Sword of Tomorrow Read online

  “Nineteen-forty-four,” Court said. “Or Nineteen-forty-five. I don’t know.”

  “Well, that doesn’t tell me much, I’m afraid. Our chronology is different. What were you?”

  The man’s meaning was clear. “Artist, once. And soldier, after that.”

  Sudden relief showed in Kassel’s hairless face. “Good. There are artists today, but no soldiers. We have peace, or we have had, Court, you must be instructed regarding our times.”

  The door opened. Through it came a giant figure, a ruddy-faced man with a golden spade beard and mane of yellow hair. His clothes were garishly flamboyant. Sweat beaded his high cheek-bones.

  “Tor Kassel.” he said hurriedly. “I came for the patient. He saw Court. “He is awake, then!”

  “He’s awake.”

  “Good! Come with me, you! At once!”

  Kassel’s eyes gleamed. “What the devil do you mean? This is my home, Barlen! This man Court is my patient. He’ll go with you if I permit it. Not otherwise.”

  Court’s gaze moved from face to face. “Do I have anything to say about this?” he asked.

  Barlen stared. Kassel nodded.

  “Certainly. You may do as you choose. And I’ll see that no one tries to bring pressure.” He glared at the big man.

  Barlan’s teeth gleamed amid his yellow beard as he grinned.

  “So I must apologize again,” he said. “To you—my friend—and to you—Tor Kassel, I make my excuses. Forgive my impatience. But you’ll admit I have reason. Kassel.”

  “Perhaps you do. Yes, I think you do: Just the same, Ethan Court is still my patient.”

  “He’s something more than that.” Barlen showed his teeth. “The Throne is interested.”

  “I’ve notified the Throne.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “For a little courtesy,” Kassel snapped, and swung to Court. “The Throne—our ruler—has been much interested in your progress. There’s an interview scheduled. But it’s to be at your convenience, for I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

  * * *

  Court could not suppress a smile. “Am I healthy now, Kassel?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, I’m certainly curious. I’m ready any time.”

  “Do you want me to go on my knees to him, Kassel?” Barlen said impatiently. “My car’s outside.”

  “I want nothing except a little consideration,” the doctor mumbled. “National emergency or not, medicine still has its rights.”

  “Come on, Court,” Barlen said. “If you’re ready.”

  Clutching his dog-tags, Court followed the huge Barlen through the doorway, Kassel at his heels. Down a winding spiral ramp they went, past walls that shivered and murmured with sound and color, and emerged into a porte-cochere where a car stood—a huge, sleek bath-tub, apparently—with a padded bench circling its interior. A simplified control-pedestal rose in the center, easily reached from any point within the car. Barlen stepped in, the others following. and waved them to seats.

  “We fly,” he said, with simple pride. Court looked at him.

  “So did we,” Court said, and the giant blinked.

  “Well.” He touched levers. “You’ll see.” The car slid out into darkness.

  Then there was the odor of green growing things and cool, fresh night air, and Court felt the car rising. Without a sound it slanted up. He sat motionless, staring at the loveliness of the city spread below. It was a city of rose and pearl.

  “What could I expect?” he told himself. “This is the future. Naturally things are different. Naturally.”

  Valyra, the central city of Lyra, lay clustered about a low mountain, spreading down from its slopes into the distant darkness. It glowed with a warm radiance that outlined the gracious curves of domes and roadways, and the dreams of a hundred architects had made the city into a single unit of beauty. Each curve subtly led the eye to the central mountain.

  There, on the summit, stood a domed palace, fragile looking and shining.

  “Did you have this?” Barlen’s voice held smug triumph.

  “No,” Court said. “Nothing like this. No.”

  His hand tightened on two bits of metal, for abruptly the elfin city was horrible to him. He didn’t want perfection. He wanted craggy, dirty blocks of concrete, granite, brick and steel, towering above Sixth Avenue. He wanted to hear the nerve-grinding roar of a subway. He wanted to smell of hot-dogs roasting in an open-front Nedick’s shop. He wanted to look down at a city that wasn’t perfectly planned and executed—a place with the homely name of New York or Pittsburgh or Denver, where brownstone stood next to chrome, and where pushcarts stood beside sleek limousines.

  He didn’t want this. It wasn’t fair. He was an ordinary man. There had been a war, and he’d been in it. But this wasn’t all right.

  It was wrong that he should have fallen into some sort of mystic sleep in a dungeon in China and wakened after thousands of years had passed.

  Mother-of-pearl—bah! It was a fine set-up for a hero, maybe, but he wasn’t a hero and he didn’t want to be one.

  * * *

  Court flung himself forward, straight at the man with the ray-gun

  * * *

  All that he had seen was fairy-tale stuff. That covered it. He didn’t fit into fairy tales. This golden-bearded giant, beside him, probably lived on a steady diet of romance. But it wasn’t Court’s meat.

  He gripped his dog-tags desperately and shut his eyes, wishing and praying to be back in the familiar yellow mud of China. Anywhere, in fact, but this cake-icing city in a time that wasn’t Ethan Court’s time.

  “Look out, Barlen!” he heard Kassel say. “That car’s coming too close!”

  “Fools!” Barlen rumbled. “They’ll hit us.” The big man raised a warning shout. “Grapples! Hold them, Kassel! I’ll protect Court.”

  Mighty arms swept about Court, lifting him from his seat. One glimpse he had of an air-car sweeping forward. Silvery rods, like tentacles were reaching out, and dark faces were intently watching. Then Barlen sprang over the side, gripping Court to his barrel chest, and the two of them went plunging downward through the emptiness of the night.

  CHAPTER III The Blue-Eyed Girl

  By instinct he reached for the ring of a rip-cord that wasn’t there. He heard himself automatically counting. They turned over slowly as they fell, but Barlen kept his strong grip on Court. Above them the unlighted air-cars were lost against the sky.

  Court felt Barlen writhe. The city was rushing up at them with sickening speed, so close now that details were visible. But as Barlen moved, a coruscating shell of color blotted out vision. Hands of iron seemed to seize every part of Court. Next came a wrenching jolt so violent that it threatened to dislocate his neck. But soon he was floating down slowly through a curtain of light. Faster now—and faster.

  He struck hard, tangled with Barlen, and the shimmering colors faded and were gone. The giant jerked him to his feet, and gave a swift glance around.

  “They may follow. In here, quick.”

  “But Kassel! What of him?”

  “I don’t know. He’s either dead, or a captive. Hurry!”

  They had landed on the rounded dome of a roof that glowed with pale pink. With Barlen guiding him, Court slid down precariously to a ledge and crept along it to a window that appeared to be made of mother-of-pearl. Barlen kicked a hole in the oval pane. With a wary glance at the sky, he jumped through the gap, pulling Court after him. They were in a big, empty room furnished with sybaritic magnificence.

  Barlen made for the door. As it slid upward at his approach, a man appeared on the threshold, wide-eyed and excited. He was middle-aged and had coal black wooly hair.

  “Who’re you? What does this mean?”

  “Acting for the Throne,” Barlen said. “Where’s your visor?”

  “It’s in here. I’ll show you. Come.”

  The man scuttled along the corridor, leading the way. Barlen dragged Court wit
h him. The visor was simply a blank oval in the wall. Barlen made signaling gestures before it. The oval hummed. A pattern of lines like Persian script appeared.

  “Acknowledged,” a toneless voice said. “Report.”

  “Enemy air-car directly overhead.” Barlen turned to his inadvertent host. “Where are we?”

  “Sector Forty, Gamma Three.”

  “Forty Gamma Three. Possible spies. Not Lyrans, I think. Physician Tor Kassel trying to hold them.

  Action.

  “Acknowledged and action,” the voice said. The light faded. Barlen turned away with a shrug.

  “They’ll send up air-cars to investigate,” he said. “I doubt if they’ll find anything.”

  “What about Kassel?” Court asked.

  Barlen gestured. “We have enemies, and they’re ruthless. They were after you. Word leaked out, I suppose.” He hesitated, then looked at the wooly-haired man. “Would you drive us to the palace? Or let us have one of your servants, friend? It’s for the Throne.”

  “Gladly,” was the answer. “Are you hurt, Den Barlen?”

  “Oh—you know me. No, I’m not hurt. The car?”

  “This way.”

  “We’ll go by surface,” Barlen explained, as the tub-like vehicle whisked them through glowing streets. “It’s safe, I suppose. My repulsor charge is exhausted, anyway. I’ll have to get you a tube.”

  “What was it?”, Court asked.

  “Anti-gravity. It’s not too perfect—you noticed the jolt—and it requires delicate timing. Don’t push the stud till you’re two hundred feet from the ground. If you release the charge when you’re too high, it won’t last long enough to bring you down slowly. The mechanisms are bulky. There’s room for the complete device in an air-car like this, but in a pocket safety tube, all we can do is install a short charge. It has to be renewed after each use.”

  “Who were those men?” Court asked.

  * * *

  The man at the controls, his face angry turned his head.

  “They must have been the enemy,” he said. “Deccans, perhaps. Is that right, Den Barlen?”

  “Maybe,” Barlen said. “I don’t know. Didn’t get a good look at them.”

  “Deccans. They have spies everywhere.”

  “Well, Deccans or not, they were after you, Court,” Barlen said. “I’d have preferred to stay with Kassel and fight, but your life’s more important.”

  “Why?” Court asked.

  The giant winked and glanced toward the driver.

  “Here’s the palace. Thanks, friend. You’ve helped the Throne tonight.”

  “And harmed the Deccans, I hope,” the man said. He brought the car to a stop. A few guards, not many, were at this door of the hill-palace. Barlen exchanged a few words with one of them, and was waved inside. Court had an impression of immense spaces and bright colors—then he was in an elevator that rose swiftly. He stepped out, with Barlen, into a good-sized room where a man was awaiting them. Thin, undersized, with a clever, fox-handsome face, the man brushed back his red hair nervously with one hand and smiled at them. Behind him, a spiral ramp led up to a crystal door high above them.

  “Hello, Barlen,” the red-haired man said. “Is this Court?”

  “It’s Court, yes. I’m sorry, but the Throne’s waiting.”

  I’ll take him there.

  “Go to the devil, Hardony,” Barlen said. “Run your sneaking spy-system and let me handle these matters.”

  Hardony’s hand stopped moving across his hair. “It’s my job too, you know.”

  “It’s military tactics, not espionage. Come on, Court.”

  From somewhere a woman’s voice spoke angrily.

  “Stop quarreling and send Court up here! I want to see him. Barlen! Hardony! Send him alone.”

  Both men bowed to the wall high in the wall. Barlen waved Court forward. “Follow the ramp,” he said, and grinned. “Don’t be nervous. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Court grimaced and turned to the incline. He walked up the spiral slowly, conscious that the two men below were watching him, red-hair and yellow-beard. So the Throne was a woman. More rose-and-pearl hokum. Smiling crookedly, Court touched the white hair at his temples. Well, he was no Prince Charming.

  The Crystal door opened. He stepped through into a bubble of darkness.

  There were dim lights, but they paled against the spectacle of Valyra spread around and below. This was, he saw, the highest point of the palace on its mountain-top, and it was a room walled and roofed with material as transparent as glass.

  Behind him the door clicked shut.

  “I don’t know the rules,” Court said. His voice was harsh. “Do I bow, or just fall flat on my face?”

  “Your dialect is that of a savage,” a voice answered. “You act like one, too. Perhaps, though I am too critical. You have been asleep for a long time. Wait.”

  Slowly a blue glimmer pulsed and grew, faded to pale rose, and spread out into a cool, quiet radiance that filled the room. The city, spread below, lost its colored, vividness, and became ghostly, while the chamber became distinct.

  It was huge, so great that it was spacious, despite the richness of its furnishings. Fragile delicacy of sculptures and curious mobile art-forms contrasted with the massive solidness of heavy tables.

  Immense carved cabinets, and marble railings could be seen.

  Yet the room was a unit. There was no discordant note. Walls and roof were the transparent glass dome. The floor was divided into sectors of shifting tints that faded and wavered and flamed up as Court watched.

  Facing him, a few feet, away, was a girl— a very beautiful girl—with red-gold hair and intent blue eyes. She was wearing the briefest of garments. Its dull silver revealed the slim perfection of her body. Except for the richness of her garments, nothing showed her rank.

  She settled herself on a divan. Her gaze measured him.

  “I’ve seen you asleep,” she said. “That was different. You’re awake now.”

  * * *

  Court stared at her, a dull irritation rising within him, though he could not have told why. Slowly her red lips curved into a smile of curiously gentle sweetness. The glamour and strangeness were gone. She was only a girl now, human, approachable, not the ruler of an alien civilization.

  “My name’s Irelle. I know yours. If you feel able, we’ll talk.” She smiled. “You may sit down, if you wish.

  “Sure.” Court seated himself near her. “Sure, let’s talk.”

  “How do you feel?”

  He hesitated. “Healthy enough. But I’m not comfortable.”

  The blue eyes held a touch of pity. “Kassel told me what to expect. You can’t remember much, of course. You went to sleep—oh, long ago—and suddenly you find yourself in a new world. I know, Court. It’s not easy for you.”

  Her sympathy loosened his tongue. “No, it’s tough. I’ve read stories about such things, but they were fiction. They couldn’t happen. Only it has happened. All this doesn’t really amaze me. We had science in our day. Anti-gravity’s nothing miraculous. The miracle is that I haven’t changed.”

  That was it, he knew. He didn’t fit. He was keyed to a different pitch, the world of 1945. This new era, with its rose-pink cities and social culture of which he knew nothing, made him feel helpless and resentful. Long ago his life had been aimed at the goals and ideals of the Twentieth Century. Now those ideals were gone. They were without purpose or meaning. The foundation like those ancient cities where he had lived, had become dust.

  Here was a new and alien structure, a civilization grown from a root he had never known.

  Irelle seemed to understand something of this. “You will change, of course. I’m no psychologist, but I can put myself in your place. You don’t even know what you want now. Isn’t that true?”

  Court ran his fingers over a cushioned surface that hummed and vibrated under his touch. He drew his hand back quickly, meeting Irelle’s eyes.

  “Something like th
at.”

  “And you’re suspicious. There’s so much you don’t comprehend that you resent it. But that isn’t necessary, Court. Especially for you.” She watched him. He could sense the interest in her regard.

  “Am I to be put on exhibit? Or do I lecture in some university—if there are universities?” But there must be, he thought, or there would have been no word for it in the language. Still, they might be far different from the old Yale or U. S. C.

  Irelle touched a mobile object and watched the plastic curves glide and swing into motion, till it resembled a dizzying waterfall. “This. It’s meaningless till it’s moved. Then it shows its purpose. You, Court—once you begin moving, with a plan—will be like that.”

  “What plan?”

  “I wish Tor Kassel were here,” she sighed. “He knows far more than I of the mysteries of the mind. Barlen and Hardony are fine strategists, but the subtleties are beyond them. Our air-cars couldn’t find your attacker. Barlen’s car was located adrift. Kassel was gone; I suppose they captured him. They want information—”

  “Who?”

  “Listen,” she said, a new light in her eyes. This is something you’ll understand easily, I think. You were a soldier, weren’t you?

  Well, there are no soldiers now.”

  Court looked at her. “There’s no war?”

  “Not yet,” Irelle said sombrely. “But it will come soon. When it comes, we’ll be helpless. You saw what their spies can do—the Deccans. They knew, somehow, of your existence, and they wanted to capture or destroy you. Barlen saved you from that. He’ll fight to defend Lyra. But without weapons, he can’t do much. Nor can Hardony, though his espionage corps is well organized.”

  “Without weapons?” Court asked. “Why haven’t you any weapons?”

  “Kassel could have explained it better,” she said. “Still, I’ll try.” She took a deep breath. “We cannot make weapons, defensive or offensive. I mean we cannot. Our— our minds refuse to conceive of such ideas. We have scientists. One of our technicians discovered anti-gravity years ago. But there is something deep in our minds—our souls—that locks the door of knowledge. We are creative, but we cannot create a weapon.”