Read Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs Online
Authors: Mike Resnick,Robert T. Garcia
Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs (10 page)
“What propels it?” I asked, for I had seen no rocket tubes or other means of propulsion on the outside of the craft, the overall shape of which was peculiar, an array of panels connected at odd and disquieting angles, seeming now to disappear out of the purview of ordinary three-dimensional space, yet again to reappear at unexpected places.
“Gravity, Carson Napier. My machine is powered by gravity.”
“But gravity is what holds us to the planet. How can it propel us hence?”
Again that horrid laugh, rising almost to a shriek of triumph. “It is simple, utterly simple for a genius of my dimensions. All I need do is bend the direction in which gravity pulls us. Do you see, it is as if a sailor were to run a line around a stanchion and attach the end of it to a heavy weight which lay beside him. The sailor pulls on the rope, the stanchion bends the direction of force, and even as the sailor pulls the rope toward him, the rope pulls the weight away from him!”
I shook my head in amazement. His concept was amazingly simple, almost obvious, and yet it was a principle that only a genius like Dr. Bodog could imagine. Too bad that this superb intellect was the possession of a man of such sinister if not absolutely insane intentions.
“Here,” he said, leading me to a rack from which hung a row of peculiar garments. “We will wear these during our flight. They are of a special material that will protect us from the effects of the gravity bender, for otherwise our internal organs would become fatally disorganized.”
He stared at me, then burst into his hideous, mocking laughter again. “Organs—disorganized. Do you see the joke, Carson Napier?
Organs disorganized
. No? Ah, well, never mind.”
The suits were of a thin and flexible substance which would cover the wearer totally. Gloves and footwear were attached, as was a flexible helmet or head-and-face covering, leaving only slits for vision, and even these were fitted with protective lenses.
“My special fabric permits air to pass to and from the wearer,” Bodog explained. “And the suits are of sufficient resilience that they do not need to be specially fitted for each wearer.”
He clapped me on the shoulder with one of his skeletal but surprisingly powerful hands. “Tonight,” he rasped, “we shall share a farewell dinner. I will leave Oggar and Istara in charge of my holdings on Amtor, and you and your Duare shall accompany me to Earth. Just think of the astonished expressions of Earthly scientists when they meet a woman who was born and raised on Venus!”
Dinner that night—or what passed for night on this cloud-shrouded world—lived up to Bodog’s prediction. A fire had again been laid on the great hearth, and powders of Bodog’s devising were added to create weird tinctures and forms that swayed and danced hypnotically. Istara and Oggar, Duare and I, sat on opposite sides of the table while Bodog, presided. Toasts were drunk in strong
fíonbeior
while black-attired zombielike servitors brought course after course of exotic and piquant delicacies.
At the end of our meal, Dr. Bodog suggested that we each retire to our respective quarters. The three travelers—Bodog, Duare, and I—would in due course assemble at the space machine, which, Bodog explained, would by then have been moved to the courtyard outside the Potala.
I had very little to do in preparation for the flight to Earth. I cleansed myself and changed to fresh garments, then made my way to the courtyard. I encountered Dr. Bodog as I crossed the open area to the machine. Inside we found our special protective costumes and proceeded to don them. Duare, I saw, had preceded us and awaited us inside the machine.
With hardly a moment’s hesitation, Bodog directed Duare and myself to seats where we were held by belts to prevent our being injured when the ship’s machinery bent the force of gravity. Bodog turned a knob, and the little craft was filled with a weirdly harmonic humming.
My head began to whirl, and I felt as if I were being turned upside down. Through the windows of the machine I could see the Potala fall away beneath us—or was it above us? I looked up—or was it down?—and saw the ceaselessly roiling clouds of Amtor.
One of the planet’s colorful vortices had formed and Bodog headed straight for it. We burst through and found ourselves between two layers of clouds. We sped horizontally until another vortex appeared above and ahead of us. Bodog directed our little craft to that swirling disk of light. We burst through it and suddenly there we were, in the blackness of space. I nearly wept at the beauty of the heavens that I had not seen for so long.
I will not detail the events of our trip Earthward. The little gravity-powered machine attained astonishing speed. Bodog called upon the ancient astronomical knowledge that he had acquired uncounted centuries before in the redoubts of Lemuria and ancient Tibet to navigate our course to Earth.
It had never occurred to me until now, how vast is the void between the planets and how easily travelers could become lost, to drift endlessly through space like the legendary Flying Dutchman.
I wondered where Bodog planned to land. Knowing his wild, almost insane ambitions, I expected him to make his return to the world of his origins in a dramatic fashion, and he did so in a manner that outdid even my wildest guesses.
It was January first, the first day of the new year. A championship football game was in progress in a great stadium in Los Angeles. It was halftime, and the players were resting in their locker rooms while bands played and cheerleaders pranced to entertain the gigantic crowd.
Bodog brought our little craft down precisely on the fifty-yard line, in this stadium packed with 100,000 cheering spectators. He opened the door and the three of us stepped out, still wearing our special protective suits.
Bodog removed his flexible helmet, revealing his naked pate and frightening countenance to the multitude. As the crowd became silent in its curiosity as to this strange display, I followed suit. And then Duare did the same. Duare, whom I had loved on Amtor—or thought I had loved. But in our days as Dr. Bodog’s guests, she had shown her deep interest in Oggar, while I had begun to feel a deeper rapport with Oggar’s tall and lovely sister, Istara.
And as she removed her helmet, revealing her face for the first time since our farewell dinner in her father’s redoubt, I beheld the lovely and beloved features of my one true love, Istara of Amtor!
This is the only reprint in the book. Due to a prior contractual arrangement, ERB, Inc. could not allow any new Mars stories to appear here . . . but we found a way around that.
In 1963, literally half a century ago, I wrote the following, a sequel to the tenth (and then final) Mars book,
Llana of Gathol.
It was published in 1965 and circulated free of charge with
ERB-dom
magazine, which may have been part of the reason that
ERB-dom
became the only Burroughs fanzine in history to win the Hugo Award, back in 1966. A thousand copies were printed, and during the past decade I have seen them going for as high as $300 in convention dealers’ rooms.
This bears no resemblance to what I write these days. It so meticulously emulated ERB’s style that it was my hope, when writing it, that if it were found in his safe (where so many posthumously published treasures were found), no one would doubt that he had written it himself.
—Mike
The Forgotten Sea of Mars
Mike Resnick
Prologue
The day breaks with surprising suddenness in Arizona, and as I stood on a bank overlooking the headwaters of the Little Colorado, I watched the starry heavens fade into the bright blue sky which marks the Southwestern day. I, like so many others before me, had a few weeks ago unplugged the phone, packed my gear, locked my house, and taken a temporary leave from the rigors of that phenomenon we call society.
Arizona had seemed to me the ideal place for the solitude and beauty I craved, and so I had rented a cabin that was once owned by a famous writer and set up housekeeping.
This day was to remain in my memory for a long time, although it began innocently enough. As usual I was off at daybreak, wandering through the hills and canyons, sketching, photographing, and generally exploring in my amateur fashion. I had borrowed a horse but could see no reason for making him carry my weight during the heat of the day and spent most of the time during my excursions leading him by the rope that was attached to his halter.
Returning to my two-room cabin just before twilight, I watered the horse and went inside to prepare my dinner on the primitive stove. The sun had set and the skies had turned dark long before I finished my meal, and as I peered through the window I could almost see the long-gone warriors of Geronimo seated in council or donning their war paint. I have always been a daydreamer, and so I turned, supporting my chin on my hands, and gazed at the Apache warriors. They were dancing now, all except one who was facing my cabin, and I could imagine the horror their martial war-whoops must have inspired in the breasts of our early cowboys and settlers.
Then one warrior, the one who had not partaken in the dance, began approaching, which apparitions are not supposed to do. I closed my eyes and shook my head vigorously. When I looked again, the Apache village had returned to the inner recesses of my mind, but the warrior was still coming toward me, and as he did so I thought I could hear the clanking sound of metal upon metal.
Finally, when he was within a few feet of the cabin door, he stopped, and in a strong masculine voice called out a single word: “Nephew?”
“Who’s there?” I demanded, drawing my revolver. “Friend or enemy?”
“From the tone of your voice I assume that I’m not a friend,” he answered in a calm voice. “You’ll have to accept my word that I’m not an enemy.”
I opened the door, my gun cocked, and was startled by the sight that greeted my eyes. There, not three feet away, stood a tall, handsome, clean-limbed man. His hair was black, his eyes gray, his face ruggedly handsome. He wore only a jeweled harness of unearthly design, and at his side hung a longsword, a shortsword, a dagger, and a strange-looking pistol. Immediately I holstered my revolver and, stepping forward, extended my hand.
“John Carter!” I exclaimed as he took my hand in his firm grasp. “It could be none other than you!”
“Then you know of me?” he asked pleasantly.
“Know of you? I was brought up on the Martian stories! But come inside and tell me what brings you to Earth.”
“Nothing of great importance,” he replied, following me into the living room. “I returned primarily to see my nephew. I met him in this very cabin once before, and I had hoped that he might be here again.”
“Do you mean Edgar Rice Burroughs?” I asked, and he nodded. “I’m afraid he’s been dead for a number of years.”
A look of sadness spread across his face.
“I had feared as much,” he said at last, “but this is the first chance I have had to visit my native planet since I saw him last.” He rose and walked slowly to the door. “This shall, I believe, be my last voyage across the void which separates Earth from my beloved Barsoom, for I now have no ties to return to.”
“No!” I said. “You must not deny us more tales of Mars; it would be too great a loss!”
He turned to me with a questioning expression on his face,
“Let
me
bring your adventures to the world!” I pleaded.
He shrugged his shoulders and sat down. “Why not?” he said with a smile. “Where shall I begin?”
“Let me see,” I said. “I never found out what happened to Tan Hadron of Hastor. Did you ever see him again?”
“That,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, “would make a most interesting and unusual story. Perhaps you would like to hear it?”
I assured him that I would, and here, in his own words, is the tale he told me that night beneath the cold light of the Arizona moon.
Rab-Zov
As you may recall, I had last seen Tan Hadron of Hastor when we were aboard the
Dusar
. The crew mutinied rather than return to Pankor, and since we were the only ones with sufficient knowledge and skill to operate the ship, they kept Hadron as their pilot and Fo-nar as a hostage, and set me aground, little knowing that Tan Hadron’s prowess with a longsword was among the best in all Helium.
During the ensuing war with Hin Abtol’s forces I lost all track of Tan Hadron, all my energies and attention being required for the fighting at hand. Immediately after the combined forces of Helium and Gathol had emerged victorious, I determined to discover his whereabouts, for no trace of him had been seen after he had flown that crew of Panar cutthroats away from Pankor.
Under my guidance great numbers of search parties were sent to all ends of Barsoom in quest of Tan Hadron, but these efforts ended in failure, quite probably because Tan Hadron had been wearing the harness of a padwar in Hin Abtol’s navy when last we parted, which was the equivalent of a death sentence in a majority of the nations of Barsoom.
I had conducted this search openly in the hope that, as often happens, whoever had the knowledge I desired might prefer to offer it anonymously, and sure enough, just when I was on the verge of admitting defeat, I received an unsigned note; I was told that if I desired to learn the whereabouts of my missing officer, I must be on the upper level of a certain boarding house in Zodanga, alone, at sunset two days hence.
Carthoris and Kantos Kan advised me against going there, as it seemed too suspicious a meeting place. Zodanga has long been a breeding ground of sedition and insurrection, but it was my only tangible link with Tan Hadron, and I decided to follow through on it, however dangerous the situation might seem.
I left Helium on the morning of the appointed day and set off for Zodanga, which lies about fifty-one hundred haads east of Helium and is located at Lat. 30°S., Lon. 172°E. As I was to be in the city but a brief time, I made no attempt at disguise, and, flying the colors of the Warlord of Barsoom, I soon gained the hangar on the roof of the boarding house. Having an hour or so on my hands before sunset, I took a short walk through the city.
Unlike most Martian cities, which contain numerous buildings and monuments from antiquity, Zodanga is almost entirely new, for Tars Tarkas and I had burned the city to the ground not so many years past, nor had the people of Zodanga forgotten that, as was evidenced by the hateful glares they threw at me as I progressed through the crowded streets.
I must have walked close to two miles when I looked up and saw Thuria, the nearer moon, racing across the heavens on her endless voyage. The sun was beginning to dip over the horizon, and I made my way back to the rooming house and ascended to its highest level.
The entire floor was comprised of one large sleeping chamber, and I was surprised to note that it was almost deserted. Three men were reclining upon their sleeping silks and furs, and a fourth was sitting in a chair of sorapus wood, reading a book.
The reader rose as I entered. I found his evil-looking face familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Welcome, John Carter,” he said with a smile on his thick, ugly lips.
“Have you the information I seek?” I demanded, advancing.
“Yes.”
“Good!” I said. “Let me have it.”
“Not so fast,” he replied. “Are you prepared to pay for it?”
I had suspected something of this nature and had brought along a few diamonds from the mines of Gathol, which I now withdrew from my pocket-pouch.
“I trust this will suffice,” I said.
He examined them carefully, taking his time, and finally handed them back.
“The price is not high enough,” he said at last.
“They’re a Jeddak’s ransom!” I exclaimed. “What do you want?”
“Your life, John Carter,” he said, and in that instant I recognized him.
“Rab-zov!”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “The man whom you disgraced in the presence of Hin Abtol, Jeddak of . . . Pankor.”
I was looking at him intently when his eyes left mine for just an instant and looked beyond me. Immediately I jumped aside and, drawing my sword, turned to face three armed men, the same three who had been feigning sleep when I had entered. I felt the old fighting smile of my Virginia ancestors come to my lips as I prepared to do battle.
They spread out a bit, and I backed into a corner to better defend myself, although I had no doubt as to the outcome. Regardless of their skill, I would win. I am, unquestionably, the greatest swordsman ever born; I say this not in a spirit of bravado, but as a simple fact, a fact which nobody who has ever seen me fight will deny.
My opponents were no mean antagonists themselves, but it wasn’t long before the nearest of them dropped his guard for an instant and was sent off to join his ancestors. I then employed my rushing tactics and caught the remaining pair so off guard that the duel was over in a matter of seconds.
I turned back to Rab-zov, who had stood on the other side of the room all during the fight, never attempting to come to the aid of his comrades. I had not yet sheathed my sword, and in a single bound I was beside him, my point at his throat.
“Now,” I said, “you will give me my information or your life. Which shall it be?”
“I shall tell you of Tan Hadron, although it will do you little good,” he answered. “The entire building is surrounded, and fifteen of my men are just without the chamber.”
I rushed to the window, and, sure enough, there was a group of men standing in the street, all wearing the insignia of Hin Abtol’s army. So this was a plot on my life! I realized now why they had chosen Zodanga: it was sure to be friendly to any enemies of Helium.
“Was this all a ruse?” I asked, turning to Rab-zov. “Or does Tan Hadron of Hastor still live?”
“He lives.”
“I have combed Barsoom’s surface from pole to pole. Where is he hidden?”
“Tan Hadron of Hastor,” he replied, “is not upon the surface of Barsoom, but is imprisoned far beneath it.”
“You lie,” I said, “for my men have returned from the buried sea of Omean just two weeks past and reported that they could find no trace of him.”
“Omean, John Carter, is not the only submerged world of Barsoom. Just as it lies near the South Pole, so does Ayathor lie near the North Pole. It is in Ayathor that Tan Hadron is being held, although in a moment you will be unable to help him or anyone else again.”
With that he clapped his hands twice, and fifteen armed men entered the chamber and slowly began advancing. I love a good fight, but there were no pedestals or nooks in which I might take them on three or four at a time, and not even John Carter could take on fifteen swordsmen without some kind of advantage.