Planet Stories Super Pack #2. Ray Bradbury, Nelson S. Bond, Leigh Brackett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the Venusian into a corridor, and up a winding spiral ramp. He found it difficult to contain himself.

      "Good God!" he burst out finally. "Do those devils do that all the time? Plain cold-blooded murder?"

      Zeeth nodded. "They have no emotions, you see. They are what you call hedonists. And they are gods. We are like animals to them. The moment we make a mistake, or are no longer useful, we are killed."

      "And you submit to it!"

      "There was a rebellion two years ago, I heard. Twenty slaves died to every Swamja. They are like reptiles—nearly invulnerable. And we have no weapons, of course."

      "Can’t you get any?"

      "No. Nor would I try. Venusians cannot endure pain, you understand. To us, pain is worse than death."

      Vanning grunted, and was silent as they passed through a curtained arch. Never would he forget his first sight of the Swamja city. It was like—

      Like an ocean world!

      He stood upon a balcony high over the city, and looked out at a vast valley three miles in diameter, scooped out of the heart of the mountains as though by a cosmic cup. Overhead was no sky. A shell of transparent substance made a ceiling above the city, a tremendous dome that couched on the mountain peaks all around.

      Gray-green light filtered through it. An emerald twilight hazed the fantastic city, where twisted buildings like grottos of coral rose in strange patterns. It was a labyrinth. And it was—lovely beyond all imagination.

      "Those—things—built this?" Vanning breathed.

      "They knew beauty," Zeeth said. "They have certain senses we do not have. You will see...."

      From the exact center of the city a tower rose, smooth and shining as metal. It reached to the transparent dome and seemed to rise above it, into the clouds of Venus.

      "What’s that?" Vanning asked, pointing. "Their temple?"

      Zeeth’s voice held irony. "Not a temple—a trap. It is the tube through which they blast the spores of the North-Fever into the sky. Day and night without pause the virus is blown upward through that tube, far into the air, where it is carried all over the planet."

      The air was darkening, thickening. Here and there rainbow lights sprang into view. Elfin fires in an enchanted world, Vanning thought.

      Through the grotesque city equally grotesque figures moved, to be lost in the shadows. The monsters who ruled here—ruled like soulless devils rather than gods.

      "Come. We must hurry." Zeeth tugged at Vanning’s arm.

      Together they went down the ramp into one of the winding avenues. It grew darker, and more lights came on. Once Vanning paused at sight of a corroded metal structure in the center of a well-lighted park.

      "Zeeth! That’s a space-ship! A light life-boat—"

      The Venusian nodded. "And it is well guarded, too. It crashed through the dome a century ago, I was told. All the men in it were killed. A space-wreck, I suppose."

      Vanning was silent as they went on. He was visualizing what had happened in that distant past. A wreck in space, a few survivors taking to this life-boat and setting out, hopelessly, for the nearest world—believing, perhaps, that if they reached Venus, they would be saved. And then the tremendous atmospheric tides and whirlpools of the clouded planet, in which no aircraft but the hugest could survive....

      Vanning whistled softly. Suppose he managed to get into that space-boat? Suppose there was still rocket-fuel in the tanks, and suppose it hadn’t deteriorated? Couldn’t he blast up through the dome to freedom?

      Sure—to freedom and death! No ship could survive in the Venusian atmosphere, certainly not this light space-tub, of an antiquated and obsolete design.

      *

      At one of the twisted buildings, Zeeth paused. The structure was larger than Vanning had imagined from above, and his eyes widened as he followed the Venusian up winding ramps, past curtained arches, till at last they stepped into a luxurious chamber at the top. Seated on a low tussock was a Swamja, fat and hideous, his bulging eyes glaring at the intruders.

      "You are late," he said. "Why is that?"

      Zeeth bowed. "We came as swiftly as possible."

      "That may be. And this slave is new. Yet errors are not permitted. For your mistake, this—" A malformed hand rose, clutching a gun. "And this."

      Instinctively Vanning tensed to leap forward, but a blast of searing fire seemed to explode in his body. He dropped in a boneless huddle, gasping for breath. Beside him he saw Zeeth, similarly helpless, fat face twisted in agony. Venusians, Vanning remembered, were horribly sensitive to pain; and even through his own torture he felt anger at the Swamja for meting out such ruthless justice.

      But it was over in a moment, though that moment seemed to last for eternities. Zeeth stood up, bowed again, and slipped from the room, with a warning glance at Vanning, who also rose.

      The Swamja raised his gross body. "Carry this tray. This flask and goblet—for my thirst. This atomizer—to spray on my face when I demand it. This fan for the heat."

      Vanning silently picked up the heavy metal tray and followed the lumbering, monstrous figure out. He had an impulse to bring the tray down on the Swamja’s head. But that wouldn’t solve anything. He’d have to wait—for a while, anyway. A show of temper might cost him his life.

      Along the twisting avenue they went, and to a many-tiered amphitheatre, where the Swamja found a seat in a cushioned throne. Already the place was filled with the monsters. Many of them were attended by human or Venusian slaves, Vanning saw. He stood behind the Swamja, ready for anything, and looked down.

      In the center of the pit was a pool. It was perhaps ten feet square, and blackly opaque. That was all.

      "The spray."

      Vanning used the atomizer on the scaly face of his master. Then he looked around once more.

      Not far away, standing behind another Swamja, was Sanderson. The red-haired man met his eye and grinned mockingly.

      Neither Hobbs nor Zeeth was visible. But Vanning could not repress a feeling of pleasure as he saw, several tiers down, the slim figure of Lysla, her auburn curls bare in the cool night air, a tray similar to his own held strapped to her slender neck.

      Vanning’s pleasure was lost in resentment. Damn these fish-headed Swamja!

      "Fool!" a croaking voice said. "Twice I have had to demand the spray. Put down your tray."

      Vanning caught himself and obeyed. The Swamja turned and leveled his gun. Again the blazing, brief agony whirled sickeningly through the detective’s body.

      It passed; silently he resumed his task. From time to time, he tended to the Swamja’s wants. But he also found time to glance at Lysla occasionally.

      *

      When the ceremony began, Vanning could not tell. He sensed that the assembly had grown tenser, and noticed that the eye of every Swamja was focused on СКАЧАТЬ