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

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СКАЧАТЬ luxurious room of the Princess was in chaotic disorder, but only lazy wisps of steam drifted there, and the bellow of the blast was muffled. But even now the wall was cracking.

      "Margaret!" he cried. "Margaret of Urbs!"

      Her voice answered him. She was in a corner, crouching. Injured? No, she was searching earnestly through a pile of debris that had been swept across the room by the first concussion. He rushed toward her.

      "Come on!" he shouted. "We'll break a window and get out."

      She glanced coolly up.

      "A window? Try it. A bullet might, but nothing less."

      He snatched up a chair, spun it fiercely against the pane. The chair shattered; two tiny dents showed in the crystal, and that was all. And in the Palace, ventilated by washed air from the topmost pinnacles of the Twin Towers, no windows opened. He whirled on her.

      "Then it will have to be back through the blast!" he roared. "Come on!"

      She stood up, facing him. She had slipped off the gold–black robe in the steaming heat, wore now the typical revealing garb of Urbs save that the material was of black velvet instead of metallic scales.

      "You can't go through in clothes like that!" he shouted. "My Venus," she said. "It was blown somewhere here. I want it."

      "You'll come now!"

      "I want my ivory Venus."

      The pale flash of ivory caught his eye.

      "Here it is, then," he snapped, thrusting the statuette into his belt. "Now come."

      Faint mockery flashed in her eyes.

      "What if I don't?"

      He shook a rugged fist. "You will or I'll take you."

      "Why," she asked, "do you risk your life to reach me?"

      "Because," he snarled in exasperation, "I was unwittingly responsible for this. I was tricked into breaking my word. Do you think I can let the Master—or you —suffer for my stupidity?"

      "Oh," she said, her eyes dropping. "Well—I won't go."

      "By God, you will!" He sprang to seize her but she evaded him.

      But only for a moment, as again he saw the gleam of mockery in her eyes.

      "Very well," she said, suddenly submissive.

      He snatched the flowing robe from the floor as she turned and walked steadily toward the wall that now heaved and cracked and groaned. Before he could reach her she had flung open the door—and hell roared in upon them.

      Martin Sair's laboratory was a mass of smoke and steam like the crater of Erebus that flames in the eternal ice of Antarctica. Flinging the robe over the Princess like an enshrouding blanket, Connor propelled her, muffled and stumbling, toward the evil effulgence of the screaming blast.

      At the break in the wall he put his weight into a mighty thrust that sent her sliding, staggering, sprawling into the room where the fiery cloud closed, billowing, about her. Then he leaped through, his flesh writhing in the torment of the stinging rays, and blistering at the touch of scalding steam.

      Margaret of Urbs was clambering to her feet, stumbling in the entangling robe, in the all but unbearable shelter of the thrones. She choked as the searing air reached her lungs.

      "You hurt!" she cried.

      "Come on!"

      Again the taunting gleam, even with blistering death staring them in the face. But she followed unresisting as he –seized her arm and plunged through the blinding fog of steam and smoke that now filled the mighty room to the distant ceiling. Blind chance was their guide as they rushed ahead, staggering, coughing, teary–eyed. It seemed a long way. Were they circling in the gloom of the monstrous chamber?

      The Princess dragged against Connor's arm.

      "No," she gasped. "This way—this way."

      He let her lead. They struggled through billowing masses that began to take fantastic shapes—charging monsters; heaving mountains. She staggered, stumbled, but shook off the arm he raised to support her.

      "I've never needed help," she muttered proudly. "I never will."

      It seemed to him that the blast roared closer. "Are we—right?" he choked.

      Then, through a momentary rift he saw something that sickened him—the row of thrones, smoking and blackened in the blaze. They had circled!

      Through some vagary of draught or ventilation therewas a little area of almost clear air beside the throne of the Princess. Coughing and choking, they faced each other in it. He was astounded to see a flickering, taunting smile play for a single instant on her lips. Her hair singed and plastered flat by the steamy condensation, her face soot–streaked and reddened, she was yet so incredibly lovely that he forgot even their peril as her smile turned suddenly earnest, wistful.

      "Dearest," she whispered, inaudibly, but he read her lips. "I'll confess now. We were safe in my room. We must have been watched in the vision screens, and men would have come to cut through the window."

      He was appalled.

      "Then why—"

      "Listen to me, Tom. Even here I misled you, for I knew which way the door lies by the pattern on the floor. But if you will not love me, I must kill you as I promised, then both of us die! For I cannot watch you age year by year—and then perish. I cannot!"

      "Flame!" he roared, his voice impassioned. "But I love you! Did you think—I love you, Flame!" Her streaming eyes widened.

      "Oh, God!" she choked. "Now it's too late!" She covered her face, then abruptly glanced up again, with a dawning hope in her eyes. "Perhaps not!" she cried. "Can they see us here? No—the steam. But men will come in moon–suits to carry away the blast—if—we can live—until then." She coughed. "But we can't." She was swaying. "You go—that way. Kiss me, Tom, and leave me. I want to die—on the throne—of Urbs. Only—a thing—like this, some accident—can kill an—Immortal!"

      "Leave you?" he cried. "Not even in death!" He choked as he drew her close.

      A wave of steam and fire engulfed them. "Help me to my—throne," she whispered, gasping.

      Her eyes, tear–bright and sea–green in the fierce lightnings, went blank. They closed, and she slipped half through his arms. Her knees gave way as she collapsed.

      Inferno

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      He held her against him. Put her on the throne? Why not? Why not hold her there until the end, die with her in his arms? Or perhaps shield her with his body until men came, or until the blast burned out. Somehow she must be saved!

      Never—not even when a thousand years ago an electric current was shot СКАЧАТЬ