“What do you think, Mart? I’m inclined to string along with this bunch, at least part way. I don’t like Nalboon’s ‘honor guard’ setup a bit—it smells. Like overripe fish.”
Crane concurred. Seaton and his slave started for the door. Dorothy went along.
“Better stay back, Dottie. We won’t be gone long.”
“I will not go back,” she said, for his ears alone. “On this damn world I’m not going to be away from you one minute more than I absolutely have to.”
“Hokay, ace,” he replied, in the same tone. “You’d be amazed to find out how little there is in that idea for me to squawk about.”
Preceded by the man with the belt and followed by half a dozen other slaves, they went out into the hall. No opposition was made to their going; but half a company of armed guards fell in with them as an escort, most of them looking at Seaton with a mixture of reverence and fear. The slave led the way to a room in a distant wing of the palace and opened the door. As Seaton stepped into it he saw that it was an audience chamber or courtroom and that it was now empty.
The guards approached the door. Seaton waved them back. All retreated across the hall except the officer in charge, who refused to move. Seaton, the personification of offended dignity, stared haughtily at the offender, who returned the stare with interest, and stepped forward, fully intending to be the first to enter the room. Seaton, with the flat of his right hand on the officer’s chest, pushed him back roughly, forgetting that his strength, great upon Earth, would be gigantic upon this smaller world. The officer spun across the corridor, knocking down three of his men in his flight. Picking himself up, he drew his sword and rushed, while his men fled in panic to the extreme end of the corridor.
Seaton did not wait for him, but leaped to meet him. With his vastly superior agility he dodged the falling broadsword and drove his right fist into the fellow’s throat, with all the strength of arm and shoulder and all the momentum of his body behind the blow. Bones broke audibly as the officer’s head snapped back. The body went high in the air, turned two complete somersaults, crashed against the far wall, and dropped to the floor.
At this outrage, some of the guards started to lift their peculiar guns. Dorothy screamed a warning. Seaton drew and fired in one incredibly fast motion, the Mark I load obliterating the clustered soldiers and demolishing that end of the palace.
In the meantime the slave had taken several pieces of apparatus from a cabinet and had placed them in his belt. Stopping only to observe for a few moments a small instrument which he clamped to the head of the dead man, he led the party back to the room they had left and set to work upon the device he had built during the sleeping period. He connected it, in an extremely intricate network of wiring, with the pieces of apparatus he had just obtained.
“Whatever that is, it’s a nice job,” DuQuesne said, admiringly. “I’ve built complex stuff myself, but he’s got me completely lost. It’d take a week to find out where some of the stuff is going and what it’s going to do when it gets there.”
Straightening up, the slave clamped several electrodes to his head and motioned to Seaton and the others, speaking to Dorothy as he did so.
“He wants to put those things on our heads,” she translated, “but I can’t make out what they’re for. Shall we let him?”
“Yes,” he decided instantly. “There’s going to be hell to pay any minute now, and no pitch hot. I got us in too deep to back out now. Besides, I’ve got a hunch. But of course I’m not trying to decide for any of you. In fact, Dot, it might be smart if you . . .”
“I’m not smart, Dick. Where you go, I go,” Dorothy said quietly, and bent her auburn head to be fitted.
“I do not relish the idea.” Crane said. “In fact, I do not like it at all. But, under present circumstances, it seems the thing to do.”
Margaret followed Crane’s lead, but DuQuesne said, with a sneer, “Go ahead; let him make zombies of you. Nobody wires me up to a machine I can’t understand.”
The slave closed a switch, and—instantly—the four visitors acquired a completely detailed knowledge of the languages and customs of both Mardonale, the nation in which they now were, and of Kondal, the nation to which the slaves belonged, the only two civilized nations upon Osnome.
While amazement at this method of instruction was still upon the Earthmen’s faces the slave—or, as they now knew him, Dunark, the kofedix or crown prince of Kondal—began to remove the helmets. He took off the girls’, and Crane’s. He was reaching for Seaton’s when there was a flash, a crackle, and a puff of smoke from the machine. Dunark and Seaton both fell flat.
Before Crane could reach them, however, they both recovered and Dunark said, “This is a mechanical educator, something entirely new. We’ve been working on it several years, but it is still very crude. I didn’t like to use it, but I had to, to warn you of what Nalboon is going to do and to convince you that saving your own lives would save ours as well. But something went wrong, probably because of my hasty work in assembly. Instead of stopping at teaching you our languages it shorted me and Dick together—completely.”
“What would such a short do?” Crane asked.
“I’ll answer that, Dunark.” Seaton had not recovered quite as fast as the Kondalian, but was now back to normal. “All it did was to print in the brain of each of us, down to the finest detail, everything that the other had ever learned. It was the completeness of the transfer that put us both out for a minute.”
“I’m sorry, Seaton, believe me. . . .”
“Why?” Seaton grinned. “It’s taken each of us all our lives to learn what we know, and now it’s doubled. We’re both “way ahead, aren’t we?”
“I certainly am, and I’m very glad that you take it that way. But time presses. . . .”
“Let me tell ’em.” Seaton said. “You aren’t exactly sure which English to use yet, the one I talk or the one I write, and neither you nor we can think very fast, yet, in the other’s language. I’ll boil it down.
“This is Crown Prince Dunark of Kondal. The other thirteen are relatives of his, princes and princesses. Nalboon’s raiders got them while they were out hunting—used a new kind of nerve gas so they couldn’t kill themselves, which is good technique in these parts.
“Kondal and Mardonale have been at war for over six thousand years, a war with no holds barred. No prisoners, except to find out what they know; no niceties. Having found out what these Kondalians knew, Nalboon threw a party—a Roman circus, really—and was going to feed them to some pet devil-fish of his when those armored flying animals—karlono, they call them—smelled them and came into the picture.
“You know what happened then. These people were aboard Nalboon’s plane, the one we eased down to the ground. You’d think Nalboon would think he owed us something, but . . .”
“Let me finish,” Dunark cut in. “You simply will not do yourself justice. Having saved his life, you should have been guests of the most honored kind. You would have been, anywhere else in the universe. But no Mardonalian has, or ever has had, either honor or conscience. At first, Nalboon was afraid of you, as were we all. We thought you were from the fifteenth sun, now at its closest possible distance, and after seeing your power we expected annihilation.
“However, after seeing the Skylark as a machine, learning that you are short of power, and finding you gentle—weak, he thinks that is; how wrong he is!—instead of bloodthirsty, Nalboon decided to kill you and take your ship, with its wonderful new power. For, while we Osnomians are ignorant of chemistry, we know machines and we know electricity. No Osnomian has ever had any inkling that such a thing as atomic energy exists. Nevertheless, after his study of your engines, Nalboon knows how to liberate it and how to control it. With the Skylark he could obliterate Kondal; and to do that, he would do anything.
“Also, he or any other Osnomian scientist, including myself, would go to any length, would challenge First Cause itself, to secure even one of those small containers of the chemical you call salt. It is the scarcest, most precious substance in our world. You actually had more of it at the table than the total previously known to exist upon all Osnome. Its immense value is due, not to its rarity, but to the fact that it is the only known catalyst for our hardest metals.