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                           The Silver Plague

                           By ALBERT DE PINA

                 Like a tide, the horror of the silver
                  death was sweeping to inundate the
                 inhabited worlds--with only Varon to
                  halt its flood--and he was already
                    marked by the plague he fought.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Spring 1945.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Fermin, the _Arch-Mutant_, had risen before dawn and in the
garnet-colored light that passed for morning on Ganymede, repaired to
the magnificent austerity of his cloister where he received an endless
series of reports.

He had been reading _Seville-Lorca_ the previous evening, delighting
in the incredible pages which had been the great historians' dying
contribution to their worlds, and to which he had every intention of
adding an ironic anti-climax of his own. He sat in an austere Jadite
chair basking in the archaic warmth of an open hearth, and watched
whimsically for a moment how the darting flames reflected a bright
patina on the fur of the somnolent Felirene at his feet. There was
a chapter on the Jovian Societies he wanted to re-read. Not for
the brilliant, facile style in which _Seville-Lorca_ presented the
distilled chronicles of the Jovian Moons, but for that deeper purport
which is the notation of the heart.

Slowly, Fermin became absorbed in the photo-plastic record on the stand
before him, unrolling in synchronized timing with his own reading speed.

"... It seems natural, I suppose, human nature being as it is--that the
Mother Planet should maintain an attitude of supercilious aloofness.
But then, it is axiomatic we can never quite love those we have
wronged. And the history of the colonization of the major Jovian Moons
is anything but exalting.

"When at the close of the 'Great Unrest,' as the twenty-third century
is popularly known, it was definitely established that the ratio of
Mutants to the grand total of normal populations was becoming an
increasingly dangerous potential, they were given their choice of a
charter to the newly explored Jovian Moons--a magnanimous gesture
which ignored with olympic indifference the fact that at least
one--Ganymede--had already a civilization of its own.

"The fact that 'Mutants' were the direct result of malignant rays and
fiendish gases to which their ancestors had been exposed during the
endless wars that ravaged Terra until the twenty-second century, thus
damaging and modifying their chromosomes until Mutants began to appear
in increasing numbers, was beside the point.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Terra was not interested in 'origins' it was only interested in
'conclusions'--and that the sooner the better! For these silver-haired
Mutants the color of old ivory, with the piercing silver-grey eyes,
were a constant reminder of a recent barbarism, of fratricidal wars so
damning that the new apostles of the 'Great Peace' would rather avert
their minds. Besides, and this was the deciding factor, the Mutants'
infinite capacity for intrigue bid fair to upset Terra's idyllic
applecart!

"For in a world devoid of want, where strife had ceased under
scientific control, where obedience was taken for granted, and
robot-labor performed an endless variety of tasks, the blessed Mutants
found ways and means of fomenting discontent with admirable logic. Had
it been confined to their own ranks, it would have been no problem at
all, for as yet their number were negligible--scarcely a million. But
the perversity of human nature is sometimes appalling to behold; thus,
under the persuasive eloquence of the Mutants, great numbers of the
population of the World State began audibly to long for freedom!

"What manner of freedom they longed for, was a little difficult for
the World-Council to establish. For surely, in the face of universal
plenty, freedom from want had been accomplished. Since the Government
was a benevolent bureaucracy staffed by scientists, oppression was
unknown. And, in the absence of need for labor, thanks to robots,
anyone could and did pursue such bents and careers as best suited them,
within certain limits. Even pleasure palaces; rejuvenation centers--and
pleasures had been socialized. The Government furnished Cinemils, mild
stimulants; even the more esoteric delights to all who performed a
minimum of work per day.

"Of course, we now know (thanks to three hundred years of perspective),
what the World-State failed to perceive: That human beings need not so
much 'Freedom' per se, as the 'conditions of freedom.' For in a Social
Order where everything is provided without effort, effort itself is
hopelessly circumscribed. Where the 'Will to Achievement' is subtly
neutralized by an established way of life, that precludes 'friction,'
such a 'Will' becomes atrophied and progress stagnant. Just as
'resignation' is an inadequate word to describe the psychic exhaustion
of a wounded soldier who contemplates with indifference the immediacy
of death, so is 'exaltation' insufficient to describe the spiritual
change that came over large segments of the World-State under the fine
ivory hands of the Mutants.

"Fortunately, the Terran Government had the wit to sense an impending
explosion that would have scattered their precious 'Peace' to Kingdom
Come. Thus began the hurried exodus of both Mutants and malcontents
to the Jovian system of Moons. The Mutants went first by unanimous
decision of the Council. They demanded to be taken to Ganymede, where
with a sigh of infinite relief (on the part of the World-State),
they were deposited bag and baggage. Then the malcontents were taken
to Callisto, to Io, to Europa, and some even to one or two of those
smaller Moons hardly bigger than asteroids. Even in exile, however, the
parental hand of Terra followed its strange and wayward children.

"For we can suppose without fear of error, that the stately World-State
Government felt much as an old and weary hen that has hatched a
particularly bewildering brood of ducks. Deep in its heart, Terra felt
a guilty sense of blame, and had anyone been able to reach that cold
and battered throne, he would have discovered the angry pity and vast
misgivings with which it undertook the colonization of the Moons.

"But as usual, they failed to take into consideration the
'Unpredictable,' that cosmic accident that recurs always in the lives
of men--thus the World-State never even dreamed of what were later on
to be called 'The Societies.'"

Fermin the Arch-Mutant paused meditatively in his reading, and wondered
with faint amusement if _Seville-Lorca_ peering from the summit of some
remote Nirvana could see the stupendous drama that was being enacted in
the Moons, and write on the spectral pages of a book, a new addition
to his "_Annals_." But his sardonic reverie was suddenly arrested in
mid-flight, for at his feet the great, golden _Felirene_ had stirred
with the preternatural awareness of the feline, its immense green eyes
feral as it sensed....


                                   I

    "_O Moon of my delight_
     That knows no waning..."

               Terra--19th Century.

In the semi-darkness, the vast crysto-plast observatory was deserted.
For the fifteen Tiers devoted to the feast, overflowed with celebrants
who observed the three hundredth anniversary of their landing.

All Io seemed devoted to the chief preoccupation in their lives, and,
had managed to make of an historic fact, the excuse for a planet-wide
bacchanale. Julian Varon removed his black silk mask and stepped to the
wide balcony overhanging the plains. The frosty air was like a benison
on his narrow, high-cheek-boned face, and the silence was a greater
blessing still. Vaguely, he remembered the lines of an ancient poem of
the twentieth century, which, by one of those ironies of Fate, had been
preserved when far greater masterpieces had faded into oblivion:

    "_The brandy's very good--
    Blue space before me and no sign of man._"

Meditatively, he raised the fragile Bacca-glass to his lips and sipped
the fiery liquor that Ionians distilled from the fragrant stems and
leaves of the _Clavile_ plant. For days, his mind had whirled in
hopeless circles, and he wondered with a curious sense of detachment,
whether he wouldn't be better off to leave the problem to the
scientists. Only, it was his duty as much as any scientist, to search
for clues.

Julian raised his eyes and gazed at the great tiers of stars that
glittered above the towering, purple crags of the _Mallar_ range.
Throughout the hours of the Ionian night, the skies had been peopled by
the singing of these constellations. But there had been none to hear
it, for despite the ravages of the _Silver Plague_, the inhabited Moons
of Jupiter had gone mad with revelry, as if they would distill the last
drop of pleasure from each passing hour that brought them closer and
closer to extinction.

"I wonder," Julian spoke aloud, "why decadence always hastens the tempo
of pleasure!" He smiled acidly as his own voice sounded strange in his
ears. Below him, the blazing tiers within the transparent enveloped,
that was Atalanta, capital of Io, the great Galilean satellite,
sparkled polychromatically in the night. In the utter silence, a stream
of music faint and far away, like a tiny goblin orchestra reached him,
as the icy wind plucked with elfin fingers at his cape.

And something else reached him, too, that sent the blood racing through
his veins as his hypersensitive awareness of danger, translated the
sound of stifled breathing behind him into a signal for action.

He whirled with a speed that was an index of Jovian training, for in
the vastly lighter gravities of the Moons, his muscular coordination
was breath-taking.

Before him stood a Mutant in the act of crouching for a leap. He was
huge, squarely built, his silver mane standing straight out as he
sprang with a murderous rush. Julian stepped aside with calculated
ease and his left hand moved like a piston into the Mutant's face.
There was no time to seek the hidden "electro" under his arm-pit, and
power-rapiers had to be checked before entering pleasure palaces. The
Mutant bellowed with fury, and rammed a right deep into Julian's ribs,
then brought up his left and Julian tasted the claret in his mouth. The
silver-haired, silver-eyed being was obviously fighting to kill. And
suddenly Julian's vast amazement changed to a cold fury that turned his
blue-grey eyes to a smouldering black.

He slid two sharp jabs into his enemy, then crossed his right and felt
bone give under his fist. He moved in, blasting with both fists like
rocket exhausts, and heard the Mutant's breath exploding from his body.
The Mutant with supreme effort tossed a fist grenade at him, but Julian
had caught the rhythm of the battle and swayed away with it; he made
the assailant miss again, then with all his dynamic power sent his
right hand crashing home.

He saw the Mutant, face askew, slide drunkenly to the blood-patterned
floor. Then cool hands were on his wrists, on his brow, and sanity
began to return again.

"Darling!" Narda said in a husky voice that was distilled music, and
drew down his golden head against a priceless gown that was all blue
shadows and pin-points of lights, to stanch the blood from his cut
lips. Her violet eyes were bright with unshed tears, but in the odd,
slurred melody of her haunting voice there was no tremor as she asked,
"What on Io's happened? Were you recognized by any chance? _And a
Mutant...!_"

"Hardly think so ... still.... Oh, forget it, this is not a night for
problems. Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes are in Heaven," he
grinned irresistibly with a charm that made him seem younger.

"No! None of your ... what was it your barbaric ancestors called
it?... _blarney!_" It was then she noticed the tell-tale silver flood
at the roots of his yellow mane, and her heart stood still. _The
Silver Plague!_ Carefully she lighted a cigarette and blew a perfect
smoke-ring into the icy air, she brushed an imaginary tobacco speck
from lips that were like red roses. And when she spoke Narda was
perfectly calm.

"I came to find you because they're going to play the _Ecstasiana_
with a native orchestra from Ganymede--the muted viols and flute-like
instruments, and those weird violins of that strange race.... We danced
it the first time we met. Remember, my dear?" Her eyes were radiant as
if all her tears were concentrated in her heart, leaving only their
sparkle behind.

       *       *       *       *       *

He nodded silently. He was too full of the racking knowledge that all
his dreams had been destroyed by this alien malady that turned the hair
to gleaming silver, and rendered them sterile. That, and his terrible
love for this exquisite, gallant being who had consecrated her youth
and brains and loveliness to the only ideal in the chaos of their
lives--The _Dekka_. And as they turned to go, the tiny tele-rad on
Julian's wrist began to flash a pin-point of light in a complicated
code.

They both watched instantly alert, translating the urgent message with
the ease of years of experience. The message was peremptory--final.
They were to repair to the Dekka's ancestral Hall without delay for a
plenary session. The laconic order ceased as the instrument went blank.
Julian Varon looked at Narda for a long moment. Then he shrugged his
shoulders. "We'll have to leave right away, it may be _emergency_!"

Narda nodded. "We'll have barely time to change in the spacer."

From below, the strain of the _Ecstasiana_ rose to engulf them in a
flood of melody.

She laid a sculptured hand on his arm. She was silent. She was waiting.
The _Dekka's_ summons brooked no delay. For this was no game of mere
intrigue, but a gigantic fight instinct with the overwhelming drama
of the unseen. The huge Mutant on the floor groaned and rolled to one
knee. He had the strength and courage of a _Felirene_. He got up and
rushed with scorn and hatred written on his features. He came with all
rockets firing. Julian stood there in the battering storm and fought
back. He dug his left into the flesh of the Mutant inches deep, then
ripped a hook to his jaw. In the clinch that followed he could hear
Narda's sobbing breath, as the Mutant's laces pounded low; he countered
with secret, murderous tactics of his own. Then, he pulled the trigger
on his left hand, aiming with precision at a vital spot. He let it go.
He heard the Mutant crash against the floor and lay still. Julian stood
for a moment with his tongue on fire, his lungs heaving like bellows
with the effort. He bent down and forced himself to search the man, but
there were no clues on the giant.

       *       *       *       *       *

From above, Atalanta was like a gargantuan bottle left behind by some
god in his cups. Narda at the controls brought the intra-Moon spacer
spiraling down expertly to a landing behind a concealing rampart of
rock. Ahead of them a black, basaltic cliff reared its jagged crags,
its boulder-strewn base seemingly impassable. Nevertheless, the two
masked and cloaked figures hurried their steps toward the desolate
barrier.

"We're probably late!" Julian observed. "We seem to be the last to
arrive." He drew his dark, _Felirene_-lined cloak closer about him and
led the way forward.

"Small loss if we've missed the preliminaries!" Narda replied. "I
wonder how much longer the _Dekka's_ going to wait? For fifty years
Mutants have been appearing in our midst in small numbers--changed
overnight, rendered sterile--and the scientists did nothing about it.
Lately it has become a plague that threatens the Moons with extinction,
and still we're fumbling in the dark! Oh, Julian!" Her voice rose in an
ascending scale of grief.

"Don't move!" Julian whispered harshly and froze into immobility. He'd
detected motion--something that had stirred among the boulders to his
right. Instinctively his fingers groped for the handle of the tiny
weapon under his arm-pit. No bigger than a toy-gun, its electronic
stream was devastating at close quarters. He aimed it at the spot where
he had sensed movement and fired as a darker shadow catapulted out of
the gloom.

The spectral-blue beam of radiance from the weapon met the creature
in midair and melted a jagged hole in its side; there was a fiendish
scream of agony, then briefly a muffled tumult among the boulders.

"What on Jupiter was it?"

Narda stepped forward to investigate, but Julian stopped her. "No time
now." It mattered little what manner of beast had waylaid them. The
Jovian satellites, even frigid Callisto, had teemed with life of their
own before colonization by Man. And, since the Terrans had preferred
to build stupendous cities within transparent, berylo-plastic shields,
shaped like bottles, there had been small point in the systematic
destruction of native fauna. The cities were largely self-sustaining,
anyway. All commerce and intercourse was carried on by air. Only
adventurers and fools would venture into the wastelands ... adventurers
and fools, and perhaps, members of the _Dekka_.

As they reached the base of the cliff, Julian glanced back at Narda and
smiled. "Be alert, I'm forcing issues tonight ... inaction's killing
me!" He was like a Martian eagle--poised for battle.

Narda sensing his mood smiled thinly in the shadows.

She wondered silently what new, macabre mission would be assigned to
them this time. And hoped that the summons meant something far more
than the usual battle between rival Societies striving to milk the
venom from each other's fangs. For on at least three major Moons, Io,
Europa and Callisto, men and women were struck by an invisible foe that
left them trembling with fever, and when that dwindled away, a tide of
silver rose from the roots of their hair, and even the eyes became
luminous with the deadly patina. Nothing was known of Ganymede. It was
hard to tell in the absence of reports, for Ganymede, aside from its
own native civilization, had been colonized by Terran Mutants, who
could and did procreate, thus perpetuating their race. But the victims
of the Silver Plague were left sterile. It was hard to differentiate.
Meanwhile the Moons were dying!

And yet, a stubborn feeling in her heart kept insisting that perhaps
the _Plague_ was something man-made, and like all poisons should have
an antidote. She glanced at Julian and shuddered with anguish--there
would be no progeny for them--her own turn might be next! What a
fiendish weapon, if _it was a weapon_, she thought. The ultimate in
refinement of warfare--a refinement that in their Moons had been going
on for three hundred years!

       *       *       *       *       *

Narda shivered again, increasingly cold, as she let her mind rove
briefly over their past history and their centuries of spurious
peace. For nothing as crude as open, physical warfare disturbed ever
the equilibrium of the various Moons. On the surface, the various
governments maintained the most cordial relations--idyllic almost.
But underneath--that was a different story! The most ruthless strife
had never abated for even an hour. It might take the form of secretly
systematic destruction of vibroponic farms of a world desperately in
need of food; or perhaps the categorical embargo of essential supplies
non-existent in another Moon. Or the proselyting of vast members of
colonists from a sister world by means of economic lures. The loser
always paid enormous ransom in whatever it was the victor coveted.

Thus the subterranean warfare was carried on by secret Societies, much
as hitherto the Ancients on Terra had employed secret agents, members
of the powerful "Intelligence." Only that on the "Moons," the Societies
had much greater power than the _laissez-faire_ governments themselves.
Each Moon had its "Society," disavowed, legendary, invisible. They
maintained secret armies of Astro-operatives and space navies always in
readiness for _any_ eventuality--or an initial _open_ break that none
of them had the courage to be the first to start. But more important
still, in their vast, secret laboratories, armies of scientists and
technicians toiled ceaselessly on new techniques and inventions.
Delved into intricate psychological data that was a miracle of
ingenuity, calculated always to prepare as far as possible against the
_unpredictable_.

The murmuring wind of Io swirled among the stones and laved them with
its icy caress, and Narda trembled violently again. This time the spasm
failed to abate, and she whispered through chattering teeth:

"Please, Julian ... hurry. I'm chilled to the marrow ... d-dear...."

"You're what?" His voice was suddenly a rasping in his throat.

Julian straightened slowly from where he kneeled at the base of the
cliff, where he'd been activating the mechanism of the concealed
entrance with the wrist transmitter. He eyed the convulsed form of
Narda then touched her burning forehead; he noted the tendons corded
at her throat. A cold sweat of anguish beaded his brow as he said
casually, "It is cold, darling," and then he punched carefully,
precisely, and cried with agony as he felt his hand touch her flesh.
He caught her tenderly as she slumped in his arms without a sound. He
kissed her cold cheek and sought consolation in the fact that she would
not suffer the first harrowing convulsive fever of the Plague. It would
last for two hours. _How well he knew from experience the course of the
disease!_ And he hoped Narda would not come to before then.

Quickly he retraced his steps to where they had left the ship, and
deposited her inert form in the control room. Then he prepared a note
which he placed in her hand, it read: "_It was the kindest thing to do,
darling. Wait until I return. There's hope._"

He finally adjusted the wrist-transmitter to the exact wave-length
required to open the entrance to the _Dekka's_ Hall of Sessions, raced
swiftly toward the cliff like a disembodied shadow. In the distance
a golden _Felirene_ wailed its banshee love-call, urgent, savage--as
savage as the burning agony that stifled Julian's breath, and as
primordial.


                                  II

    _"For this is wisdom--
    Not to love and live
    But to question what Fate
    Or the Gods may give...."_

        Terra--20th Century.

"I for one, have no intention of being sterilized by--shall we
say--remote control!" The sardonic voice paused for emphasis. That
would be _Astran_, Julian thought as he entered the great Hall, vast
enough to encompass an army. The satirical tones were all too familiar;
he had heard them many, many times during the years he had risen from
a mere Astro-operative, through the successive stages of "Facet,"
Section-Facet Arch-Guardian; Techno-Star and finally had become
Control-Facet, representing the flat, top-most facet of the stupendous
jewel that hung above the Dais of the _Dekka_. "Dekkans," the voice
continued, "despite my great age, I can think of less inglorious ends
than to die impotent!" The flaming glory of the immense diamond cut in
the shape of a ten-point double star, veiled the speaker.

"Perhaps we're not facing a conscious enemy at all--that is, none that
we have been able to discover," Astran amended with a dry chuckle
distilled of acid. "And believe me, the resources of the _Dekka_ are
anything but negligible! However, it may be that through a weakening
of our race as a whole because of our existence under a different
environment than Earth, we have succumbed to a microorganism native
to these Moons, which originally were too alien to fit in mankind's
metabolic processes. But now, now that through centuries of adaptation
we have subtly changed. _It_ ... whatever it is, filtrable virus,
microorganism, or whatever, _has had a chance to take hold_. All of
you know the effects of the disease--hypertrophy of pigmentation
glands--silver hair and eyes, as well as its one single deadly
result--_sterility_!" Astran paused on the ghastly thought and let it
sink in.

"Our scientists have been unable to isolate the germ, it must be a
filtrable virus ... that is their problem. But, if as I suspect there
is a ... what was it the barbaric, ancient Romans called it?... a
_Deux ex machina_ behind it, then, by the perdurable glory of our
Moon, gentlemen, I pledge a holocaust that'll dwarf Jupiter's Red Spot
into insignificance!" The capacity for destruction in Astran's cold,
dispassionate voice was awesome.

In the ensuing silence, Julian's mind trained to the apex of its
wide-awakedness, felt the horror-vibration that swept the audience of
Dekkans. He saw the coruscating streamers of living fire that blazed
from the stupendous double star, and, with a feeling of shock saw
that ahead of him an Astro-operative's mask had slid imperceptibly to
one side, enough to expose a tell-tale _silver tide that had reached
half-an-inch above the hair-roots_!

Casually almost, Julian moved with his strange, smooth elegance
over the ethereal blueness of the safiro-plast flooring, and the
imperturbable gaze of his frigid eyes probed into the suddenly startled
glare of the man. Without warning his hand flashed out and came away
with the torn mask. A wealth of hair that had been tinted gold but
showed unmistakable silver at the roots and parting cascaded to his
shoulders.

The narrow face of the Mutant, with its thin, high-bridged nose and
silver eyes, flushed crimson as he was exposed, and the long claw-like
hand darted to his side, groping for the deadly Power-rapier that
was _de rigeur_. All in one sinuous motion he lunged with the weapon
that described a silver vortex under the fulgurant star. In the utter
silence Julian, too, had drawn.

The breath of all present seemed to pause for a startled second, then
their ranks split to give them room. There could be no interference
in a duel, that was the law. There was courage in the Mutant, a
fanatical valor that was mirrored in his eyes. He knew his life to be
forfeit--and he intended to sell it as dearly as he possibly could.

       *       *       *       *       *

Only the singing impact of the blades was heard, as the darting swords
parried and cut, swirling streamers of unleashed power. And suddenly,
the Mutant seemed to recoil upon himself, as if gathering all his
reserves of strength, then he launched himself forward in a vertiginous
fury of unholy speed. And that was his undoing, for Julian trained
under Jovian gravity could more than match it, and the Mutant staking
all on speed, had had to sacrifice his guard. There was a soundless
flash, like the glare from a gigantic glass, and where the Mutant's
chest had been there was only space, space lit by the spectral-blueness
of the Dekka Star. The body fell a charred and twisted thing from which
the watchers averted their eyes. The peculiar odor of disintegrated
flesh stung their nostrils.

For the first time in living memory, a spy had contrived to enter their
midst. Julian didn't care to think what would happen to the units who
guarded and activated the Neuro-graphs that were posted the length of
the entrance corridor. Still, it was obvious that only a mind of great
power could have had the satanic ingenuity to plan an invasion of the
_Dekka's_ Hall of Sessions.

Julian Varon bent over the mutilated form suppressing an impulse to
retch. It was unmistakably a _true_ Mutant from Ganymede, where the
dark flower of their civilization had reached obscure heights. The
features of the man were unmistakeable. As he straightened, Julian
raised his left arm exposing the tiny double star at his wrist, symbol
of his rank, and belatedly reported to the _Dekka_.

"A Ganymedean Mutant, _Serenity_!" Julian spoke, facing toward the Dais
where he knew Astran stood behind the veiling curtain of light shed
by the diamond star. "This dubious honor is the second one tonight,"
Julian said with a mirthless laugh. "I've fought one bare-handed, the
other with Power-rapiers, I should like the next encounter to be with
'Electro-cannon!' However, perhaps these two encounters are something
of a clue. Surely," he paused and swept the assembled Dekkans with his
eyes, "they must form part of a definite pattern."

"Please continue, Control-Facet," Astran's voice held a note of
suppressed excitement.

"Simply that it has occurred to me, that while we on Io, the dwellers
on Europa and even Callisto have been ravaged by this hellish disease,
Ganymede has failed even to _mention_ the scourge in their reports.
Even taking for granted their genius for silence and intrigue--their
aloofness from their sister-worlds' affairs, such a catastrophe as
this Plague should have blasted them out of their shells, _if they have
been ravaged, too_! If not," Julian paused deliberately, and into these
words he put all the dynamic, irresistible power of his trained voice,
"_we should investigate, regardless of consequences_!"

"Investigate!" Astran's voice held a grim sardonicism. "If what I
_intuit_ is true, we, the Dekka are prepared to underwrite Jovian
history for the next hundred years!"

Julian sighed with a sudden feeling of exultance, and he knew why.
Wryly, he was aware that what Astran termed "intuit" was an integer
of vastly complicated cerebro-geometric figures; graphs of brainpower
coordinates and emotional integers, whose tendrils root-like delved
into the innermost recesses of the human mind. And Astran was perhaps
the greatest Cerebro-Geometrician of them all. Quite obviously the
scientists of the Dekka had been far from idle. And, the expose of the
Mutant spy had been like a piece in a jig-saw puzzle falling into place
and revealing the beginnings of a pattern of some sort, but as yet not
clear.

"Quorum!" Astran's voice rose imperatively. "Astro-operatives and
Facets clear the Hall. All others remain."

The real session was about to begin. Julian Varon knew it all by heart.
The endless series of individual reports on every nook and corner
of their worlds, so that each member of the Dekka present would be
acquainted with the sum total of their individual experiences. Still
they remained masked.

       *       *       *       *       *

A great multitude of lesser members surged toward the exit, while those
chosen to remain grouped forward under the flaming diamond star, whose
light veiled the ten members of the _Dekka_. For the ten leaders of
their order of whom Astran was the foremost, might be known by their
names, recognized by their voices, but they were never seen. There was
a saying that all others "could enter the light, but could never touch
the flame."

All the waning night, while Io revelled in a fantastic carnival of
pleasure, they gave their reports in minute detail, and the ten minds
on the dais that formed the Dekka, made calculations with infinite
patience and fed them to the Neuro-graphs by their desks complicated
cerebro-geometric figurates were set up, and woven into the matrix
of their problem. The possible influence of certain key figures in
the Societies of other Moons whose intelligence, emotional stability
and intellectual attributes were known, was reduced to high-level
variables, and again fed to the marvelous machines together with the
relevant data culled from the members present. Astran was like a raging
juggernaut, asking questions, prodding laggard memories, directing the
other nine members of the Dekka. He was tireless, and pitiless. How at
his great age he could accomplish it, was a mystery. But it had been
that boundless energy and stupendous will that had been responsible for
the greatness of Io--not to speak of the _Dekka_.

_He must be over two hundred!_ Julian thought with awe, recalling dimly
the "Memoirs" of an earlier historian whom Astran had commissioned to
compile a history of Io, and in so doing had managed to bedevil that
poor man's life to such an extent, that the historian had counted the
cessation of Astran's visits as among the compensations for dying!...
That had been fifty years ago, when already for a century Astran had
led the Dekka.

At last, the Neuro-Graph machines, marvelous as they were could do no
more. Out of that welter of figures, endless reports and calculations,
one master mathematical conclusion remained. _The answer lay in
Ganymede!_

It suddenly occurred to Julian just how ghastly was the irony of
their position. For their ancestors in gaining all the "conditions of
freedom," had gained far more than they'd bargained for, including this
epidemic of Mutations that in rendering them sterile sealed the doom
of their Moons. Had _Terra_ known it, this was the perfect answer--a
few decades and all of them would remain only as a Mars-dry chapter in
history.

They had sown the whirlwind ... and were reaping extinction!

And Julian found a kindred feeling in the vast capacity for sheer
destruction that Astran had hinted at tonight.

If the answer lay in Ganymede with its dual civilization of Terran
mutants and their descendants, and the original Ganymedean race,
he meant to visit that stupefying world of cabals and intrigues and
unrivaled luxury.

       *       *       *       *       *

Julian stood alone at last beside the spacer where lay Narda's
unconscious form. He glanced up into the ultra-marine skies blazing
with myriad fiery roses, and gazed at the red ruby that was Ganymede
reflecting the great Red Spot of the parent world.

Finally Julian entered the spacer and tenderly raised Narda's head
to pour Sulfalixir down her throat. First he had to take her where
she would be cared for, and then ... and then.... With a sigh he took
the controls and set the drive. In seconds he was soaring, above the
deserted plains.


                                  III

    "_Terra glances--Men bend low--
    As Death dances, on tip-toe!_"

        Io--_27th Century_.

Like a shallow bowl hooded in starlight, the secret Ganymedean landing
fields came rushing upward as Julian coasted the muted spacer,
descending in a great rush of wind.

It seemed deserted and bleak, coldly uninviting. There was a brief jar
as Julian made contact and brought the small but almost invulnerable
semi-cruiser to a partial stop. His fingers were still over the
banked keys when it came with mind-shattering suddenness--a burst of
intolerable light! The spacer trembled, shuddered like a living thing.
Instantly the hidden depression was alive with shadow-shapes as the
first shot struck home. Again the livid-orange flare blotted out the
starlight with a macabre radiance, and Julian reeled against the panel.
He had time for but one thought: "Hidden! Secret, eh!"

       *       *       *       *       *

He pressed the stud and drove the "Drive" forward one quarter. The
spacer reared like a mammoth stallion and plunged vertiginously into
the mass of men and projectors, scattering rocks and limbs in a welter
of crushed metal and torn flesh. The pandemonium of screams and
explosions was drowned in the roar of the hurtling ship. The warm blood
spurted out of Julian's ears and its acrid scent was in his nostrils.
The momentum had carried the spacer across the entire field before
Julian could bring it to a stop. Reeling with the effects of concussion
he drove himself out of the wounded vessel and into the darkness of
the tumbled terrain. The city was very near, he knew, even if no
garish brilliance heralded it. He had to get to it.... _He had to!_
The "plan" was complete, and even if only one small phase of the plan
were defeated, the whole pattern would have to be reconstructed and the
element of surprise would be lost.

And then he realized grayly that an _awareness_ of the Plan existed.
Else how explain such a reception? Violence was out in the open now.
And, the _Dekka_ had not been the one to force the issue. Still, the
pressure of the thought in his mind--the overwhelming responsibility
of his task--was so great, that it drove him with cyclonic power. It
lent wings to his strength as he covered the distance in great leaps,
and was profoundly grateful for his Jovian training. The tumult behind
him receded into the distance, became indistinct. But Julian knew that
transmitters would be crackling with warning. His instinctive ruse with
the spacer had worked like a miracle, but he knew he could not hope to
have disposed of all his attackers. They would be on his trail like
bloodhounds in short order!

The darkness now was but faintly suffused with the shimmer of
starlight, and great sections of the sky were blotted out. He came up
against a solid barrier and realized he was in the city. Ahead loomed a
vast shadow whose upthrust towers caught glimmers of faint luminescence.

"The Temple!" he breathed, and darted like a hunted animal into the
silent sanctuary. He didn't deceive himself that he would be inviolate,
although that was the law; but it was a respite. Time to get his
bearings in the damnable city of darkness and tortuous ways.

Once within the lofty nave of the temple, Julian took swift stock of
his surroundings. It was illuminated with surpassing skill, soothing,
caressing almost. But it suddenly struck him that the perfection of
the workmanship had a double purpose--it served primarily to mask the
impregnability of the place. It was a veritable fortress instantly
convertible if the need arose. It had been built to withstand a siege!

Ahead of him was a lofty, jewel-encrusted altar. But no idol was
enthroned there. No inscription even. Only the raging inferno of a
miniature atomic-vortex held under control by some unknown means and
enclosed in a transparent substance which he rightly judged to be an
illusion, and was a field of force, in reality. There seemed to be no
exit anywhere, except the entrance through which he had come. Julian
had suddenly come to the end.

He searched like a trapped creature, his whole being convulsed by the
urgency of his will, while the tumult of the chase drew nearer and
nearer with desperate urgency he explored the altar. "_Surely_," he
reasoned, "_there must be some way the priests of the temple reach the
nave!_" With frantic fingers he explored the gemmed surfaces, driving
his mind to intuit the logical means of ingress not to speak _egress_.
The chromatic shimmer of the gems blurred and merged together, formed
curiously fantastic patterns, as his senses reeled through the
after-effects of concussion. Imperceptibly almost, his probing fingers
felt a slight projection on a flat surface. With a swift, jabbing
motion he pushed in, and a circular section the size of a small coin
slid to one side. There was a thin metallic ring beneath. He twisted
it, and the whole section large enough for a stooping man to enter
swung silently inward. He hesitated briefly gazing into the dark
aperture. He could already hear clearly the shouted commands of his
pursuers, as the troops deployed into the branching streets. He entered
and the aperture closed.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the golden _Felirene_ sprawled on the fabulous rug twitched its
plumed tail and narrowed its lambent eyes to slits of emerald fire,
Fermin, the Arch-Mutant did not move. He did not raise his head.

The silver-grey eyes remained fixed, the slightly narrow skull
immobile; outwardly, he seemed absorbed in the photo-plastic record.
But the long, fragile finger of his hand pressed one of the gems that
studded the milky whiteness of the Jadite chair on which he sat.
Imperceptibly the jewel depressed. In the open hearth before him, a
burning log of aromatic wood crackled and sent up a shower of sparks
like shooting stars against the blue glory of the aquamarine glass
columns that flanked it.

"The slightest movement means death!" Fermin said softly, in a voice
that was calm and poised and unhurried. "Even a spoken word might set
_it_ off." In the brooding silence, the subdued hissing of the flames
could be heard.

"You see, intruder, you're standing in a radio beam that controls a
Neuro-flash. The slightest movement disturbs the beam, which in turn
releases the "flash." A most deplorable accident...." His voice trailed
into a melodious undertone faintly etched with laughter. Then he rose
and flung back the folds of his jewelled scarlet robe, bright as fresh
blood, with a gesture of fastidious elegance.

"Come, _Sappho_ ... let us welcome our guest!" he bade the now
crouching, six-foot-long beast whose formidable claws were bared.
"This is a memorable occurrence!" He moved with an effortless surety
remarkable in its economy of movement; there was something oddly
regal and imperturbable in his stride. Beside him, Sappho, the feral
creature, paced with a fluid motion almost like flight, its golden fur
gleaming with firelight reflections.

Across an invisible, if lethal barrier they met.

Fermin gazed into the inscrutable eyes, blue-grey and silvered, almost
like his own. He appraised the astonishing shoulders of the man,
the golden hair with the unmistakable rising tide of silver. Noted
the absence of weapons except for the usual power-rapier. "What a
magnificent addition to our cause," he meditated. Unhurriedly Fermin
retraced his steps to the chair, and depressed another flashing gem
that shut off the radio-beam, then came back to the silent man. "How,"
he inquired in a voice like ice, "did you get in here?" Inwardly Fermin
was torn between the desire to let _Sappho_ display her peculiar
talents, and that of adding yet another valuable recruit to the cause.
He smiled slowly as if reading the intruder's thoughts: "It is safe to
speak now," he pointed out. "I've shut off the power."

"My entrance is but a detail," Julian answered. His eyes traveled
slowly, noting the shock of translucent hair, the silver eyes, then
paused briefly at the power-rapier hanging from Fermin's belt. For a
second he had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh at the ghastly
irony of it. After waiting for hours in the secret passage, he had to
blunder headlong into the presence of the one being in all Ganymede he
would have avoided at all costs!

"I sought sanctuary and there was the Temple-nave. It's inviolate,
isn't it?" (_The point was, should he brazen it out or fight._)

"Of course!"

"But obviously, I couldn't remain in the Temple forever, so ... I had
to find an exit." (_Wonder if the paralysis ray works on a Felirene!_)

"Continue, please," Fermin's voice was a smooth purr.

"The atomic vortex drew my attention and I found beneath it what I
sought. Then, when I came in here and saw you absorbed in those
records ... why, I hesitated...."

"_As simple as that._" A world of irony lay in Fermin's pellucid tones.
The smile of ancient Medusa, would have been mild compared with the
change that came over the Arch-Mutant's face. "No doubt, it is also a
mere detail that the Atomic-vortex--which represents, incidentally,
the Absolute--is absolutely fatal! That secret exit beneath the altar
is known only to five other persons besides myself. And, that the
slightest miscalculation in manipulating the secondary controls of the
last door that leads to this chamber, releases an electronic current
sufficient in itself to incinerate a squadron! Remarkable!" Fermin's
eyes were flashing molten silver. "And casually strolled through!" The
hooded eyes were shadowed with death now. "However," the unhurried
voice continued, "_we expected you, Julian Varon_."

"Yes, I am Varon," Julian answered with a sort of sardonic calm he
reserved for moments when death loomed very near. "I am too near _the
flame_ to have dispensed with your attention. The point is, Fermin,
I thought you a gentleman, while you seem to consider me a knave.
I'm afraid we are both mistaken!" His generous mouth curved in a
contemptuous smile, as the taunt struck home. Death was something the
members of the Dekka had to learn to accept in advance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fermin chuckled, if anything as vulgar as a chuckle might be said to
issue from those chiselled, aristocratic lips, but his face was ashen
as his hand grasped the neutralized hilt of his Power-rapier.

"My rank is higher than a Prince, Dekkan--I don't have to be a
gentleman! My mistake lay in thinking that you might be interested in
an offer I was about to make. After all, _you're a sterile Mutant now_."

The savage Felirene licked its golden muzzle and gave a muffled roar
as if tired of waiting, its prodigious musculature rippled under the
metallic sheen of its priceless fur. Fermin stroked it caressingly.

"See, even Sappho has lost patience. I regret I must subject you to
the Psycho-graph--that is, unless you prefer to tell me the reason for
your visit of your own accord." The mellifluous accents were a study in
modulation--clear, precise--sardonic.

Julian had a flashing remembrance of what a Psycho-graph could do
to him. It had happened once before during his twenty-nine years of
existence. He relived for an instant the burst of dazzling light, the
agonizing fury in his brain, while voices that mocked and danced and
probed penetrated deeper and deeper into his consciousness until they
became a searing Babel in his mind. Julian had vowed it would never
happen again. Suddenly he blanked his mind with swift ruthlessness.

And with the same savage ruthlessness he struck. A tiny paralysis
beam flashed from the ring on his left little finger and stretched
out the Felirene without a sound. His right hand already had sought
the Power-rapier and the flashing blade described a scintillant wheel
before him. But Fermin's reflexes were quite as swift. His own blade
leaped into his long, aristocratic hand, as he sought cunningly to back
toward the Jadite chair.

But Julian didn't give him that chance he needed, his onslaught drove
forward with appalling speed, slashing, parrying, probing like a
living thing, until the Arch-Mutant's face went gray, shadowed by
the first fear he had known in his extraordinary life. Craftily, the
scarlet-robed Arch-dynast feinted to the left, in the secret Ganymedean
lure, and to his vast astonishment saw the lure engaged, _and then_,
a searing flash that coruscated before his dazzled eyes left him only
the neutralized hilt of his rapier in his hand! Fermin had a confused
picture of molten drops spilling from the weightless hilt and of golden
motes dancing before his eyes, when the paralysis beam convulsed him
in a frozen shudder and he tumbled slowly to the rug--graceful even in
unconsciousness.

Julian did not waste a single precious second. Both Fermin and his
_alter ego_ would be out for at least two or three hours, he knew.
But his presence might be discovered there any moment. He search
the jewelled cabinets that lined one wall. Feverishly he scanned
the photo-plastic record on the stand, and even read the flowing
hieroglyphics of Ganymede, so much like the written Arabic of forgotten
antiquity, which he found in a special compartment over the hearth, and
found ... nothing! Nothing but a single word, frozen and faded in a now
neutralized telesolidograph screen that flanked the white splendor of
the Jadite chair. The word was "_Paradisiac_." And that was the name
of perhaps the most glamorous, and the most dangerous pleasure den in
their known universe.

At last in desperation, he searched the fallen body unceremoniously.
The jewelled garments of the Arch-Mutant yielded no records, no secret
notes, only a tiny vial fashioned of a single blood-red _Panagran_,
which contained a colorless liquid. This, Julian thrust into a pocket.
Then like a wraith he melted into the aquamarine penumbra of the
titanic columns and disappeared as soundlessly as he had come.

Once out in the diluted scarlet of Ganymede's morning, he saw that the
temple was ringed with guards. Most of them lounged in the careless
sense of security that comes with routine. Julian, the pupils of
his eyes dilating, slid along the side of one wall, there was only
one guard there--beyond was a wide avenue somewhere along which the
Paradisiac was located. He moved as quietly as a _Felirene_, as
implacable as death. The guard never even felt the blow that felled
him. Then Julian was sprinting madly as shouts rose behind him in the
roseate gloom.

"Damn this pink fog!" he exclaimed through clenched teeth.

Behind him the muffled stamp of scurrying feet and the metallic
scraping of power-rapiers became distinct; oaths and imprecations in
various dialects grew loud.

       *       *       *       *       *

He swerved aside into a half-concealed doorway to hide his progress,
for it wouldn't do to have his pursuers see him. A badly aimed
power-beam from an old-fashioned heat-ray gun splashed off a
wall not a block distant, in incandescent fury. "The fools!" he
thought contemptuously. But his eyes scanned the buildings for
a sign of the "Paradisiac." He was beyond fear--beyond emotion
even. But what bothered him in a sort of dazed wonderment was that
the word "Paradisiac" should have been frozen in the neutralized
telesolidograph. For his assignment as part of the "Plan" was to meet
another member of the Dekka, a Techno-Star, at the "rendezvous!" How
Fermin, the Arch-Mutant had managed to obtain that information was
incredible! It was an index to plans and forces he had not previously
conceived.

But the problem now was to find the Paradisiac, he had merely a matter
of minutes in which to seek concealment. And in this world of tortuous
cabals not to speak of instant death, no blatant signs advertised
pleasure, shelter or concealment. The latter was an art that was
subtly applied to itself. One either did, or did not, know where to go.
Sanctuary was there for the asking--at a price. But the signs were only
for the initiate to recognize.

Desperately Julian tuned in the secret wave-length of the _Dekka_,
and turning his wrist-transmitter to full force, sent out in code a
streamlined account of what had transpired since his landing, as a last
detail he told briefly of his encounter with Fermin, and of taking the
curious vial from the Arch-Mutant. It was then that out of the soft,
roseate haze, a brilliant, vari-colored pinwheel flashed briefly, then
vanished as if it had never been, not fifty paces from where he stood.
And Julian without hesitation was at the blank, beryloid wall in a few
strides.

With his rapier-scabbard, he tapped a series of sounds, and the wall
seemed to part, just wide enough for him to squeeze through the
aperture. Behind him, the incredibly resistant plastic wall had closed.

In silence he waited, trying to control his labored breathing. Knowing
that he was being inspected, and that the translucent barrier before
him would or would not open--as _they_ willed. The thought flashed
through his mind that perhaps this _sub-rosa_ stronghold of the Dekka,
kept ostensibly as a pleasure-den, might have become tainted--a trap
instead of a refuge. And in that brief instant of harrowing suspense,
Julian became conscious of a presence, something cold and weirdly
impersonal, that pervaded the cubicle with its aura. He shifted
uneasily, poised with a grim determination. The blood-stained fabric
moulded to his superb torso gleamed with the sheen of wet metal under
the soporific illumination. There was no sound save his audible
breathing.

After what seemed eternity--in reality seconds--the wall before him
slid silently aside. A long corridor stretched before him. It led to
the public rooms. The sudden shock of overwhelming relief had the
quality of vertigo. The quadrangle walls seemed to lose solidity and
become curved. He shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the
wall on the left side of the quadrangle bore a message in brilliant
letters as if they'd emerged glowing from the plastic substance itself.
It was a message and a question:

"PUBLIC ROOMS NOT NEUTRAL. DISGUISE DESIRED?"

Julian stared. Behind the silver-grey brilliance of his eyes, a mind
trained to irrevocable decisions worked at the level of maximum
awareness. His judgment balanced factors and variables. True, his
instructions had been to seek sanctuary here, at this place, and
on this street that for all its seemingly deserted obscurity was
honeycombed with palaces fabulous for luxury and unlimited pleasures.
Even the exotic tastes of jaded minds whose more esoteric interests
could only be aroused by pain--the wild suffering of crucified
flesh--were catered to.

Fugitives from half a dozen worlds lost their identity in the opulent
warrens where "life" so often could be bought and sold with oblique
indifference. But he had to visit the Public Rooms--his only contact
with what he had come to seek _was there_! Someone who had devoted a
lifetime to the Dekka, in Ganymede. Imperturbably he re-read the fading
words, and with a mental squaring of his shoulders, he replied:

"Yes. Nothing _organic_, of course. But it must be more than merely
skillful!"

Instantly the wall glowed again:

"THE SIXTH PANEL TO YOUR LEFT AWAITS YOUR PLEASURE."

       *       *       *       *       *

Julian strode down the hall and paused before the sixth panel, it
opened inwardly with the same silent precision that characterized
everything in the place. Thus far he had seen no one. The maximum
anonymity was, of course, essential. Still, there was something
eerie in the atmosphere of complete detachment. He entered and found
himself in a circular room with curving, almost translucent walls.
The floor was firm, yet resilient under foot. He felt like a fop
at a rejuvenation center, and laughed suddenly at the thought. His
whole countenance was lit by that rare smile. From somewhere a slim,
completely masked creature glided silently into the room.

Julian judged its height at slightly less than five feet; however,
beyond the fact that its body was undeniably human, and exquisitely
proportioned, Julian was unable to go, for the being's skin-tight
garment left not an inch of surface exposed--except its hands. These
were long, and marvelously sensitive, with a nervous life of their own
as if they acted independently of the Ganymedean's guiding brain.

They were measuring him now, taking in the magnificent breadth of
shoulder, the long, flat thighs and narrow waist, above which rose
the inverted pyramid that was Julian's torso. At last they carefully
removed his helmet and paused as if appraising the great shock of
golden hair. With a swift motion that took in Julian's entire body,
the designer indicated that Julian strip. Again the exquisite hands
repeated the gesture--impatiently this time--but Julian, his face set,
still hesitated.

The designer was a native Ganymedean, beyond doubt--Julian knew that
much. But, was it a man or a woman? Julian was well aware that the
exquisite beings of fabulous Ganymede, who even when confronted with
the outrage that was _The Dynasty_, foisted upon them by the Terran
Mutants had disdained arming themselves to the teeth as the rest of
the Moons had done, had some very strange ideas about things. And the
"Control-Facet" had no intention of disrobing before a woman--even as
alien and anonymous a being as the Ganymedeans. His face was beginning
to flush with sheer annoyance.

As if reading Julian's thoughts, the masked designer shook its head
and made an expressive gesture with its hands, as if Julian's nudity
would be a thing of such utter unimportance, that it would scarcely be
noticed, except as a foundation upon which to achieve a superlative
disguise. And Julian had no alternative. It was either disrobe or enter
the Public Rooms as he was. Mentally he consigned the stubborn race of
Ganymede to the most sulphuric region he could think of, and palming
his electro-beam, undressed. The coldly unemotional designer was unable
to suppress a gasp! Its ancient, long-forgotten Gods must have been
like this; theirs was a cult of beauty, and in Julian it was witnessing
a masterpiece. Almost, reverently, the fluttering hands began their
work.

The Ganymedean's artistry was very great. "_Part of their accursed
stubbornness!_" Julian thought. For the Ganymedeans had an exasperating
tenacity of purpose which brooked no obstacles until they achieved
their ends--it bordered on genius, or madness, or both. Had they
devoted it to the art of War, Seville-Lorca's "_Jovian Annals_" would
have been a vastly different story.

The space-tanned face with its slightly flaring nostrils, and large
silver-grey eyes, crowned by the shock of golden mane, began to change
subtly under the magical hands of the designer. Slowly the shoulder
long hair took on a dull, ruddy sheen, while the coppered complexion
paled and a temporary irritant brought a deep flush to his cheeks.
With deft movements, the winged brows were darkened and narrowed, and
the generous, full lips were pulled slightly inwards and taped with
invisi-plastic, until only a thin, cruel curve remained. The Ganymedean
stepped back and scrutinized the effect. Quickly it crossed to a part
of the circular chamber and then pressed a stud. A great section of
the wall sank downward, revealing tier after tier of dazzling costumes
already composed. There were gossamer silks from Venus, lustrous as
moonlight pools; the opulent gleam of stiff brocades from Mars, as
unyielding as the character of that supercilious race. Velvets like
crushed petals, embroidered in _Starlimans_, the priceless green
diamonds of Mercury; vivid fabrics from distant Neptune, which were
not woven at all, but secret plastics worth a small fortune each. And,
they were all green--in an infinite gradation of shades, nuances, hues.
The artist's hands reached and drew forth a single garment open at the
back. And then the real work began.

       *       *       *       *       *

Julian's eyes were inscrutable. He had not been asked what effect was
to be achieved, or indeed how he wished to be changed. True, nothing of
an _organic_ nature had been attempted. But he was not used to this.

The Ganymedean designer, whatever it was, was a great artist. Great
enough to take liberties, or else possessed of the effrontery of
genius. But then, Julian meditated, Ganymedeans were like that. There
were times when one didn't know whether to slay them or leave them.
Then it occurred to Julian that perhaps the instructions of the _Dekka_
had been specific. But dismissed the thought with a wry smile. Even
the Dekka's instructions as to the actual disguise would have been
quietly ignored by this creature. It was a work of art, and in that
realm, Ganymedeans listened to no one. But his meditation was cut short
by the gestures of the artist, which clearly indicated that Julian tilt
his head. In his hands he held a tiny bottle, and something like an
eye-dropper.

"I said _nothing organic_!" Julian reminded him coldly.

"A tint, nothing more," the Ganymedean spoke for the first time in
soft, slurred accents. "It will only last a few days, then disappear.
And, without it, the work is incomplete." Julian submitted reluctantly.

The artist was at last finished. One graceful hand motioned toward a
huge moon of a mirror suspended by anti-gravitic means, and Julian
turned curiously to see what the creature had transformed him into.

His astounded gasp was audible in the silent alcove. For he saw a
tall, disdainful Martian whose violet eyes looked coldly out a face he
couldn't recognize as his own; a mane of ruddy, curling ringlets fell
to the neck-line, while thin, cruel lips curving slightly expressed
unutterable boredom. For the rest, his body was sheathed in palest
silver-green, of a texture like human epidermis--satiny, rippling with
his every movement, while a great belt of _Panagrans_ circled his
narrow waist.

The Ganymedean held up an expressive finger, then flew to a drawer
hidden beneath the folds of the costumes. He extracted something and
came swiftly back. Julian felt a sharp pain in his left ear-lobe, then
the icy sensation of a cauterizer stanching the capillary flow, and
something was fastened to his ear. When he gazed into the reflecting
moon, he saw a huge, solitary _Starliman_ swirling green fire from
his left ear-lobe. The picture of a ruthless, interplanetary fop was
superbly complete. Only a Neuro-Graph machine could possibly have
revealed his identity now.

Julian went over to where his former garments lay on the floor, and
fastened his Power-rapier to the jeweled belt, then extracted the
vial he had taken from Fermin, taking care that the designer didn't
see it, and secreted it on his person. When he straightened up again,
the Ganymedean was holding a cloak of rich _ocelandian_ fur which
Julian threw about his shoulders. The artist gazed at him for a brief
instant, with something like a smile in its brilliant eyes--all that
could be seen of his masked face. Then as silently as he had come, he
literally walked into a section of the panelling which gave way before
him and disappeared in the endless labyrinth that was the Paradisiac.
The door of the circular room opened soundlessly. Julian's hand flew
to the electro-beam under his arm-pit, but no one came. It was a mute
invitation to depart.

The long corridor led him to the balcony overhanging the Public Rooms.
Below him was a hall so vast, built on a scale so great, that it
imparted a feeling of limitless distances, yet he knew this was an
illusion. To his right, a crysto-plast conveyor spiralled down in a
swirl of imprisoned waters, foaming like a rushing stream, while at the
bottom, freed by the deliberately lessened gravity, the worst and best
from all the inhabited worlds sat at individual platforms or revolved
lazily in the upper levels. The enchantment of fantastic harmonies wove
a subtle spell of desire and nameless longings. But although he felt
the magic of the extravagantly honeyed chords, Julian reminded himself
that was not there to propitiate the eternal caprice of the flesh.


                                  IV

    _"Within my heart, all ecstasy,
    Within my eyes, all visions dwell.
    Life--Death, I turn to rhapsody--
    I am the deathless Philomel."_

              TERRA--20th Century.

He swept the assemblage with a glance. Purposely he had stood for
seconds in full view. A perfect fop--as frivolous, as dangerous as
anything the Paradisiac harbored. The ultimate in elegance.

Julian stepped on the conveyor and had the illusion of being borne
along on a cataract of foam to where an immaculately garbed Ganymedean
bowed and led the way to a secluded platform embowered in the
geometrical interlacings of frost crystals. The panel in the table's
center instantly suffused with softest light as he sat down, and a note
like the echo of a forgotten song rang subdued.

"Venusin ... undiluted!" Julian ordered laconically.

Mentally he enjoyed in anticipation the exhilarating power of the
treacherous drink. It was precisely what a successful adventurer would
have ordered there.

He waited calmly, conscious that he was the cynosure of many eyes. He
knew a thousand dramas were being enacted in the sumptuous den, under
the masking surface of convention and social intercourse.

The place was like a gigantic cup abrim with beauty--so much of it--in
the decors, in the music, in the _flesh_, left him cold. A glowing
core of contempt burned within him at the overwhelmingly seductive
weakness it induced. Julian knew he had to be as invulnerable as
berylo-plast--deaf to all the mellower dictums of the heart. He was
here for one single, solitary purpose that was the all-embracing,
the tremendous _now_. To meet a bearer of information so secret, so
profoundly vital, that its possessor had not dared even transmit it
in the highly complicated secret code of the _Dekka_. For that he
had braved what he now realized was certain death. It was his task
to receive it, and pass it through channels that would reach the ten
Dekkan patriarchs.

Once more, as he had done when he'd paused at the top of the conveyor,
Julian raised his arm and almost imperceptibly made the secret,
immemorable gesture of the Dekka. He was impatient. There was no time.
Disguise or no disguise, he knew that any minute now, the Paradisiac
might erupt like a long-seething volcano. _Why wasn't the person he
was to meet here yet?_ Mechanically his fingers groped for the vial he
had taken from Fermin, and paused startled as he felt the unmistakable
outline of something hard beside the shape of the miniature vial. He
drew it out slowly, palmed so that no observer could discern it from
even a short distance. It was a tiny plastic disc bearing the words:
SUB ROHAN SQUARE. As Julian raised the glass of Venusin to his lips,
he swallowed the disc, which he knew would dissolve. _He already had
met the informant!_ The thought was almost shocking in its intensity.
It could only have been the Ganymedean designer! And yet, the message
in itself was disappointing. What could there be beneath Rohan Square,
the central plaza before the Temple where he'd met Fermin?

Already amidst the perfect glamour, the seductive illusions of the
Paradisiac, forces were gathering that no Ganymedean art could dispel,
and which were far from being illusory.

Neighboring platforms had drawn increasingly near; implacable eyes,
devoid of languor or of drugs, gazed with cold intensity at the
frost-trellised bower and its solitary occupant. The lighting effects
of the Paradisiac had changed, dimmed to an idyllic, translucent
twilight, while the music sank to undulations of the B flat tonality
that were magical--plucking at the emotions with unerring skill.

A draft of fragrance--the heady _florestan_ of Ganymede--made Julian
turn his head. Up the brief stairs of his platform a woman was
ascending calmly. Julian rose, a tiny frown between his eyes. He had
not sent for a companion; then he remembered his brief flash of passion
on the conveyor and wondered with startled dismay if these Ganymedeans
went so far as to read the most intimate thoughts of their guests! But
no, it could not be.

He shot a clear violet glance of keen appraisal at the girl. She was
a _true_ Mutant. Her utter refinement of features, the classical
loveliness stamped with intolerable pride were beyond doubt Ganymedean,
as was the hair, almost crystalline, that fell in shining waves to her
shoulders. The eyes, an enchanting shade of silvered blue, were smiling
with a secret amusement.

"Shall one intrude?" The ghost of a smile parted her lips as she sat
down, her priceless gown sweeping the platform with the crystal sheen
of water. She threw back a shawl as sheer and fantastic as the Veil of
Tanit must have been, with a gesture that only a very beautiful woman
can achieve.

"Enchanted," Julian answered conventionally, but entirely without
warmth. He offered her a drink. Maliciously he suggested _Venusin_,
certain it would be refused.

       *       *       *       *       *

The girl let her glance rove over the wondrous spectacle on the stage
that had emerged from the floor in the center of the hall, and, her
smile was an adventure as she replied:

"Venusin ... weaver of chimeras ... like all this," she waved an
alabaster hand, "illusion ... dreams. But even our greatest dreams
_betrays_ us sometimes. Yes, let it be Venusin!"

Julian wondered, straining all his faculties, whether the veiled
warning were a prophecy of things to come, or the ironical skating
on thin ice of the enemy itself! And was aware that part of his mind
kept harping on the loveliness of this cryptic stranger. _What was her
purpose? Had she penetrated his disguise? Was she there to make sure
that under the miracle of art there was some one far more dangerous
than a dissipated Martian fop?_ His answer came from her slender,
fragile hands. _They were twining and untwining like lilies bending
before the wind!_

"Let's dance," Julian said suddenly with an emotion he would not
analyze. He rose and caught her roughly up to him. He saw her eyes go
expressionless with surprise, she was stunned a little. And before she
could recover, the irresistible power of Julian's arms had borne her
to the greater anonymity of the dance floor in seconds. One moment
the lyric quality of the atmosphere was part of them, and then the
illusion was shattered as the frost-trellised bower vanished almost
simultaneously with their leaving it. Lurid pencils of unleashed power
impinged on the crysto-plast table charring it, while the fragile walls
disappeared under the barrage. Julian saw a burly Mutant searching for
him, atom-blast in hand, while beside him another Dynast, his face
stamped with the excesses of Vanadol slipped into the pandemonium the
dance-floor had become.

With cold ruthlessness Julian aimed his electro-beam and saw the upper
part of the Mutant's torso disappear. He saw the other one near the
conveyor and the "electro" flashed again. The beam went through the
creature and struck the great conveyor releasing the imprisoned waters.
An icy geyser of liquid shot upward, and pandemonium broke loose.
All the lights went out and madness stalked the swirling humanity
that desperately sought to escape. He was in a maelstrom of fighting,
shrieking beings and a chaos of noise as tables and chairs crashed.

"Let me lead ... my eyes are conditioned to darkness!" Julian felt a
tiny hand grasp his arm.

"So are mine ... but who...." He could see dimly a tiny, slender
figure, scarcely five feet in height, completely masked. Then he
remembered the slurred accents of the artist who had achieved his
disguise. The Ganymedean already was scurrying toward the same
direction in which Julian wanted to go, to the right of where the
conveyor had been. Icy water already swirled around his ankles, and the
babel of sounds had risen to a crescendo of unleashed fear, when Julian
reached the plastic wall. The Ganymedean was ahead of him, and Julian
saw him press a spot in the smooth barrier. A draft of icy air struck
his face as an aperture appeared. He dived in.

       *       *       *       *       *

They must have traveled miles before Julian's Ganymedean guide began
to falter, then stopped. The being had silently ignored every question
thus far, and twice had asked for silence. Now he turned on a tiny
pencil beam and surveyed their surroundings. It was a cavern, musty and
icy in temperature; great festoons of dust held together by age-old
cobwebs hung from the curved ceiling.

The Ganymedean went directly to a section of the rocky wall on the
left, and searched the crumbling surface minutely with the pencil-beam
until he found what he sought; he made an odd twisting motion with
fingers pressed to the wall, and a circular section slid inward; beyond
was another tunnel ending in a seemingly blank wall.

"You will find a metal disk in the exact center of the wall," the
Ganymedean explained hurriedly. "Blast it with your electro-beam.
It is the mechanism of a door, the combination to which we do not
possess. Be prepared to _destroy instantly everything that meets your
eyes_--everything!" He motioned for Julian to enter the tunnel. "You
will have only seconds to achieve your purpose. And remember, your
life's already forfeit, so do not hesitate now!"

"But what _is_ behind that door?" Julian asked, exasperated. "I have a
right to know!" He laid a detaining hand on the Ganymedean's shoulder.
"_I must know!_"

By the spectral radiance of the pencil-beam, the artist eyed Julian
with a strange expression in his eyes. "As you will, Dekkan," the
being shrugged his shoulders. "You will find a laboratory ... if you
live to reach it. It is doubly guarded, although even the Dynasty
does not suspect the existence of that door, for it is part of the
remains of our own subterranean system. Beyond it ..." the Ganymedean
paused, "in that laboratory is stored the blood-plasma of Mutants who
have voluntarily submitted to _innoculation with a certain disease_.
The resulting modified virus is the _Plague_. It's like a vaccine
magnified a thousand times--its victims do not die, they merely become
_sterile_!" The Ganymedean turned toward where the corridor curving to
the right was lost to view. "I go that way," he said simply. "My place
is here."

"But ... your message on the disc ... you mentioned Rohan Square!"
Julian exclaimed. "If I survive this, how can I...."

"_You are standing beneath Rohan Square, and the Temple, Dekkan!_"

And that was all. Suddenly he was gone like a wraith that melted into
the darkness and the silence, his footsteps muted by the velvet carpet
of dust. Julian hesitated no longer.

He found the metal disc in the wall, and with the "electro" at low
power destroyed the ancient mechanism of the door. As if released
from the bond that for so long had held it, the great section rolled
back with a crash, carrying away with it a jagged section of plastic
covering from its other side. Julian had a vivid glimpse of startled,
silver-haired technicians who stared unbelieving at the strange
apparition. In that dazed moment of inaction, Julian acted. _He was
in!_ The lethal power of the electro-beam in his hand swept like a
scythe through the group of Mutants. It was ghastly. The blasted sides
of culture vats poured their viscous contents on the floor. There was
a livid, billowing flare of incandescence as acids were struck. It
was a welter of destruction and supernal fire that roared into the
laboratory before any of the Mutants had a chance to act. The acrid
smoke, the odor of disintegrated flesh was like a heavy pall. Through
it, galvanized figures could be seen descending a winding staircase
that led upward from the subterranean lab. The Guards!


                                   V

Julian poured a withering barrage at the plastic staircase, and saw it
disintegrate into golden, dancing motes that merged with the advancing
curtain of fire. He could hear frantic commands shouted from above as
power beams crossed and criss-crossed the lab. The raging maelstrom
was unbearable now, and Julian retreated toward the tunnel. Almost at
the doorway a ponderous section of plastic from the caving ceiling
struck him on the left shoulder and fractured his collar bone. He held
his left arm at the elbow to support the broken clavicle and sprinted
down the tunnel to the corridor. Muffled explosions behind him fed
the cataract of fire. He pushed shut the circular section of wall
and followed as fast as he was able in the direction he had seen the
Ganymedean disappear.

The corridor seemed endless. Even his tremendous strength was taxed.
Charred, the magnificent costume in tatters, his left side a gory
welter of blood, he kept on doggedly, on and on, the unnerving fear
in his heart--not for his life--but that he might not be able to
transmit to the _Dekka_ the ghastly solution of their problem. He kept
forcing his legs, and was amazed when a draft of pure, frigid air smote
his feverish face. He found himself by the shores of Ganymede's one
and only shallow sea. Above him the stars were like freshly washed
diamonds; the icy harshness of the wind was like a tonic.

He saw a tiny light describe a parabola overhead, and to his mind,
inconsequentially came the lines from a famous poem:

    "_And an errant star falls rapt and free,
    In the blue cup of the sea...._"

And then Julian realized it was no star. He followed with a vast
unbelieving wonder, the tiny light winking on and off. _He knew that
code!_ Beyond he saw the tremendous looming shadows he had thought
to be clouds. For an instant, Time stood still. Julian reeled with a
surging wave of relief that was like pain in its intensity. Frantically
he worked the wrist transmitter on his useless left arm, while waves
of nausea rolled over him, receded and rolled again. He would never
know how long he stood there, sending that long-repeated, incoherent
message, until his mind spinning down the labyrinth of unconsciousness
brought peace....

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a universe later. The blessed peace of _Vanadol_ had vanished
pain. Sulfalixir was cutting through the darkness in his brain like a
bright sun. Julian opened his eyes and stared ... stared into a face
that reminded him of tele-photos that preserved archaic illustrations
of ancient Saints. It was hallowed in the bright patina of silver hair,
but it was no Mutant, a virile aura of power shone in those intensely
blue eyes.

The "Saint" smiled; the fact was illumined as if with an inner light.
"Peace, Varon! There's no need to speak for we have the information.
You gave it to us--piece-meal--I must say." He smiled with kindly
humor. "But you gave it. We have synchronized and correlated what you
told us in the transmitter before you went to the Paradisiac, and your
later message from the shore."

"_That voice ... that voice!_" The thought blotted out all else in
Julian's mind. It could not be, it was incredible, and yet, no one
else in his experience had just that tonal quality ... those ironic
overtones....

"You probably wondered," the "Saint" was speaking again, "when you saw
our signal, how the Dekkan fleet could be above Ganymede unchallenged.
Look!" He activated a telesolidograph standing by the side of Julian's
bed.

"Every inhabited Moon has its fleet here tonight, my son. When we
flashed them the news you gave us of the laboratory where the _Plague_
germs were kept, and of the incredible plan of the Dynasts--the
Mutants, they came on at full power. Enough to blast Ganymede out of
its orbit! The plan was the most fiendish, the most ingenious weapon of
war ever conceived! You must have guessed it of course ... for fifty
years they infected our people in slowly increasing numbers, until at
last they let loose the Plague."

"Narda ...." Julian began as memory agonizingly came back.

"That is the name you kept repeating with every other word in your
delirium," the stranger smiled. "A Techno-Star, as we found out. She of
course, will be one of the very first to be given the antidote, Varon."

"Antidote...." Julian's voice was opaque with wonder, it was as if his
heart had lurched in his chest.

"You brought it," the silver-haired stranger replied. "In the
_Panagran_ vial you took from the Arch-Mutant. Our scientists
are already reproducing it. It acts both as an immunizer and an
antidote. The Mutants had to develop it as a safeguard for the native
Ganymedeans. It was the only way they could be assured of even their
reluctant loyalty. And the Mutants didn't dare war against the
Ganymedeans--they still possess ancient weapons that the Dynasty
could not cope with. I wish we could obtain some of them," he sighed
wistfully. "What a strangely stubborn race...."

But Julian was scarcely listening, an upsurging volcano of hope had
set his whole being afire with the immortal, singing flame. Narda ...
himself!... He closed his eyes against the tremendous psychic strain.

"Once more open war has been averted by a hair's breadth--I'm a little
bit sorry, in a way, _Serenity_."

Julian opened his eyes startled. "Serenity? You mean '_Control-Facet_.'
You _are_ Astran, aren't you?"

"Of course, my son! _Don't try to tell me what I mean!_" He smiled
with feral delight, then: "We're going to bomb the temple to its
foundations--a mere token, of course. I shall have you carried to the
observation tower.... It will be a welcome sight. Will you do us the
honor of directing the routine, _Serenity_?"