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

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СКАЧАТЬ all this, Joaquin?" asked the Princess.

      "Merely an attempt to fix responsibility for the bombing, my dear."

      "And have you fixed it?"

      "All three claim the honor."

      "I see." She paused. "Well, I can throw some light on the mystery. I am responsible for the bomb explosion. It was an accident. I was watching some detonol crystallize, in Martin Sair's room, and forgot to take it off the burner. I was stunned by the concussion, and Thomas Connor rushed in and guided me out. Somewhere in the Throne Room I suppose I must have been overcome."

      She paused again, staring back at the Master.

      "Don't you see? Each of these three suspects the others and each is trying to shield his friends. But I did it; it was an accident."

      She slipped from Connor's arm and sank wearily to the steps that led to her ruined Throne.

      "I burn!" she muttered, and sipped the goblet of water that a guard held to her lips.

      Quizzically, the Master gazed down at her.

      "You know," he said, suddenly stern, "that to me the one unforgivable sin is the thwarting of my plans. Not even you, my sister, may stand in the way of them. While I live, I am the Master. I shall yield only when a power arises strong enough to overthrow me, for that will tell me that my work is done. When that occurs, I shall have guided humanity as far as I am able along the path of Destiny, but until then—I am the Master."

      His face, austere as an image in basalt, loomed over them. For the first time Connor glimpsed dimly the colossus behind the mild mask, the diamond hardness below the silk that sheathed it. Then the ruler smiled.

      "I suppose I cannot doubt my sister's word. I release all of you."

      He arose and descended from the throne.

      Connor followed a step or two. "I'm interested to learn," he whispered, "which of us you believe."

      The Master smiled again. "Haven't I just said?" He turned away. "Of course, if I were curious, I could ask you and Jan Orm how you knew what time to set the blast. I hadn't decided on a time for the Conclave until I had it announced in the corridors, and the bomb must have been placed between that moment and the arrival of the guards."

      "Or the Princess is telling the truth," suggested Tom Connor.

      "Some day Margaret shall explain why detonol causes a cloud of steam," observed the Master. He continued absently, "Evanie has good blood in her. So has Jan Orm." Then he was gone, followed by Martin Sair and the guards.

      Connor returned to Margaret of Urbs. Evanie's incredulous eyes were fixed on the Princess as she whispered:

      "Why did you do that?"

      "Because I thought it would please Tom Connor," Margaret of Urbs said frankly.

      Evanie stared at her with dawning comprehension. "The Black Flame herself burned!" she murmured wonderingly. "I see now why we can still learn from the ancients. They're miracle workers." But the next instant her brown eyes glittered vindictively. "I'm glad at least that the conquest of the Flame was during my lifetime." She bowed half in wonderment, half in mockery, before Connor. "I salute the Prince consort of Urbs!"

      The Princess flushed faintly, and Connor laughed and glanced away. Something that sparkled in a pile of ashes caught his eye. He stooped to retrieve the marvelous crystalline flower, glowing brilliant and indestructible, untouched—even brightened—by the blast.

      "What is this?" he asked.

      "My moon–orchid," said Margaret of Urbs. "The only perfect one ever found."

      He grinned and turned to Evanie.

      "I promised you one. Here—our wedding present to you and Jan."

      "Engagement present, rather," said the Princess. "I owe you two somewhat more than you realize." She ignored both Evanie's silence and Jan Orm's protestations of mingled embarrassment, thanks, and refusal as he held the priceless thing. "Tom," she murmured, "would you mind if we were—alone?"

      It was dismissal. Jan and Evanie backed away with half–awe–struck glances at Connor. He dropped beside the weary Princess of Urbs, slipping his arm tenderly about her scorched shoulders. Even in the sultriness of that blasted chamber she shivered, her teeth chattered, so recently had the icy face of death withdrawn.

      He drew her close, then halted as he heard a distant, thin clamor beyond the windows.

      "What's that?" he asked sharply. "Another revolution?"

      "Just the newspapers, I guess. You've been in them frequently of late." She smiled wanly. "As often as I, this past week. The Weed who sustained the ionic beams—revealed as a living ancient—proclaimed for immortality —the rescuer of Margaret of Urbs—and now—" She quoted ironically, "Margaret to Wed? Romance Rumored with Rescuer!" She nestled closer to him. "Oh, the down–fall of the Black Flame will be well publicized, never fear! Let them add this to their pictures and vision broadcasts. I don't care!"

      "Pictures? What pictures?" He glanced about the vast deserted chamber.

      "From the seeing room, of course! Don't you suppose we were watched all during the blast, even in here, as much as the steam permitted? Don't you know we're being watched now, photographed for papers, and broadcasts? You're world news, Tom." She frowned. 'They must have thought me mad to rush into that inferno with you, out of safety. Well—I was mad!"

      "You can't even die in privacy here!" Connor said bluntly. "Do you suppose"—his voice dropped to a whisper —"they heard what you—what we said?"

      "Above the roar of the blast? No. I thought of that when I—said it."

      He smiled at that. It was so typical of the utterly strange and fascinating character of the girl. He drew her against him, and felt the pressure of something hard. in his belt—the ivory Venus, still safe, still immaculate in its perfection, since it had been on the left side, shielded by his own flesh when he passed the blast.

      "I know what I shall give you as a wedding present," he said slowly. "The original Venus de Milo. The most beautiful statue of the ancient world."

      She smiled and a trace of the old mockery showed. "And I know what I shall give you," she said. "Life!"

      "Immortality?"

      "Not Immortality. Life." She turned her emerald eyes on him. "Tom, is it very hard to give up the idea of children? Men want children, don't they?"

      "Most of us do—but it's a happiness well lost for you." He glanced down at her. "Listen, can't this immortality thing be undone? Wouldn't it be possible for Martin Sair to render you mortal for—a few years?"

      "Of course. Further exposure to the hard rays will do it."

      "And then," eagerly, "could we—"

      The smile she flashed at him had in it a touch of heaven. "Yes," she said exultantly, but instantly a cloud chased away the smile. "But don't you remember what sort of children women bear who've been too long in the ray? Would you like to be father to a little amphimorph?"

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