“Let me explain. In my day I built a time-machine, a projector which hurled me back into the past. There was an error in my calculations, almost fatal. I had intended to move only a few days into the future. But the time current was very swift … I emerged in this ancient city. And I had no way of returning. My time projector was not, of course, in existence. It would not exist till I built it, far in the future.”
The cold eyes dwelt enigmatically on Mason. “I rebuilt my device. This time—somewhat differently. For I do not wish to err again—I do not care to go back to the Pliocene, or on to a dying, airless world. I have not yet finished my experiments. Do you know why I have told you this?”
Mason shook his head. Cameos of muscle ridged on his jaw.
“Not friendliness—no. I want your brain. Your intelligence. The robots will obey—but they are mindless. There are certain delicate operations and calculations … in my own time I had capable assistants, but I cannot use these barbarians, of course. You can help me. Your mind is undeveloped, but the rudiments of scientific knowledge are there. I wish your aid.”
He watched Mason for a moment and then went on, “It is the only way in which you can return to your own time. Do not let emotion sway you. These people here are nothing to me. Nor are you, save that I can use you. Help me—or die.”
The archeologist hesitated. He did not doubt that refusal would mean death, or, at least, torture. He must play for time … until he understood more of this alien, enigmatic world.
“Very well. I’ll help you,” Mason spoke weariedly.
“Good.” Greddar Klon peered closely at Mason. “You are tired. You must sleep now, and when you are refreshed we can begin.”
A robot came forward. It took Mason’s arm, urged him toward a passage.
The voice of the Master came, flat and ominous.
“Remember—I do not trust you. But I think you understand that treachery will mean your death!”
For seven hours Mason slept dreamlessly, on a mound of furs in one of the bare apartments of Al Bekr. Once he roused at an unfamiliar sound to go to the door and open it. Outside the portal one of the metal robots stood motionless on guard. Smiling wryly, Mason returned to his couch and relaxed in sleep.
The next time he awoke it was to find a hard, calloused palm clamped over his mouth. Startled, he fought desperately for a moment, and then paused as he heard the urgent whisper of Erech.
“Quiet, Ma-zhon! Be silent!”
The Sumerian’s swarthy face was glistening with sweat. He took his hand from Mason’s mouth, said, “We must be quick. There’s a journey you must make before the Master sends for you.”
“The robot—” Mason nodded toward the door. Erech’s thin lips broadened in a grin.
“I’ve taken care of him. With this—see?” He brought out from the folds of his cloak a curious egg-shaped contrivance, milkily luminescent. “I got it from Murdach.”
Murdach! Mason remembered—the man from the future whom Greddar Klon had imprisoned in the vaults of Al Bekr.
“How—”
“Murdach is wise—and powerful, though he’s in chains. I visited him—after the Master had punished me for hiding you.” The Sumerian rubbed his back gingerly, wincing. “I do not love the lash’s kiss—no! Well, I told Murdach of you, and he has made a plan. He gave me this weapon against the metal men, and asked me to bring you to him. And Alasa, too—for the Master intends to slay her.”
“What are we waiting for?” Mason asked. He sprang lightly to his feet, moved toward the door. His hand strayed toward the dagger at his belt, but Erech merely chuckled.
“No danger—so long as we move quietly. Murdach’s weapon is powerful.”
The Sumerian opened the door. The robot stood silent across the threshold, its faceted eye blank and dull. It made no move as the two men passed it. Erech said:
“It’s under a spell.”
Mason lifted quizzical eyebrows. True, to the superstitious Sumerian this must seem magic indeed, but the cause of the robot’s paralysis could be guessed. The egg-like weapon of Murdach, perhaps, emitted a ray which temporarily short-circuited the energy that activated the robot. How long, Mason wondered, would the metal man remain thus?
“Come on,” Erech said, leading the way along the corridor. Silently the archeologist followed. Through green-lit, empty tunnels they went swiftly, and at last came out into the great room of the dais, where Greddar Klon had tortured and killed the Semite girl before the assembled multitudes of Al Bekr. The chamber was vacant now, save for the glass coffin that hung in empty air. Erech ran lightly toward it, Mason at his heels.
From a tunnel mouth a robot came striding. The Sumerian flung up his arm, the luminous, enigmatic weapon of Murdach’s gripped in his thick fingers. From the shining object a pencil-thin beam of light sprang out.
It struck the robot’s body. It spread, crawling over the metal surface like liquid. Suddenly the robot was a glowing figure of living light.
The monster stopped in mid-stride, tentacles rigidly outstretched. It stood frozen.
The light-beam died. Erech hid the weapon in his garments.
“Now for Alasa,” he growled. “Murdach told me how to free her. If I can remember—”
The Sumerian touched the opaque coffin, ran his hand lightly over its surface. He cursed softly—and then caught his breath. Beneath his fingers something clicked; there was a high-pitched, strange sound, as though a violin string had abruptly broken.
The coffin sank down, opening as it dropped. Within it lay Alasa—unmoving, asleep.
Mason leaned forward, his eyes intent on the girl. Alasa’s beauty seemed scarcely earthly as she lay there, and for a moment Mason feared that she would not awaken.
Then the long, dark lashes lifted; warmly golden eyes looked into the man’s. In that gaze a queer understanding came, and Alasa—smiled. No longer goddess—but human indeed!
Fear came into her face. She arose with a lithe motion, and looked around with the wariness of a hunted thing. In Semite Mason said:
“Do not be afraid. We come to free you—not to harm.”
Alasa eyed him doubtfully. The Sumerian said:
“That is true. You know me, I think—and you know how I fought when the Master first came.”
For the first time Alasa spoke, her voice low, a little husky, as though her vocal cords had not been used for long. “Yes, I know you, Erech. I trust you, But—tell me, how long have I been in this prison.”
“Thrice four moons,” Erech said. “But come; we’ll talk as we go. There’s no time to waste.” He turned to the coffin, closed it, lifted it into the air, where it hung unsuspended. “The Master may not discover you’re gone for a while, anyhow.”
The Sumerian led the way. He seemed thoroughly familiar with the intricate maze of Al Bekr, though more than once Alasa’s eyes widened in wonder at sight of her transformed city. Glancing aside at her, Mason felt his pulses leap at the girl’s strangely elfin beauty. Once she looked at him with undisguised curiosity.
“You are from a distant land, I think,” she observed. “Men of Al Bekr are either strong or handsome, but seldom both. You are not
very
handsome—” she chuckled, golden eyes lighting with mirth—“yet I like you!”
Before Mason could answer a shadow flitted past in the distance. It was the white leopard of Nirvor. It paused, eyeing the group inscrutably. Mason felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The creature was only a beast, of course—yet in its stare was a deadly malignancy and a queer spark of intelligence…
The leopard slipped away and was gone. Erech whispered, “It is a demon. Bokya, the black one, is a killer—but white Valesta is like Malik Taus, peacock-devil of the eastern tribes. Hurry!”
The way led downward now, along steeply-sloping ramps, deserted, lit by the pale green radiance. Once they encountered a robot, but Erech’s ray-weapon swiftly reduced it to immobility. Down they went, into the hidden depths beneath lost Al Bekr…
And fear crept at Mason’s heels, stalking him. A dread he could not suppress had risen within him ever since the white leopard had appeared. An inexplicable certainty that danger was drawing closer…
Without warning disaster struck. From the gloom of a side passage a black bolt of lightning sprang—the black leopard! Right at Erech’s head it leaped, and the Sumerian would have died then beneath grinding fangs had not Mason, almost without thought, lunged forward into the man’s back, hurtling him aside. A razor claw raked Mason’s arm. He felt fur brush his cheek, so close did death pass. Then the leopard seemed to turn in midair, green eyes blazing.
But Erech had drawn his scimitar. With fury no less than the beast’s he crouched, teeth bared in a savage grin.
“Back, Ma-zhon! Guard Alasa! Your dagger is shorter than my blade—let me deal with this hell-spawn.”
Mason thrust the girl behind him. He drew his dagger. The leopard advanced on Erech, tail switching erratically. And—
Darkness fell.
The green-glowing bars blinked out. Intense blackness shrouded the passage.
The nearness of doom sent inspiration lancing into Mason’s mind. He cried,
“The weapon, Erech! Murdach’s weapon—”
Whether the ray would paralyze the leopard Mason did not know. But, at least, the glowing egg would provide light—light enough so that the leopard could not kill unseen in the blackness.
Whether Erech heard Mason did not know. The floor trembled beneath his feet. It shuddered and sank down as he fought for footing. He felt Alasa’s soft body cannon into his, and then the two of them were plummeting down into the abyss.
They did not fall far, and a mound of furs saved them from injury. In the stygian gloom Mason heard the girl’s unsteady breathing. He put out an exploring hand, touched the warm softness of an arm.
“Are you all right,” Mason asked.
“I think so. But—Erech?”
Mason called the Sumerian’s name. There was no response.
Light blazed into the room.
They were in a tiny cell, twelve feet square or less, walled and roofed with bare metal. Mason stood up, gripping his dagger.
A voice said mockingly, “Though Bokya fail—I do not. I am wiser than my leopards.”
The voice of Nirvor! The Silver Priestess!
Mason looked around quickly. The unseen woman laughed softly.
“You cannot escape, either of you. You will die. Nor will the Master know I slew you. For when the centaur feeds, he leaves not even bones.”
Even at that moment Mason found time to wonder why Nirvor bore him such hatred. Then he remembered his words and his shocked revulsion at the alien horror he had sensed in the eyes of the Silver Priestess. Nirvor remembered—and, to her, the offence was beyond forgiveness.
“I followed you,” the cool voice went on, “till you reached the trap above the centaur’s den. If the Master is too confident to guard himself against treachery, I shall guard him. For Greddar Klon has promised to bring back the glories of Corinoor under Selen, and you, who are his enemies, shall die—now!”
The floor tilted sharply. Once more Mason and Alasa dropped through space, alighting sprawled on a carpet of crackling straw. They were in a dim-lit chamber, high-roofed and huge. It seemed empty, though a black huddle loomed in a far corner.
Nirvor’s voice came again. “Soon the centaur will waken. When you see him, pay homage to the Master’s skill. For the centaur was once a man of Al Bekr, a fool and a murderer, who was bestialized in body and brain by Greddar Klon’s science. He is not fed often. Nor are maidens often thrown into his den. And he is still partly human…” Ironic laughter died away into silence. Mason glanced at Alasa’s white face.
“Buck up,” he said, lapsing into English, and then in Semite, “Have courage. We’re not dead yet.”
The girl’s lips were pale. “Yet I fear—this is magic!”
“I’m quite a sorcerer myself” Mason jested with an assurance he did not feel. He had noticed that the dark bulk in the corner was stirring. It arose. Slowly it came forward into the light…
Icy horror chilled the man. A centaur—living, breathing, alive—stood before him, a monster out of mythology sprung to sudden life. The Master’s surgery had created it, Mason told himself, yet he could not force down his repulsion. The creature was monstrous!
It had the body of a beast, a dun horse, all caked and smeared with filth. From the shoulders grew the torso and arms of a man, hairy and knotted with great muscles. The head was human, and yet, in some indefinable manner—bestialized. There was no intelligence in the shallow eyes, but a pale shining of dull hatred and menace.
The eyes flickered over him, swung to the girl. Light flared within them. The monster’s loose, slobbering mouth twitched. It mouthed unintelligible sounds. The thick arm swung up. It pranced forward.
“Stay behind me,” Mason said curdy. The dagger’s hilt was cold in his hand. He lifted the weapon.
The centaur hesitated, looking down on the man. It seemed to sink down, crouching. And then it leaped.
It bounded forward, front hoofs flying, bellowing rage. As that gigantic mountain of flesh crashed down Mason thrust up desperately with the dagger. Whether his blow found a mark he did not know; a hoof smashed against his head, a glancing blow that sent him hurtling back, stunned. He fell in a limp heap on the straw.
Blackness surged up. Frantically he fought it back. His head was a blinding, throbbing ache of red agony, and when he forced open his eyes, he could not focus them properly.
Alasa’s scream brought Mason back to full consciousness.
Unable to move, his muscles water-weak, he lay staring at the horror before him. The man-beast had gripped the girl in its hairy arms. The shallow eyes glared at her. One taloned hand swept out, snatched Alasa’s garment, ripped it brutally away.
Frantically Mason battled his overpowering weakness, the sickening dizziness that nauseated him. The centaur bellowed mad laughter.
And again the scream of Alasa came—terrified, hopeless!
The centaur’s monstrous head bent; watery orbs avidly dwelt on the girl’s nudity. She struck out vainly, her nails ripping at the creature’s face. Though blood came, the centaur paid no attention to its wounds.
Mason managed to crawl dizzily to his feet. The dagger lay glinting in the straw near him. He bent, picked it up. He turned toward the man-beast.
Alasa lay pale and motionless in the centaur’s arms. The monster had no other thought than the girl. Its eyes were glaring and bloodshot. Spittle drooled from the sagging mouth. It did not see Mason as he crept forward.
The man had but one chance, and he knew it. Silently he stole up behind the beast. At the last moment the centaur sensed danger, started to whirl, roaring menace.
Mason’s arm slashed down. The dagger ripped into the centaur’s throat, slicing through skin and flesh and cartilage. A great gout of blood burst out, spattering the nude girl with scarlet.
With a deafening scream of agony the centaur dropped Alasa. Its hands clawed up to the ruined throat. It plunged at Mason.
He managed to dodge, though flying hoofs grazed his side. As the creature lunged past Mason put all his strength into a desperate leap. He felt iron-hard flesh under him, came down on the centaur’s back, his arms locked about the monster’s throat. The dagger was still in his hand.
The beast-man went berserk. Screaming, it flung back its hands, seeking its prey.
The taloned fingers sought Mason’s eyes.
The man ripped out blindly with the dagger. He felt himself flung through the air, fell heavily on his side, rolling over and over. Clashing hoofs thundered past. Swaying, Mason sprang up—and halted, staring.
The centaur was blind. The dagger’s chance stroke had ripped across its eyeballs, slashing them open. The beast-face was veiled with blood. And if the monster had been enraged before—now it was a demon incarnate!
Blind and dying, it shrieked mad rage and murder-lust. Hoofs grinding down viciously on the straw, great arms swinging, the centaur drove around the den, hunting the man who had slain it. Mason saw Alasa lying near by. He dashed toward her, lifted her nude body in his arms. He staggered into a corner, and the centaur flashed past him like a Juggernaut.
It was a mad, fantastic game they played there, with the dying monster blindly seeking prey, and with Mason, carrying the girl, dodging and waiting alternately, his breath a raw, singeing flame in his throat. All at once the centaur grew still, its bloody arms hanging laxly, blind head lifted questingly as it listened.
The creature stiffened as the girl in Mason’s arms moaned and stirred. Guided by the sound, it sprang forward—
And dropped—dead! It rolled in a gory, shapeless huddle over and over on the straw, the great wound in the throat ceasing to bleed as the mighty beast-heart slowed and stopped. It lay quiescent, its dreadful life ended forever.
Reaction shook Mason. Dizzily he lowered the girl to the ground, relaxed beside her, weak and sick. But after a moment he rallied his strength and turned to Alasa. She was still and white as a marble statue, her pale body splotched with the centaur’s blood. Mason’s throat was suddenly dry. Was she even alive?
Swiftly he chafed her arms, striving to bring her back to consciousness. And at last the girl’s lashes lifted; golden eyes looked into Mason’s, wide and fearful. With a shuddering little cry Alasa clung to the man, no longer the queen of a mighty city, but a girl, frightened and thoroughly human. Involuntarily Mason bent his head, kissed the soft hollow of her throat, her rounded shoulders.
A flush turned Alasa’s face rosy. She drew away, freed herself.
“There ought to be a way out of here,” Mason said abruptly, unsteadily. “The Master depended on the centaur’s killing his victims. There’d be no need to make this place a real prison. I—I’ll look around.”
In a corner Mason found a tiny stream that emerged from a hole in the wall and ran along a channel to disappear into a drain. Where the stream emerged there was a tube that slanted up into the darkness. It did not look inviting but after a careful search of the den Mason realized that it was the only means of egress.
“Want to try it, Alasa?” he asked. The girl had been watching him, and now she nodded and came to his side. “I’ll go first,” Mason offered. “If I can get through, you’ll be able to.”
He fell on hands and knees, crept into the hole. The water was not deep. It rilled beneath him, icy-cold and murmuring softly.
Mason was in a tunnel, a tube barely wider than the width of his shoulders, so smooth that at times he almost lost his footing. If the slope grew much steeper, he knew, it would be impossible to mount it. Behind him he heard the girl, her breathing soft and uneven.
The faint light that filtered from behind them grew dim and died away entirely. They clambered through utter darkness.
Interminable journey through the hidden heart of Al Bekr! More than once Mason felt chill despair touch him, but he knew that to retrace his steps would be useless, probably fatal. In the den of the centaur they would be at the mercy of Nirvor and the Master, but here they had at least a chance, though a slim one.
The tube grew level again. Fumbling in the dark, Mason felt emptiness beside him. The sound of falling water came. He realized that the tunnel branched here, forking into two tubes up one of which they had climbed. He called, “Not too fast, Alasa! Take hold of my foot—”
Slowly they edged past the unseen abyss. Then forward again, on hands and knees that were raw and bleeding—on and on interminably. Until, at last, a faint greenish glow heartened Mason. He increased his pace.
A mesh grating was set in the tube above him. He fumbled with it vainly. It was fast. With a word to the girl, Mason braced himself, thrusting his back against the barrier. Veins bulged in his forehead as he strained to lift it.
There was a faint creaking, but the grating did not give. Mason rested, and then tried again. This time he managed to burst open the grated metal.
Warily he lifted his head through the gap, peering around. They were in a room, green-lit and vacant, filled with water-tubes, pumps, unfamiliar machinery. Mason wriggled out through the gap he had made, helped Alasa climb free. Both of them were drenched and shuddering with cold.
“So far, so good,” Mason said grimly. “Know where we are?”
The girl shook her head. Dark hair clung damply to her bare shoulders. “This city is strange to me also. I don’t know how we can escape—or where we can hide.”
“Well, we can’t stay here,” Mason grunted. “Come along,” He led the way to a tunnel-mouth in the wall. Warily they hurried along it. Al Bekr was still sleeping—but it would awaken soon, Mason thought. Moreover, if they encountered one of the robot guards, they no longer had Murdach’s paralysis-weapon.
Twice they saw robots in the distance, but managed to evade them. It seemed hours later when, hurrying along a green-lit corridor, Mason heard footsteps approaching. He stopped short.
Alasa’s face was white. She whispered, “What—”
“We passed a door a minute ago,” Mason said softly. “Come on!”
They ran back swiftly. The door was unlocked; Mason swung it open, revealing a tiny closet bristling with switches and apparatus. “In we go,” he commanded. “Hope we don’t electrocute ourselves.”
The footsteps were louder. The two tumbled into the closet, and Mason drew the door shut. He had intended to leave a tiny crack for vision, but the panel swung closed with a click. In the darkness Mason fumbled for a latch. There was none.
The steps grew louder, hesitated, and faded in the distance. Mason could feel Alasa’s warm breath on his check. He said quietly, “We can’t get out. We’re locked in.”
The girl said nothing for a moment, and then came into his arms, shuddering with cold and fear, clinging to him. The touch of her cool flesh dried Mason’s throat. He resisted briefly—and then a flame of passion swept away his caution. His hands touched silken curves; he felt Alasa’s soft lips. Their touch was like fire.
He drew the girl close. With a little sob she put slim arms about Mason’s neck. Their lips merged, and a trembling shudder shook Alasa’s body as she strained toward him.
The footsteps came again—and another sound that electrified Mason. Soft, furious oaths—in a voice he knew.
The voice of Erech!
The girl had heard it too. She drew away, unseen in the darkness. Mason called with quiet urgency:
“Erech!
Erech!
”
Silence. Then the Sumerian’s low tones.
“Eh? Who’s that?”
“Mason. And Alasa. In here—”
The door swung open. Erech stood wide-eyed, his mouth open. His cloak was ribboned, his swarthy chest bleeding in a dozen places.
“I’ve found you—El-lil be praised! I’ve been searching all Al Bekr—”
He whipped off his cloak, gave it to the girl. She nodded gratefully, wrapping it around her nude form.
“I’ve no cloak for you, Ma-zhon—but you’ll be back in your apartment in a moment. What happened to you?”
Mason told him. The Sumerian whispered an oath. “That she-devil—Nirvor! You saved my life, Ma-zhon, when you cried out for me to use Murdach’s weapon. It gave me enough light to beat off the leopard. I didn’t kill it but I gave the beast some wounds to lick.” He grinned unpleasantly.
“Now listen, Ma-zhon—and you, Alasa. I went to Murdach. I told him what had happened. He said there would be no time for him to talk to you now. Al Bekr will awaken soon. If you lived—he said—give you this message. Alasa I will hide safely. You, Ma-zhon, must pretend to obey the Master. Work with him as he wishes. Try to learn his secrets. Murdach knows something of them, but not enough. Later Murdach will join his knowledge to yours, and the two of you—with my aid—may defeat Greddar Klon.”
Mason nodded. “Okay. I mean—it is well, Erech. You say Alasa will be safe?”
“For a time. I know the hidden places of Al Bekr. We must hurry. Ma-zhon—” The Sumerian gave Mason explicit directions for returning to his apartment. “Go now. Swiftly. Obey the Master till you hear from me.”
Alasa ran to the archeologist, her golden eyes anxious. “And you will guard yourself—for my sake?” She lifted her pale face, and Mason kissed her again. He heard the Sumerian whistle, shrill with astonishment. The girl turned to Erech, said imperiously, “Let us go. Now!”
Shrugging, Erech led Alasa along the corridor. His lips still fragrant with the honey-musk of the girl’s kiss, Mason went in the opposite direction, smiling a little.
And soon he found his apartment. The robot guard still stood before the door, unmoving as Mason slipped within. He cleansed and bathed his wounds as well as he could, donned a cloak that would hide them from the Master’s suspicious eyes. Then he relaxed on the mound of furs.
He slept, but not for long. The robot was beside him, gently gripping his arm, urging him to his feet. A little thrill of fear shook Mason. Had the Master discovered what had happened? Had Nirvor spoken?
No—the Silver Priestess would be silent, for her own sake. Reason told Mason that the Master would be merciless if he knew Nirvor had tried to kill the man Greddar Klon needed to aid him. With an assumption of nonchalance the archeologist accompanied the robot to the room of the green monoliths.
The Master was reclining on furs. He thrust a flask at Mason. “Drink,” the shrill voice piped. “It is not a drug. Rather a food, neutralizing the toxins of weariness.”
Mason drank. His fatigue dropped from him.
The Master made no reference to Alasa’s escape, if he knew of it, which Mason did not think likely. He arose on his bowed legs.
“Now we shall begin!”
The ordeal started. And it was a racking and cruel one; Mason’s brain had never worked so fast, and, despite the energizing effect of the liquid, a dull headache began to oppress him. He could only guess at much of the nature of the work he did. Remembering Erech’s command, he tried to memorize his activities and those of Greddar Klon.
Under the Master’s direction he moved levers, spun wheels, sent light-rays impinging on huge machines. From time to time, at the dwarf’s dictation, he made cryptic notations with a stylus upon a camera-shaped device on which a scroll was wound—a variation on a notebook. And, as Mason worked, a trickle of knowledge crept into his brain. He began to understand some of the machines and powers of the Master of Al Bekr.
Several times he had attempted to hand objects to the dwarf, and had felt an invisible solid repel his hands—a shell of energy, Greddar Klon explained, which protected him from danger. “An atomic mesh guarding my body, through the interstices of which I can breathe, but which cannot be penetrated otherwise—by weapons or rays.” The cold eyes examined Mason impassively.
Remembering the spear that had rebounded from this invisible armor, the archeologist realized its necessity. And, as they worked, Mason noticed several of the transparent ovoids about, similar to the one which had imprisoned Alasa. Several were large, fully twenty feet long. “I use them for aerial travel when I have need to leave Al Bekr,” the dwarf said.
One thing Mason learned was that the air pressure within these ovoids could be controlled—increased or decreased. This he remembered, though at the time he did not realize the importance of the device.
“I have given the barbarians of Al Bekr comforts they never knew before,” Greddar Klon said. “Of course, I built the city for my own comfort primarily, while I was working on my projector. But they will still have it when I’m gone, though they’ll be unable to actuate the machines. Come.”
He led the way to one of the ovoids—twenty feet long, of opaque silvery metal. Greddar Klon touched a stud, and a disk-shaped door swung open. He motioned Mason within, followed him. As he turned to the instrument panel Mason watched his movements closely. The walls of the ship shimmered, faded—became shadowy, transparent. The ovoid lifted, drove up.
They raced up swiftly beside the giant pillars. At their summit, between them, a platform had been constructed, and on this the ship alighted. At a dizzy height above the floor the work continued, amazingly intricate adjustments and calculations which Mason did his best to understand. And presently the dwarf, his voice emotionless as ever, announced, “It is finished. There remains only one thing.”