Eando Binder - Anton York, Immortal

“Mara, why do you run from me? You loved me once. Come with me to our village.”

“Yes, I loved you once,” returned the girl, looking at him in pity rather than fear. “But now you are a slave of the Beasts. And you killed Jorel ruthlessly.”

“But only at the command of my master. I did not want to.” His eyes were pained and pleading. “Forgive me, Mara, and come to live with me. You did not love’ Jorel. What else have we to look forward to, save a little happiness, in this tiny world of ours?”

The girl’s eyes blazed. “Why did you not kill the beast, Master? Look, he squats there, unsuspecting. Shoot him!” “I cannot!” The man shook his head.

“Mantar—for me!”

He looked at her and suddenly his face grew determined. Whirling, he flung up the rifle, taking aim at the feeding bulk a hundred yards away. It was a large target. He couldn’t miss. York’s heart leaped in hope, as the girl’s must have.

But before a shot rang out, the beast’s serpentine neck twisted. Its saucer eyes turned hypnotically on them, as though it kept mental tab on its slave. Mantar made a tremendous effort to press the trigger. His whole body trembled. But, with a groan he lowered the weapon. The girl attempted to seize it, to do it herself. Now Mantar, under dominance, resisted her.

“I cannot,” he said wearily. “I’ve tried before. All of us at the slave village have tried before. We cannot break that horrible power the Beasts have over our minds.” He turned to the girl. “Mara, run! You are of the fortunate ones who can resist. Run for the forest. I think I can resist my master’s mental command long enough to let you escape. Hurry!”

He gave her a push. But the girl turned back, and flung her arms around his neck.

“I can’t. I still love you, Mantar. I will give you what happiness I can I will go with you.”

“No, Mara. It means slavery. Go, please.”

But the girl clung to him. Then it was too late. The Beast left its ghoulish feast and advanced. Arm in arm, the pair walked toward it, to return with it to the slave village. On their young faces was written the bitterness of their chained lives under this dome lighted by an alien Cepheid sun.

York turned away as if from an, unreal drama on some dream. stage. Tears of helpless rage misted his eyes. Two thousand years of travel and observation among many civilizations had not made him callous to the fundamental decencies of life.

“It’s awful, Vera,” he said dully. “If I were in my own Universe, I’d blast down this dome on the spot and wipe those Beasts out to the last cell. Here I’m helpless even to get in.” A determined note rang in his psychic tone. “But I will get in. I’ll come back to the ship and conquer this universe’s science laws, no matter how long it takes. And then—”

He was interrupted.

Over the bulge of the glass dome appeared a small ovoid ship. It swept down swiftly, darting back and forth as though searching. Instantly wary, York stood stock-still. Movement would betray him.

But the occupant of the craft seemed to spy him. It dropped down lightly and landed a dozen yards away. A hatch opened and a figure stepped out. In its hand glinted what could only be a weapon.

“Tony, what’s wrong?”

“Silence, Vera,” shot back York. “Don’t contact me again unless you get my signal. On your life!”

Obediently no telepathic sound came from Vera.

York transferred his attention to the visitor. He was a travesty of a man, with spindly legs and arms, thin flat-chested body, and delicate tentacular fingers. Sharp, shrewd features—peered inquisitively. Wearing no space-suit, he seemed perfectly at home in the bitter cold that York could not have survived for a minute. He breathed the hydrocarbonous air without discomfort. The forehead was low, topped by feathery hair, but the cranium in back bulged grotesquely. Intellect supreme reposed there.

“Who are you?” he demanded, in the universal language of telepathy. He answered himself. “You are obviously one of the J-X-Seventy-seven creatures. Earthmen, you are called. I was up in the conditioning apparatus when I thought I heard a powerful telepathic shout, and came to investigate. How did you get out of the dome?”

The being’s canny eyes looked at York suspiciously.

“Or did you come from Earth? A ship from Earth was recently intercepted. I thought I heard you exchange a telepathic message with someone. Have you an accomplice? Where is your ship?”

Staccato, peremptory questions, they were just like those shot at the Three Eternals, before they were destroyed.

York faced a dilemma, greater than any before. If he revealed the true story, the ship would be found, Vera captured. Both would then be helpless. York would have no chance to piece out the new science of this universe. He would have no future chance to face them, armed and powerful. These thoughts that flashed through his mind, he willed in a closed circuit, so the alien would not hear. There was only one solution.

“I have no ship,” he returned in broadcast telepathy, knowing Vera would also hear. “I was in the dome. I built this space-suit, hoping to escape. Somehow, a few minutes ago, the dome wall where I sought an opening suddenly weakened and I fell through. I don’t understand it. It, simply happened.”

York held his breath, Only one thing made the thin story plausible. The dome must be an energy shell, not a matter shell. This York knew from the fact that his telepathy had MA penetrated it. Matter was utterly transparent to thought. Therefore, if at times the energy shell could conceivably weaken in spots, one might fall through.

The being eyed him closely, suspiciously, but also with a certain disdain. It was not worth his continued attention.

“Come,” he said. “Back you go. You won’t be lucky enough to fall out a second time.”

He extracted a queer, flaring-ended instrument from his belt and trained it on the section of the dome wall nearest them. Some force sprayed out’ in a six-foot circle, neutralizing the dome force. A push sent York through, along with a rush of hydrocarbonous air.

When he turned, he saw only a dull gray wall, blocking off all view of the outside world.

HE TURNED. He was within the dome, in the transplanted patch of Earth. He knew no more than before of the scheme behind it all. But some of the people here might furnish clues.

He stepped forward eagerly. Only one thing bothered him—his completely severed connection with Vera. Within himself he prayed that she would not foolishly wander from the ship and into danger.

For now he knew that danger supreme lurked behind all this.

He walked a hundred feet before he thought of removing his suit. He slung it over his shoulder and went on. He drew in deep lungfuls of air that had all the peculiar tang and sweetness of Earth’s atmosphere. The builder-scientists had done a remarkable job of duplicating the Earth environment. It was pleasantly warm.

For a while, wandering through a cool forest in which birds sang and squirrels chattered, York lost himself in a pleasant sense of well-being, after the irksome period in the clumsy space-suit.

The sleep that he had long denied himself conquered him. He lay down in a soft patch of grass, passing off into restful slumber.

He awoke at a soft touch on his cheek.

Startled, he looked up into the face of a girl. It was a lovely face whose blue eyes and warm smile seemed meant only for him. The girl sat beside him, apparently having been there for quite a while.

“What is your name?” she asked. “I am Leela. I watched you sleeping. You are good to look at.”

York understood, though the words were a form of English queerly slurred.