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

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СКАЧАТЬ any scene there," said the Master, pointing at a row of wider screens, some even now illumined. "In this room I can follow a man's life from birth to death, so long as he remains in one of my cities." He paused musingly, then shrugged. "The Gardens are two floors above us, Thomas."

      It was dismissal. Connor cast a last glance at Martin Sair, feeling as if he were gazing on a demigod. Martin Sair, the Giver of Life, greatest except the Master among all the heroic figures in the dazzling age of the Enlightenment. Then he backed away from the great Immortal and betook himself to the Gardens.

      Evanie was there, lovely as a bit of the ancient statuary that dotted the square, as she lay in the barbaric costume of Urbs watching a twenty–inch column of water slip smoothly from the mouth of a giant stone lion. She gave Connor a cool glance as he approached.

      "Evanie!" he said unhappily. "I've looked everywhere for you."

      "Why?" she asked indifferently.

      "To be with you, of course. You know that."

      "I don't know it. Or has the Flame burned you at last?

      Her coolness baffled him.

      "Evanie," he pleaded, "why are you so offended?"

      Her mouth hardened. "You've deserted the Weeds, Tom. Do you think I could ever forgive that?"

      "See here, Evanie," he said hastily. "There's one thing you seem to have forgotten. I was thrust in among the Weeds of Ormon without choice. Does that mean I have to accept your social theories blindly? Perhaps I'm too primitive for anarchy—but I think you are too!" He went on defiantly. "I don't think your theories will work, and I do think the Master's government is what this world needs. It isn't perfect, but it's better than the Weeds offer—and even for you, Evanie, I won't give up freedom of thought."

      "You mean you won't think!" she blazed. "You're not fooling me, Tom! I know the way the Black Flame poisons men, and you've been with her too often! You've been burned and—" Her anger mounted. "Oh, go away!"

      "Evanie," he began earnestly, and paused. Was he untouched by the devastating charm of the Princess? The dizzying warmth of her lips, his reeling brain in the hour on the Pacific— "She's the daughter of Hell!" he muttered.

      "Go away!" flared Evanie. "Quitter!"

      Hot words rose to his lips. But he suppressed his anger, even as the picture he had seen of Jan and Evanie flashed on his mental screen, and turned away into the Palace.

      For an hour he stamped through the endless halls now crowded with arriving Immortals from Africa, Antarctica, Australia, and South America. Now and again one turned cool eyes on his forbidding countenance or smiled gravely after him. None stopped or addressed him.

      He must have completed the somewhat less than a mile of circuit several times when a guard approached him. He turned a furious scowl on the fellow, but he had only a tiny black envelope inscribed in white in the precisescript of the Princess. Connor ripped the missive open. A short note was inside. It read:

      Come to my chambers at half after the seventh hour to escort me to dinner. Wear the black costume in your quarters, and the black cape.

      Margaret of Urbs.

      Merely an invitation—but a royal invitation is a command. He laughed bitterly. Why not? The Black Flame could burn no more painfully than she had already, and at least he could vent his anger on her.

      Although hours remained before the appointed dinner hour, he went back to his quarters, glancing indifferently at the Urban formal dress laid carefully on his bed. It was exactly like his present garb save that it shimmered black with metallic scales, and was edged with silver. Crossing to the window he sat staring down at Evanie in the Gardens, bathing her rounded limbs in sunlight, until a man in Urban dress who could only be Jan Orm joined her. He turned angrily away then, fuming.

      With no breakfast or lunch, he was both short–tempered and ravenous. So when the hours had dragged by, and he finally located the Chambers on the hundred and seventh level of the South Tower, he was in no pleasant mood. Two armed guards stepped aside, and the serving woman, Sora, admitted him with a clumsy curtsy.

      He passed into the anteroom, furnished, as was the Black Flame's laboratory behind the Throne Room and her place at the summit of the Tower, lavishly and ornately. But surprise leaped to his eyes as he saw the gigantic black Persian cat that gazed steadily at him, with green eyes that seemed almost a replica of those of the Princess.

      "A cat!" he exclaimed. "I thought they were extinct."

      "Satan is immortal," said the soft voice of Margaret of Urbs.

      He whirled and faced her as she emerged from the inner chamber, and hunger and anger alike drained out of him as he stared.

      She was magnificent! Garbed in a jet–black cape that dropped to her green– crystalled sandals, she seemed taller as she advanced into the room. A circlet of green gems—emeralds, he thought—bound her ebony hair, and beneath it her eyes were smoldering sea–green fire.

      But he felt the thrill of surprised shock as she threw open the cape. Her brief kirtle and corselet glittered in a solid surface of green gems, and at her waist sparkled that mystic crystalline flower of many colors, glistening from red to violet, blue, and purest emerald. Then she moved toward the lamp, and in its yellow radiance her whole costume was green no longer, but the deep lavender of wine.

      "Alexandrites," she laughed, answering his unspoken question. "Green by day, lavender by artificial light. Synthetic, of course. There aren't this many natural stones in the world." She turned. "Like it?"

      "Exquisite!" he whispered. "You daughter of Lucifer!"

      He followed her in rebellious fascination as they progressed unattended to the ground floor and into a long Palace car with stiff–backed driver and footman.

      "Merimee's," she said, and the car spun silently away, mounting to the upper tier of Palace Avenue.

      It was dusk, but now and then, when traffic slowed their motion, cheers sounded, and many a glance was cast at them. Margaret of Urbs ignored the glances, but smiled at the cheers.

      "Who's Merimee?" Connor asked.

      "A rich Sleeper in Kaatskill. Society here is largely Sleepers."

      "No nobility?"

      "The Immortals seldom entertain. We're a serious lot."

      Kaatskill appeared, and they glided into the grounds of an imposing Grecian mansion. Lights were glowing, gay voices sounded as they entered.

      There was a sudden silence as the whole assemblage knelt. Margaret of Urbs gestured and the guests arose. Merimee himself, paunchy, bald, came babbling his appreciation, his gratitude for the honor to his house.

      "But the 'entertainment, Your Highness! On such short notice, you see—best the bureau could furnish—I know you'll forgive—"

      Declaration

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      The dinner was lavish. СКАЧАТЬ