The Greatest SF Classics of Stanley G. Weinbaum. Stanley G. Weinbaum

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СКАЧАТЬ close about her, slipping a casual arm through Connor's. In an almost inaudible whisper she began to detail the progress of the plans, replying to Jan's queries about the distribution of weapons and where they now were, to Evanie's question about the appointed time, to inquiries from each of the others.

      Evanie's report of the Messenger caused some apprehension.

      "Do you think he knows?" asked Ena. "He must, unless it was some stray that passed near you."

      "Suppose he does," countered Evanie. "He can't know when. We're ready, aren't we? Why not strike today—now—at once?"

      There was a chorus of whispered protest.

      "We oughtn't to risk everything on a sudden decision —it's too reckless!"

      Ena pressed Connor's arm and whispered, "What do you think?"

      He caught an angry glance from Evanie. She resented the blond girl's obvious attention.

      "Evanie's right," he murmured. "The only chance this half–baked revolution has is surprise. Lose that and you've lost everything."

      And such, after more whispered discussion, was the decision. The blow was to be struck at one o'clock, just two hours away. The leaders departed to pass the instructions to their subordinate leaders, until only Connor and Evanie remained. Evan Jan Orm had gone to warn the men of Ormon.

      Evanie seemed about to speak to Connor, but suddenly turned her back on him.

      "What's the matter, Evanie?" he said softly.

      He was unprepared for the violence with which she swung around, her brown eyes blazing.

      "Matter!" she snapped. "You dare ask! With the feel of that canary–headed Ena's fingers still warm on your arm!"

      "But Evanie!" he protested. "I did nothing."

      "You let her!"

      "But—"

       "You let her!"

      Further protest was prevented by the return of the patrician Maris. Evanie dropped into a sulky silence, not broken until Jan Orm appeared.

      It was a solemn group that emerged on the ground level and turned their steps in the direction of the twin–towered Palace. Evanie had apparently forgotten her grievance in the importance of the impending moment, but all were silent and thoughtful.

      Not even Connor had eyes for Palace Avenue, and the tumult and turmoil of that great street boiled about him unnoticed. Through the girders above, the traffic of the second and third tiers sent rumbling thunder, but he never glanced up, trudging abstractedly beside Evanie.

      A hundred feet from the street's end they paused. Through the tunnel–like opening where Palace Avenue divided to circle the broad grounds of the Palace, Connor gazed at a vista of green lawn surmounted by the flight of white steps that led to the Arch where the enormous diorite statue of Holland, the Father of Knowledge, sat peering with narrowed eyes into an ancient volume.

      "Two minutes," said Jan with a nervous glance around. "We'd better move forward."

      They reached the open. The grounds, surrounded by the incredible wall of mountainous buildings, glowed green as a lake in the sun, and the full vastness of the Palace burst upon Connor's eyes, towering into the heavens like a twin–peaked mountain. For a moment he gazed, awe–struck, then glanced back into the cave of the ground level, waiting for the hour to strike.

      It came, booming out of the Palace tower. One o'clock! Instantly the ground level was a teeming mass of humanity, swarming out of the buildings in a torrent. Sun–light glanced, flashing from rifle barrels; shouts sounded in a wild chorus. Swiftly the Ormon men gathered around Evanie, whose brilliant costume of green and crimson formed a rallying point like a flag.

      The mob became an army, each group falling into formation about its leader. Men ran shouting into the streets on the broad avenue that circled the grounds, on the second and third tiers. Instantly a traffic jam began to spread to epic proportions. And then, between the vehicles, the mass of humanity flowed across the street toward the Palace.

      From other streets to right and left, other crowds were pouring. The black–haired Maris was striding bare–limbed and lithe before her forces. White, frightened faces stared from a thousand stalled cars.

      Then the heterogeneous mob was sweeping up the slope of grass, a surging mass converging from every side. The Palace was surrounded, at the mercy of the mob. And then—the whole frenzied panorama froze suddenly into immobility.

      From a dozen doors, and down the wide white steps came men—Urban men, with glittering metallic cuirasses and bare brown limbs. They moved deliberately, in the manner of trained troops. Quickly they formed an inner circle about the Palace, an opposing line to the menacing thousands without.

      They were few compared to the revolutionary forces, yet for a tense moment the charge was halted, and the two lines glared at each other across a few hundred feet of grassy slope.

      That moment was etched forever in Connor's mind. He seemed to see everything, with the strange clarity that excitement can lead. The glint of sunlight on steel,the vast inextricable jam of traffic, the motionless thou– sands on the hill, the untold thousands peering from every window in every one of the gigantic buildings. And even, on a balcony of stone far up on the left tower, two tiny shining figures surveying the scene. The three Triangles hanging motionless as clouds high in the heavens. The vast brooding figure of Holland staring unperturbed into his black stone book.

      "He's warned—he's ready!" Jan muttered.

      "We'll have to fire," Evanie cried.

      But before her command, the sharp rattle of rifles came from far to the right. Machine–guns sputtered, and all down the widespread line puffs of steam billowed like huge white chrysanthemums, and dissipated at once.

      From a thousand windows in the bank of buildings burst other momentary clouds, and the medley of shouts punctuated by staccato explosions was like a chorus of wild music.

      Connor stared thunderstruck. In the opposing line not a single man had fallen! Each stood motionless as the giant statue, left arm crooked across breast, right arm holding a glistening revolverlike weapon. Was marksmanship responsible for that—incredibly poor marksmanship?

      Impossible, with that hail of bullets! Puffs of dust spurted up before the line, splintered stone flew from the walls behind. Windows crashed. But not one Urban soldier moved.

      "What's wrong?" Connor yelled.

      "He knew." Jan Orm panted. "He's equipped his men with Paige deflectors. He's the devil himself!"

      The girl Maris leaped forward.

      "Come on!" she shouted, and led the charge.

      Instantly the line of Urbans raised their weapons, laying them across their bent left arms. A faint misty radiance stabbed out, a hundred brief flashes of light. The beams swept the revolutionaries. Anguished cries broke out as men spun and writhed.

      Connor leaped back as a flash caught him. Sudden pain racked him as his muscles tore against each other in violent spasmodic contractions. A moment only; then he was trembling and aching as the beam flicked СКАЧАТЬ