“It is something of a dilemma. So I will free you now—you alone—to visit the Pole and scout out the defenses of Heaven. In your absence, I will consider the problem further. Do you likewise, and perhaps upon your return an equitable arrangement can be made.”
“Accepted! Release me from this doom!”
“Know then my power, Taraka,” he said. “As I bind, so can I loose—thus!”
The flame boiled forward out of the wall.
It rolled into a ball of fire and spun about the well like a comet; it burned like a small sun, lighting up the darkness; it changed colors as it fled about, so that the rocks shone both ghastly and pleasing.
Then it hovered above the head of the one called Siddhartha, sending down its throbbing words upon him:
“You cannot know my pleasure to feel again my strength set free. I’ve a mind to try your power once more.”
The man beneath him shrugged.
The ball of flame coalesced. Shrinking, it grew brighter, and it slowly settled to the floor.
It lay there quivering, like a petal fallen from some titanic bloom; then it drifted slowly across the floor of Hellwell and re-entered the niche.
“Are you satisfied?” asked Siddhartha.
“Yes,” came the reply, after a time. “Your power is undimmed. Binder. Free me once more.”
“I grow tired of this sport, Taraka. Perhaps I’d best leave you as you are and seek assistance elsewhere.”
“No! I gave you my promise! What more would you have?”
“I would have an absence of contention between us. Either you will serve me now in this matter, or you will not. That is all. Choose, and abide by your choice—and your word.”
“Very well. Free me, and I will visit Heaven upon its mountain of ice, and report back to you of its weaknesses.”
“Then go!”
This time, the flame emerged more slowly. It swayed before him, took on a roughly human outline.
“What is your power, Siddhartha? How do you do what you do?” it asked him.
“Call it electrodirection,” said the other, “mind over energy. It is as good a term as any. But whatever you call it, do not seek to cross it again. I can kill you with it, though no weapon formed of matter may be laid upon you. Go now!”
Taraka vanished, like a firebrand plunged into a river, and Siddhartha stood among stones, his torch lighting the darkness about him.
He rested, and a babble of voices filled his mind—promising, tempting, pleading. Visions of wealth and of splendor flowed before his eyes. Wondrous harems were paraded before him, and banquets were laid at his feet. Essences of musk and champac, and the bluish haze of burning incenses drifted, soothing his soul, about him. He walked among flowers, followed by bright-eyed girls who bore his wine cups, smiling; a silver voice sang to him, and creatures not human danced upon the surface of a nearby lake. “Free us, free us,” they chanted. But he smiled and watched and did nothing. Gradually, the prayers and the pleas and the promises turned to a chorus of curses and threats. Armored skeletons advanced upon him, babies impaled upon their blazing swords. There were pits all about him, from which fires leapt up, smelling of brimstone. A serpent dangled from a branch before his face, spitting venom. A rain of spiders and toads descended upon him.
“Free us—or infinite will be thy agony!” cried the voices.
“If you persist,” he stated, “Siddhartha shall grow angry, and you will lose the one chance at freedom which you really do possess.”
Then all was still about him, and he emptied his mind, drowsing.
He had two meals, there in the cavern, and then he slept again.
Later, Taraka returned in the form of a great-taloned bird and reported to him:
“Those of my kind may enter through the air vents,” he said, “but men may not. There are also many elevator shafts within the mountain. Many men might ride up the larger ones with ease. Of course, these are guarded. But if the guards were slain and the alarms disconnected, this thing might be accomplished. Also, there are times when the dome itself is opened in various places, to permit flying craft to enter and to depart.”