyes were restless, as if the
creature's nerves were overwrought.

"My atomocopter!" Bejamel said as laconically, and then passed a small
package to the Intermediate. "For you and the entire Palace Guard," he
said softly. "There will be no need of you and your men tonight. We
have all but won ... celebrate."

The light of hunger, of delight, of the nearest feeling akin to
gratitude he could possibly feel, flashed like a flame into the
Intermediate's eyes. "I bow in thanks, O Lord of Justice," he replied
formally.

Within seconds, they were speeding upwards in Bejamel's private
atomocopter, past tier after tier of the fabulous City of the Sphere.


                                  VI

Every tier was a beehive of activity, as scientists of the Inner
Circle, scurried in every direction engaged in a multitude of tasks.
Atomo-planes flashed through the inter-connecting levels on their way
to the titanic battle below. Thousands of the Neophytes, aided by
robots, supplied arms and concentrates to the departing vessels, while
other thousands boarded them on their way to swell the ranks of the
defenders, and take the place of their countless dead.

At last they reached Bejamel's private dwelling. He never called it
a palace. In the tenebrous depths of his involved soul, there were
flashes of genius, and one of them was to have and to rule without ever
mentioning the fact. His dwelling was exquisite in proportions, the
simplicity of its white _Jadite_ facade, depending on the artistry of
its composition and carved decors, not on opulence of mosaic-jewelling
as was the case with the palace of His Benevolence. A repugnance of
rococco display was enough to deter him from bad taste.

They went immediately into his private chambers, and here Perlac had a
great surprise, for reclining on a dais covered with silvery Venusian
furs and the priceless plumage of the Martian Kra, was the one person
she would never have expected to see--Estrella, favorite of His
Benevolence!

Once over her shock, Perlac turned and favored her ancient father with
a sly smile.

"Incredible!" she murmured. "Can it be possible?" Bejamel bridled.

"Why not?" He rose to his full, cadaverous height. "Estrella and I
are going to Venus, child, I have yet many more years of life, and
loneliness is not good for an active mind like mine. That's why I
ransomed you from that barbarian Guerlan, so that you may go with us.
I am going to the palace now, I have one final errand to accomplish
well, before we leave!" He smiled slowly, satirically, as if the most
delicious thought in the universe had taken shape in his mind.

"Did you take care of His Exalted Benevolence's power-screen belt, my
dear?" he inquired of Estrella.

"Yes," the girl nodded, her eyes filling with hatred at the mention of
the dreaded name. "It will never function again!"

"Then," Bejamel said emphatically, in the tones he used when he had
delivered the final word, "meet me at the emergency outer lock. My
ship is there waiting, robot-manned, provisioned, containing fortunes
in jewels and priceless things. We will go to Venus, and to a new ...
a greater life!" he exclaimed, his eyes shining on the reclining form
of Estrella. "I shall expect to see you, Perlac, with Estrella aboard
my ship within one hour!" And to the silent robot-proctor. "Guard the
women," he said directing a tiny beam of force from the microscopic
mechanism concealed in his ring of office at the forehead of the robot,
which instantly sealed the order within the synthetic brain of the
metal-plastic man. "Guard them and bring them to my ship within one
hour."

The metalo-plastic robot seemed to stiffen, his great non-abradable
crystal eyes gleamed and a powerful arm went up in acknowledgment of
the peremptory order. Satisfied, Bejamel turned and left.

It was then that Perlac turned to the towering robot and said softly,
"Now!" And to Estrella, who watched uncomprehendingly, "Are you ready?
Throw something about you, and veil your face, Estrella, we're going to
the space ship!"

"But we've still got a lot of time!" the favorite protested. "It's true
that most of my things are on the spacer, but I want to arrange some
personal matters before we go; wait a while!"

A tremendous power was in Perlac's voice as she replied:

"We're leaving now!" Yet she said it very softly. "You're dripping with
jewels, are you taking those things with you?"

"But of course! Such a question, have you gone mad?"

"You know what they are? Each one represents a life ... they're made
from organic-plastic, human beings executed by greed!" Perlac reminded
her.

       *       *       *       *       *

But Estrella shrugged her divine shoulders as she arose. "My not
wearing them wouldn't help those slain ones now. Besides, they're
nearer to me in death, than they could ever have been in life!" She
smiled with incredible vanity. She threw a robe of Kra plumes about
her, and allowed herself to be led to the atomocopter.

Within seconds they were speeding to the outer lock and Bejamel's ship.
It was there that the robot-proctor left them, and hurried to the
lower chamber where the pulsing generators sang their eternal threnody
of unlimited power. Unnoticed he gained the great metalo-plastic
doors that divided the vast chambers from the anti-gravity repulsor
machinery. Unhesitatingly, it directed a thin pencil of force at an
orifice slightly above the center of the great doors, just as Perlac
had explained over and over, and the massive portals parted slowly,
remaining open.

Robots of the lower grades worked among the maze of towering machinery,
oiling, testing, doing a multitude of tasks. But the robot-proctor,
without paying them any attention, seemed to suddenly open at the side
and an electro-flash gun, of large size, magnified by the Venusian
scientists and raised to many times its normal power, came into view
from the aperture. Without making a sound, without even a beam of
light, the fatal weapon was aimed at the very heart of the colossal
motors and generators, wheel and pistons seemed to warp, shrink and
disappear uncannily; the steady throbbing hum of the degravitator,
lost its smooth rhythm and thereafter large sections of machinery
disappeared under the relentless action of the supernal fire being
directed at them.

Instantly the robots came to life, for a moment they milled wildly,
as if this supreme emergency were something they were not able to
cope with, and then they saw the new robot in their midst. Their
synthetic brains activated only to the repair and maintenance of the
machines, and to their safeguard, focused on the attacker, and its
removal was instantly their immediate task. They attacked _en masse_,
but the robot-proctor eluded them among the mazes of metalo-plastic,
of bery-plastic rods and generators, and the tremendous motors which
were being eaten by an invisible leprosy. With a swift slash of the
electro-flash gun, the robot-proctor caused havoc among the robots that
pursued him, legs, arms, even heads wavered and disappeared as the
electronic balance was completely disrupted by the flash.

A tremor seemed to shake the gigantic Sphere. By now, the great
degravitator chamber was in shambles, and the remaining motors were
unable to cope with the awful pressure of the gravity of the giant
planet.

With one final murderous sweep of the electro-flash, that seemed
to shear like an invisible scimitar through machinery, robots and
everything in its path, retreated as it had come, racing upwards
towards the Sphere's emergency locks. There was no apparent pursuit.
Only the vivid scarlet lights of imperative emergency, flooding what
had been the degravitator chamber were witnesses to the destruction.

In the coordinating offices of the Maintenance Scientists, the
telesolidographs gave three-dimensional accounts of the wreckage.
But even there, confusion, bred by a growing panic, caused a delay,
losing them their chance of effecting repairs. Suddenly, panic brooked
no obstacles. The light of intelligence and logic was flung aside as
men and women becoming aware of the ghastly fate that awaited them,
poured out on the various levels in a frenzy to escape. The news of
the destruction of vital machinery in the anti-gravity repulsor beam
chamber was being relayed everywhere.

Already the colossal Sphere was swaying gently and settling lower,
dislocating the delicate balances that held it poised in space. The
stresses on the plastic structures and pylons was tremendous.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the robot arrived at Bejamel's spacer, a dramatic scene unfolded
before his huge non-abradable eyes. Holding an electro-flash in her
slender hand, her eyes brimming with tears, Perlac seemed to have for
the moment at least, control of the superb ship. She was saying:

"We don't leave here until Guerlan returns!" Her lips were white, but
the sheer determination written in her lovely face, held even Bejamel
who was taken aback.

"Guerlan! Are you mad, Perlac? That barbarian's below on the planet's
surface!"

"On the contrary," the robot-proctor spoke in a voice leaden with
fatigue, "I'm here, Bejamel." Slowly he emerged from the enclosing
plastic shell of what had been a robot, then let the huge, hollow
plastic man fall clattering to the spacer's floor. Silently he searched
the ex-Minister of Justice, who seemed transfixed by a vast surprise.
From under Bejamel's arm-pit, Guerlan took a hidden electro-flash, and
a venom-tipped dagger concealed in a fold of his tunic. Having drawn
his fangs, he smiled. "We can blast off now ... but not for Venus!"

Majestically, Bejamel turned to Perlac with an inscrutable smile. He
gazed at the girl in a mixture of bitterness and admiration:

"You're indeed _my_ daughter!" he said at last. Then to Guerlan: "What
do you propose to do with me?"

"Keep you on Neptune," Guerlan replied bluntly. "Utilize your vast
knowledge of jurisprudence, and your personal and intimate knowledge
of the thousands of scientists who are certain to surrender sooner or
later. Human beings have inalienable rights, rights that we propose
to return to them. But unfortunately, it will not be easy to give
freedom to those who have never known what freedom is. We will need
all the science and power of mind available. So, Bejamel, we must use
you--under our supervision, of course. You see, even the venom of a
cobra is eminently useful, if handled right!"

They eyed each other, these two. Both powerful, dominating intellects,
both capable of profound emotions. It was the older man, who used to
the devious ways of the Sphere and His Benevolence's court, yielded
gracefully. Bejamel glanced at Estrella, and it occurred to him that
whatever years of life remained to him would be sweet if she were at
his side. At that instant, a vast tremor shook the gigantic city of the
Sphere, and Bejamel's eyes went wide.

Seated at the controls, Guerlan turned slightly to Bejamel. "Give your
Intermediates orders to open the lock and activate the catapult--we
have minutes, perhaps only seconds, before the Sphere gives under the
gravity pull. Make your choice, or I give the ship full power and crash
through the airlock, Bejamel!" Guerlan's voice was cold, impassive.

"I shall give the order," Bejamel assented in a brittle voice.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a vantage point in space, the scene that met their eyes had the
memorable quality of those stupendous spectacles of nature that human
eyes rarely if ever are privileged to see.

The vast sphere was aflame with color, dazzling in the vivid
coruscations of blue and orange and mauve and yellow lights. Spinning
slowly, it was a thing of unearthly beauty, a floating, starry globe
that might have been a toy of the gods. It was being deserted by every
type of craft imaginable; hundreds of planes, 'copters, electros ...
every available type of ship that could evacuate the jostling, crying,
screaming thousands who had jammed the outer air-locks and emergency
exits.

Inexorably, the Sphere sank lower and lower, as the remaining
generators fought the awful gravity of Neptune that held the doomed
globe in its gigantic grip. Enough power still remained to the
incredible sphere to keep it from crashing headlong into the furious
waters of the vast ocean below. But at last, as if the ultimate ounce
of power were gone, the Globe seemed to lurch in a glory of prismatic
lights, then with terrific momentum it began the dizzy plunge through
space, whirling like a falling meteor.

Perlac, Bejamel, Estrella--even Guerlan himself, could not take their
eyes from the tragic glory that was the sphere. Suddenly they saw it
illuminate the ocean for miles as it neared the surface of the waters,
then with a vast splash that sent a tidal wave licking the shore's
hills hungrily, it sank into the cold, green waters.

"And there it will remain for all eternity!" Guerlan said
thoughtfully. "A tomb of evil, that men might live!"

Bejamel was silent. The gargoyle's face was softened by a profound
sadness. He sighed like a man who has lived too much, and at last seeks
rest. He turned his back to the scene below as if unable to bear it any
more. "An epoch has passed," he said softly in the magnificent voice.

But Guerlan was at the Tele-Magnum, broadcasting offer of an armistice
to the warring armadas below.

"Scientists of the Inner Circle and the First Level," he said with
infinite assurance. "Your City of the Sphere has plunged to its doom,
and, with it went His Infamous Benevolence and hundreds of thousands of
your henchmen. You no longer have a haven of refuge, no base in which
to refuel or obtain supplies. When your present ammunition is gone,
when repairs and food are necessary, and when the men who die must be
replaced, there is no spot where you can return. Yours is a certain
doom--unless you unconditionally surrender. We offer a pardon to all
who are willing to join our cause; lay down your arms and aid in the
reconstruction--a far more glorious future is before us!"

An immense weariness had etched lines about his mouth and eyes, and
his shoulders slumped as if a great reaction had set in. But his eyes
could still flame with joy, as he saw the deadly fleet of the Inner
Circle abandon the struggle, as he saw the embattled armies cease their
carnage. As he turned from the Tele-Magnum to go to the controls and
guide the ship to their base in Columbia, he suddenly felt soft arms
entwine around his neck and a soft face that pressed close to his. He
didn't even need to look, the fragrance of Venusian jasmines was in his
nostrils and a warm, flower-like mouth pressed close to his.

It was then that Bejamel turned to Estrella and was eyeing him with
critical eyes and said sardonically:

"Shall we make it unanimous?"





End of Project Gutenberg's Minions of the Crystal Sphere, by Albert de Pina