"Destiny awaits the world of Metelaze. Mighty will be our future. To us will come the races of the galaxy. To us will come the wealth of a universe. "Too long have we rested beneath the Terran heel. Very soon now we shall strike off the chains of our oppressors. Metelaze shall be free!" This sort of propaganda was always common among the demagogues of backward planets that had received help from Terra. But Metelaze was different. For there the promise held out was that secrets of the ancient pre-galactic science were becoming available, that an offer was being made that "could not be refused." To Cap Kennedy fell the task of finding out. Were there really unknown scientific marvels available on Metelaze? Who was behind these offers of total power and absolute wealth? What, in fact, was the monster of Metelaze? And how could such a monster out of time and space be stopped?
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
125
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The place stank of hysteria. There were drums and pipes, the repetitious beat merging with the shrill, high wail, accelerating
the heat and tensing the nerves so that men cried out and tore at their clothing, and women screamed and sent sharp nails
to tear at their skin. Incense blurred the air, heavy, pungent, catching at the senses and fogging the eyes so that shapes
seemed to writhe and move with an inner volition, serpents, fuzzed and tentacled denizens of other worlds, a giant scorpion,
a clarsh, a thing which oozed a noxious slime. All dead, stuffed, hanging from invisible wires. A part of the masquerade as
were the candles, the blood-red symbols on walls and floor, the brazier which fumed an emerald smoke, the tall, emaciated
figure which stood, arms extended, eyes blazing, mouth spouting gibberish.
“Ayag te uletasca! Selif om phrenec juoosat! Ki elmquar hommanda zultenianac miielt coorm!”
“Ayah!” shrieked the congregation. “Ayah Metelaze!”
“Ut weqnantta ro fhexicanqu ziee! Cho vundart ci lunmexec ac!”
“Ayah! Ayah Metelaze!”
The supposed tongue of the Ancient Race, the Zheltyana, the strange and mysterious beings who had left enigmatic artifacts
on worlds scattered throughout the galaxy. Their seal glowed in fire from the roof, a convoluted series of interwound circles, the Ancient Sign; it was protective, the bringer of good luck.
It was, thought Gresham sourly, the only genuine thing in the place.
He sat, hunched in his robe, uncomfortably aware of others pressing close. The room was small, the congregation many, and
the air already vitiated. Oxygen-lack, the first steps to brainwashing, the shortage compounded by the incense, the fuming
stench from the brazier. Both smokes would carry drugs and there would be other devices, sonic projectors to augment the pipes
and drums, to ease the path to unthinking acceptance of the supposed sorcerer’s words.
“We have been blessed,” he shouted. “We have been honored. Fortunate is the world of Metelaze. Great is our destiny. Mighty
will be our future. To us will come the races of the galaxy. To us will come the wealth of a universe. Ayah Metelaze!”
“Ayah! Ayah Metelaze!”
Gresham joined in, feeling his own heart accelerate, his own nerves respond to the calculated stimuli. And it was calculated,
it could be nothing else. All over the planet were similar congregations, meeting to chant, to sway, to reaffirm their belief
in destiny. A withdrawal from the cold facts of science to the warm comfort of superstition. To the supposed secrets of the
Zheltyana. To the wonderful future which would soon come and shower benefits on all.
A sop to the populace. An anodyne against endless shortage and unremitting labor.
“We must believe,” shouted the sorcerer. “We must work. We must strive. We must follow without question. We must suffer so
that we can be filled. We must obey.”
“Ayah! Ayah Metelaze!”
“The way is hard and the way is long but the way is not endless. Each night must end in dawn. Each winter must yield to spring.
The deepest valley rises to a hill. Each hill rises to a mountain. Together we shall reach the summit and stand and open our
hands and they shall be filled and flowing over. This is the promise of the Ancient Race. The paradise lost shall be rewon. Soon, my friends. Soon.”
“Ayah! Ayah Metelaze!”
Madness, but contagious. Gresham found himself shouting, tearing at his robe. Next to him a woman shrieked and fell, froth
on her lips, legs kicking, lost in hysterical spasms. Another followed, a third, and a man staggered upright, shouting incomprehensible
sounds. Bedlam reigned.
Gresham joined in, aware of watching eyes, the sharp glances of the sorcerer, the two assistants who stood motionless against
the back wall. It could have been a mistake to join the congregation, but there had been a need to know and rumor was never
reliable. So he shouted with the rest, not too loud so as to attract attention, but loud enough, he hoped, to escape notice.
“Hold!” The sorcerer raised his arms. “Behold!”
The emerald smoke fuming from the brazier thickened, seemed to solidify, to adopt shape and form. A face looked down on the
groveling men and women. A broad face, the cheekbones prominent, eyes deep-set, smoldering, and its mouth a lipless gash.
Kazym, dictator of Metelaze.
It hung, suspended, wreathed with swirling plumes, a projection, perhaps, thrown on the emerald smoke, but to people stunned
by nerve-shattering stimulation, hysterical beyond rational judgment, it was yet another demonstration of the awesome power
of the Zheltyana.
As silence filled the room the face spoke.
“My people. I see you. I feel your suffering. I know of your anguish. For too long have we rested beneath the Terran heel.
For too long have we been exploited by those who suck our blood and bring nothing and take all. Soon this will be ended. Soon,
very soon now, we shall strike off the chains of our oppressors. Metelaze will be free. Free!”
“Ayah! Ayah Metelaze!”
“To us will be the fruits of our world. To each will be given a house, land, food, and fine raiment. No longer shall we be
robbed to support other planets. Already, my friends, they are jealous of us. They sense our great destiny when, guided by the Ancient Ones whose secrets we have learned,
we shall rise and flower and become the envy of all.”
Pie in the sky, thought Gresham sourly. Everything tomorrow—nothing today. The carrot which made men forget the sting of the
whip.
“But there are those among us who hate what we do. Enemies who seek to rob us of our great destiny. They talk and they whisper
and they lie. They work for those who oppress us. My friends, need I tell you what should be done to them?”
“Death! Kill them all!”
“Seek them out. Listen. Report them to the guards.”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Destroy them!”
“Yes! Ayah Metelaze!”
The face dissolved, lost its firm lines, and became one with the swirling smoke. A cool breeze gusted from unseen fans, clearing
the air a little, restoring some form of order. More calculation. Dazed, befuddled men and women were a bad advertisement.
The congregation would leave happy, determined, completely unaware that they had been subtly conditioned to the dictates
of Kazym.
But it was not yet over.
A drum began to beat, quieter now, the measured thuds like the tolling of a bell. The assistants moved among the assembly,
bowls extended for contributions. The smoke from the brazier dwindled, and was replaced by a dull red glow. Limned by the
light the emaciated face of the sorcerer looked like a skull.
“And now,” he said, “if there are those who wish to part the veil and look into the future, let them give a sign.”
A woman lifted her hand, then two others, then a scatter of men.
Palmistry, thought Gresham. More hokum to add to the rest. Another nail in the coffin of good sense and intelligence. He relaxed
a little as the sorcerer and his assistants went their rounds.
To a nearby woman the emaciated man said, “You will bear a fine son. Your man will win a sum on the lottery. You must beware a tall, dark stranger and take care when talking
to those who do not believe in the Ancient Ones.”
To another: “You have an enemy who is very close. A friend from childhood who envies what you have. I see a journey, a minor
illness, but all will be well.”
A third: “You are troubled about your son, but have no fear; soon he will see the light. Good fortune lies ahead and there
is a man who finds you most attractive. If he should approach you be gentle if you refuse his advances.”
“And the pain, master? The ache in my chest?”
“It will go before the end of the year.”
Consolation, promises, vague statements, all the usual things. Gresham could have done as well himself. Beside him a man whispered,
“Are you going to offer your hand?”
“No.”
“No?” The man seemed surprised. “You, a dealer in fabrics, not interested in what the future may bring. Master, my hand.”
He thrust out a thick paw, grinning as the sorcerer told of wealth to come, romantic encounters, advancement, and bounding
health. Gresham watched, thoughtful. The man had obviously recognized him, despite his crude disguise. Not as what he really
was, a secret agent of Terra, but as a local merchant, his established cover. To refuse to participate in this child’s play
would be to act out of character.
As the sorcerer ended his reading he held out his palm. “Master?”
“The lines of your fate are deep and clear. You have a secret and are much troubled. I see—” The thin finger paused, smoldering
eyes lifting to search Gresham’s face. “Do you wish me to continue?”
“Tell him, master!” The man who had recognized Gresham as a dealer in fabrics was curious. “Is the price of cloth going to
rise? To fall? Will he father seven sons? His wife remain faithful?” He chuckled richly.
“Continue,” said Gresham. Trapped, he had no choice. “Tell me what is to come, master.”
“Death.”
For a second Gresham was stunned, then he said, lightly, “Death comes to us all, master.”
“To you very soon.” The thin finger traced a line, paused, pressed with sudden motion. The prick of pain was barely noticeable.
“Within the hour you will be no more. I read it in your hand.”
He rose, backing, and Gresham found himself alone. Those within earshot had drawn back as though he had the plague. Others,
learning what had been prophesied, craned their heads to see who had been marked by fate. A path opened from where he sat
to the door. Rising, he followed it, halting outside to breathe deep of the chill air. A scatter of snow lay on the street,
more threatening to fall from the clouds above. It was dark but lamps on tall standards threw cones of brilliance. In the
light Gresham examined his palm, seeing the tiny puncture made by a sharpened fingernail.
Poison, obviously; it could be nothing else. Naked murder disguised as a prophecy. He would die and the sorcerer’s reputation
for infallibility enhanced. Somehow the man must have learned his true identity, or perhaps he had been chosen at random to
serve as an object lesson. The reasons no longer mattered.
He would die, was already dying, his only hope lying in the bare possibility that he could neutralize the poison. But, without
knowing its nature, he could only guess at an antidote. And he had so little time.
An hour, the sorcerer had said. No, within the hour. It could be minutes, seconds even. No time to reach help. No time to
reach his shop, his office, the instruments hidden there, the devices which would slump into unrecognizable slag at the probe
of an unauthorized hand. But, at least, there was one thing he could do.
He thrust his hand beneath the . . .
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