Planet Stories Super Pack #2. Ray Bradbury, Nelson S. Bond, Leigh Brackett

fate. It is only through my graciousness you live."

      "We understand," said Neil evenly. "Come, friends."

      He led the way from the cell as a guard unlocked the door. When the four had almost reached the end of the prison corridor, Garroway called after them.

      "Oh…one thing more! I almost forgot to thank you, Meacher!"

      Shaughnessey said, "Huh? What’s that? Why? What’s he got to thank you for, Fred?"

      Meacher’s pale eyes rolled, suddenly panicked.

      "Me? I…I don’t know what he’s talking about—"

      Black Garroway’s heavy laughter filled the hall.

      "What? Oh, come now, Meacher! Of course you do. I appreciate the information you gave me on Morris. The reward I promised you will be waiting at the State Hall tomorrow. A thousand credits, wasn’t it? Well, come and claim it—" He chuckled stridently—"if you can."

      Before the quick suspicion rising in the eyes of the comrades he had betrayed, Meacher quailed. He tugged free of Shaughnessey’s hand and scampered to the protection of Garroway’s guard. His voice bleated shrill remonstrance.

      "Sire…you should not have told them! I served you faithfully and well…wormed my way into their inner council! Were it not for me you would never have known—"

      Black Garroway avoided the informer’s frenzied clawing. His voice was hard, mocking, contemptuous.

      "Fool! You brought me no information worth hearing! Through my own efforts I discovered Townsend’s instrument and solved its secret. You are a dolt, a stupid bungler! I need no such aides."

      "But I told you Morris held the Secret—"

      "Bah! There is no longer a secret to be held."

      "But there is, Sire! Before he died, Morris told it to—"

      Hardesty interrupted coldly, "Am I to understand, Garroway, that this man is no longer under your protection?"

      Garroway shrugged.

      "I have washed my hands of him," he said carelessly. "Come, guards!"

      He turned away as Meacher screamed, vainly struggled to escape the vengeful trio closing in on him.

      "Take him, Vurrth!" ordered Hardesty succinctly.

      The great Venusian’s hands closed briefly around the traitor’s throat, stifling his garbled cries. With revealing ease he lifted the Earthman, held him dangling like a sack of meal in midair, and looked at Hardesty for orders.

      "Put him down," commanded Neil. "We will settle our differences elsewhere."

      Vurrth grunted, and obediently loosed his grip. The body, of Fred Meacher slumped to the floor awkwardly…and lay still. Brian Shaughnessey bent over the crumpled figure. He glared up angrily at his comrade.

      "Confound you, Vurrth! He’s dead!"

      Vurrth grinned slowly.

      "Sor-ree," he said. "Maybe hold too tight?"

      One of the guards, glancing back, muttered a word to his captain who, in turn, passed the message to the Overlord. A thin smile touched Garroway’s lips, but he did not turn his head. The incident was, his attitude intimated as he led his entourage from the hall, a matter in which he took no concern whatsoever....

      II

      As at his captors’ bidding he stepped into the great metal chamber which was the late Dr. Townsend’s creation, two singular emotions filled Dirk Morris’ mind. One of these was thankfulness, the second…curiosity.

      Fear was strangely absent. Perhaps that was because for many months Dirk and those with whom he conspired for the overthrow of Black Garroway’s tyrannical rule had lived under a Damoclean sword. Death, long a silent guest at their every gathering, was a host whose imminence aroused no dread.

      Dirk was thankful that he had been able to buy, with his own life, the freedom of his companions. Why the Emperor had been willing to strike this bargain, Dirk did not exactly understand; possibly because the Overlord held his enemies in contempt, now their leader was being removed; more likely because Garroway still held a lurking fear of those who plotted against him, and was freeing them only that his hireling spies might watch their movements.

      But even that, thought Morris gratefully, was better than that all should die, and the Movement end. Hardesty now knew the Secret, and while one remained alive to work on that knowledge, hope endured.

      The second commingling emotion, curiosity, concerned the chamber into which, at this very moment, he was stepping. A "disintegration chamber" Garroway had called it, vowing his scientists had learned its method of operation. But in this, Dirk knew with positive assurance, the Overlord was mistaken. Utterly mistaken. Yet, if it were not a disintegration machine, then what—?

      There was no time for further thought. The door was closed; through the thick pane Morris saw Garroway nod, saw a soldier close the switch on the instrument’s control-board.

      For an instant the thin hum of current filled Dirk’s ears; a terrific impact of pure electrical energy pierced his every nerve and fiber with flaming hammers of agony. He felt his knees buckle beneath him, was vainly aware that his mouth opened to cry aloud noiselessly.

      A strange, twisting vibration wrenched and tore him; the solid walls about him seemed to melt and writhe at angles the eyes ached to follow. All this he saw as in the throes of wild delirium. Then, unable to longer bear the fearful pain, every sinew of his being tensed for an intolerable instant…then darkness, blessed darkness, rushed in to claim Dirk Morris. He sank, weak and senseless, into its enfolding arms.

      *

      Silence.

      Silence and darkness.

      Then, out of the silence, sound. Out of the infinite darkness, light. Light, and warmth, and comfort.

      Dirk Morris opened his eyes.

      He opened his eyes…then closed them again, shaking his head to rid his fancy of its weird hallucination. Beside him a voice spoke soft, rippling syllables that held no meaning. Another voice replied; a masculine voice, equally soft, but elderly and grave.

      The possessor of the first voice, pressed a cup to Morris’ lips. An unknown liquor tingled Dirk’s palate and swept the lethargy from his veins. He stirred and lifted himself to one elbow, stared about him incredulously.

      "Where—?" he began—"where on earth—?" Then he stopped, seeing the sky above him, the ground supporting him, those who were his Samaritans. A poignant regret seized him. He whispered, "Not on Earth. Then the ancient religions were true? There is an afterlife…a Heaven peopled with angels."

      The girl kneeling beside him laughed, her voice like the music of rill waters. She turned to her elder companion, said in strange, accented English, "See, I was right, father! He is from over There. I recognized the garments; severe and ugly. Not at all like ours —"

      She touched the flowing hem of her own brief, silken kirtle with fingers equally soft and white. Both she and the graybeard were dressed in clothing of classic simplicity. No stiff military harness like that worn by earthlings of Dirk’s era, but something resembling the chiton of ancient Greece.

      Dirk said wonderingly, "You…you’re human!"

      "But, of course, stranger."

      "This…this isn’t Earth, though. Nor any planet of the System!"

      Dirk gestured toward the landscape, smooth and gaily gardened, stretching from horizon to horizon with no ornament save the natural adornments of Nature. Here were no grim and ugly buildings towering to the skies, blocking the sun’s warm rays from view; no shining mansions flanked by filthy hovels; none of the cheek-and-jowl splendor and squalor of the world whence he had come. Here was only gentle, untrammeled beauty in a quiet, pastoral existence.

      No