Flash Gordon (11 page)

For the prisoners, blindfolded and gagged (when possible), represented specimens they had never before conceived. There were five Mud Men; Zarkov suspected one was a woman, but he could not be sure. The features, distinguishing physical characteristics, even the sexual organs, were obscured by the glistening, bulky mud covering their bodies. The moisture preventing the mud from caking and breaking off was possibly secreted by glands, Zarkov theorized. However, they left little deposits of dirt behind them.

The Mud Men were truly disgusting dregs of humanity, that is, if they were human at all. But the deposits of dirt were not nearly as repulsive as the trails left behind by the shiny Slime People. Dale wrinkled her nose as they passed by. Their odor was so horrendous that an extremely potent skunk smelled as pleasant as a freshly picked rose in comparison. Their gags and blindfolds were tied tightly about their heads, lest the substance coating them cause the cloth to slip out of place. Dale felt a tremor of sickness in her abdomen when she spied a thin wire about the face helping keep a gag secure, a wire cutting into his cheek, causing a tremble of yellow pus to run down onto his neck. The Slime People wore white loincloths tied tightly about the hips; the cloths were drenched in the odorous substance manufactured by their bodies. Dale realized that Zarkov, being a scientist, was doubtlessly speculating upon their native environment, and she decided she did not want to know anything about a world which nurtured creatures such as these.

Behind the Slime People were hissing green Reptile Men with long, thick tails and crooked scaly arms held close to their yellow-green chests. They were not blindfolded and gagged due to logistics, for they possessed faces within their perpetually open jaws. Tiny eyes peered from the red flesh shielded by the two fangs hanging from the upper jaw. An inch below the eyes, thin forked tongues protruded from little mouths. Their scaly feet were unable to maintain traction upon the slime trails left by their predecessors.

When the prisoners turned a corner and were gone from sight (but not quite from smell), Zarkov said, “At least three different lines of evolutionary development there. I don’t see how that’s possible in a single environment.”

“The answer to that one’s no problem, Doctor,” said Flash. “My guess is: Once upon a time these moons developed independently of each other. By the time the civilizations came into contact, the lines of evolution had been clearly established.”

Zarkov beamed. “Why, my boy, that’s absolutely brilliant! A superb example of deductive reasoning!”

Flash lifted the right side of his mouth in a half smile. In his heightened state of awareness, even a compliment seemed monumental.

“But you must realize,” said Zarkov with a confidential air, “that evolution and biology are outside my fields of specialty.”

“Of course.”

By this time they had resumed their journey; they walked down dark corridors with high ceilings. Thankfully, the prisoners had traveled a different route. The décor consisted of pillars, portraits of evil and mysterious men, vases containing plants that swayed with music of their own making or plants that swiped at insects. The uniforms of the soldiers behind them jangled and clinked with the heavy rhythm of their footsteps. Otherwise, the soldiers were totally silent; unless the mechanical sounds of their interior were some kind of a strange language, they uttered not a whisper among themselves.

The captives entered a corridor leading to the large doors of a circular entrance. Dale gripped Flash’s arm. They knew, as if by instinct, that beyond those doors they would come face to face with Ming.

The guards abruptly halted. The captives did likewise, not knowing what else to do.

A buzzing reverberated throughout the corridor. Dale held her hands over her ears and Zarkov tensed, but Flash, used to the deafening roar of the crowd, took it in stride. A huge panel raised open in the center of a wall, and through it flew a shiny golden globe topped with two antennae. The panel closed, the buzzing ceased. The globe hovered before the captives. An impersonal, sexless voice emanated from a tiny grill: “Prisoners—march!”

“Let’s not argue with it,” said Flash, thinking to himself,
not yet.

The space travelers followed the globe, slowly walking toward the circular entrance, looming ever larger like a portent of doom. Suffering, wailing demons were carved from the dark, green-tinged wood bordering the doorway. A huge grinning face—fanged, red-eyed, with pointed ears and a single tuft of hair atop an otherwise bald dome—was carved above the center.

“We’re being taken just where we want, all right,” said Zarkov nervously.

“Would you say that again?” asked Flash.

“We’re being taken to the ruler,” said Zarkov, slightly annoyed that Flash had not instantly understood what he had meant. “Through subtle deductive means, by picking up scraps of information and extrapolating with a rigid sort of logic which is too complex to go into now, I’ve become certain that this Ming character is responsible for the attack on Earth.”

“I believe you,” said Dale, her eyes fixed on the huge malevolent face. Her next remark was forever silenced by the sharp slapping noise of a Lizard Man’s bare feet pounding the hallway behind them. Dale held her fingers tightly about Flash’s arm as the fleeing Lizard Man emerged from a corridor and halted in shock ten yards before the orb. The creature’s eyes widened and bulged, nearly touching the fangs at the top of its head.

“Halt, Lizard Man,” came the voice from the orb. “Escape is impossible.”

An electrical current shot from the orb in a jagged path. Seeming to singe the very air, it encircled the Lizard Man in a painful aura. For an infinite second Dale stared at the terrifying tableau of the paralyzed creature attempting to break free of the electrical snare.

Then, instantly, the Lizard Man was turned to dust.

Dale looked at Zarkov. “Doctor, my faith in reasoning is diminishing rather rapidly.”

Zarkov whispered, “Don’t worry. If reasoning fails, I’ve still got the gun in my pocket. I’ll make it plain I’m acting on my own. You’ll be all right.”

“That’s plain suicide,” said Flash between his teeth.

“No. A rational transaction. One life for billions.”

Without thinking, Zarkov patted his jacket pocket. Whirring like a stricken banshee, the globe darted toward Zarkov and hovered at his side. It promptly disintegrated the revolver, leaving the pocket intact.

Once again, Zarkov shrugged helplessly. “Reason’s the only way.”

T
HE
globe guided the captives through the parting crowd of the main palace hall and took them to a small area in the rear, where they stood before a red curtain. The crowd faced a circular opening before a long flight of steps. Nervously rubbing his chin and mouth, hoping he appeared stoic, Flash studied the Spartan yet colorful décor. A dark crimson tile, the floor was the shade of a sparkling scab. The ceiling, twenty-five yards above them, emitted a soft, fluorescent light; as there were no fixtures, Flash could only surmise the light was the result of the material’s chemical composition. The opening, through which there were a number of curved silver bars, lending it the appearance of a portal from another dimension, dominated the palace hall. There was no furniture; everyone was forced to stand. Flash searched for clues to Ming’s character from this décor, just as if he were in an office preparing to negotiate a salary increase. Eventually, he realized the lack of furniture was a deliberate attempt on Ming’s part to dominate all in the room; each individual was inconvenienced and subliminally rendered faceless. Flash wished he had a lawyer with him, just as he did during his contract negotiations.
Well, this Ming can’t be much worse than the IRS. At least I won’t have to worry about them for a while.

Though his baser instincts were more interested in the astounding array of luscious beauties with strategically exposed expanses of smooth skin (in an utterly delightful gamut of shades), Zarkov found his attention arrested by the alien specimens present, in particular by the contingent of Hawk Men segregating themselves in one corner. Tugging at his beard, a nervous habit he sometimes exhibited while in a frenzy of scientific curiosity, he forgot all about the attack on Earth and his dire predicament. His heart pounded as the Hawk Men, clad in helmets, sandals, and loincloths, flapped their large, curiously inflexible wings. They occasionally adjusted the harnesses strapped about their bare chests. Save for their wings (which Zarkov presumed to be natural), they were human in every appearance. The scientist catalogued a hundred questions in his mind. He prayed he would have the opportunity to study the Hawk Men.

Dale, for her part, pretended not to examine the ladies who, for their part, made no pretense. They frankly scrutinized her, like some men she had met who believed an open appraisal of her sexual potential was somehow the modern, sophisticated thing to do. Though the sheer number of women was overwhelming, though Dale blushed and tried to appear indifferent, she nevertheless felt herself superior to them. The women were only playthings, and this palace hall was their home territory only so long as they remained playthings. However, she could not resist appraising the secrets of their youthful beauty from the corner of her eye. She was impressed with the glitter surgically implanted in the eyelids of a blonde; with the halter padding of a brown-skinned redhead; with the delicate manner and supple stomach muscles of a lithe yellow-skinned woman whispering to a red-skinned woman-child tattooed with blue glitter; with the firm breasts and high cheekbones of one of the most enticing beauties—who stood with her hands on her hips and who frequently licked her wide dark lips when she directed her eyes at Dale’s ankles. Though the variety of costumes was endless, each possessing some sort of subtle variation, there was a basic pattern from which the women deviated rarely: long, gauze robes hung from ornate headdresses, providing a semblance of modesty for the halters and scanty briefs exposing shameless amounts of cleavage and midriff, respectively. These women were obviously the most pleasing the city and the moons had to offer. Once they passed their prime, they were undoubtedly sent back to their families, who found them husbands. They were to become like the women Dale had seen from the vehicle taking her through the city, professional mothers whose one duty to the state was to be fertile. Dale tried not to think of the personal implications for her, of the pulp stories her father had once read to her.

Without warning, a howling wind of indiscernible origin swept through the palace hall; the light radiating from the ceiling flickered as if it was fed by electrical impulses (causing Flash to question his earlier deduction); the hems of the curtains billowed. Dale held her hair to keep it from flying in her face; grimacing, she looked to Flash, who put his arm about her. The people of the court reacted as if nothing unusual was transpiring, though they quieted and directed themselves toward the circular opening beside the throne. The majestic, imposing form of Ming seemed to rise before the tunnel’s bright red material.

A figure emerged from the court and walked onto the platform. “Hail, Klytus!” called the people he passed.

Though this Klytus was approximately five and a half feet tall, it was impossible for Flash to ascertain his weight—or anything else about him—due to his black robes and his gold, cubist mask. Gold strips highlighted his hood and shoulders, and upon his chest was a gold design of interconnected Vs enclosed by a circle. Flash could not see his footwear, but he would not have been surprised if he wore goat’s hooves. Klytus held up his hand in a perfunctory manner, exposing a golden glove that, extended far beyond his wrist; on his other hand was a black velvet glove. He called out in an impersonal, toneless voice which nevertheless demanded respect, “Hail Ming, Rightful Ruler of the Universe!”

The court repeated the salutation as Ming emerged from the opening. Flash felt the cold clutches of fear grip his heart; Dale tensed beneath his arm and Zarkov inhaled sharply. There was a final gust of the howling wind, rustling Ming’s flowing robes, and then it suddenly died, casting a pall of silence over the palace hall.

Ming surveyed his court with brooding eyes flickering with alertness, eyes simultaneously burdened with an unfathomable weariness. Highlighted by gold, the bottom portion of his wide, rose-colored collar was formed by two triangles with slightly curved borders, while the top was circular, concealing the rear of his bald head. Below the collar and running down his torso was a strip of a rose hue, the gold sewn into the fabric outlining the five points of a star. His arms were concealed by his crimson cape, though his hands at his abdomen and the jeweled rings of his fingers were exposed. Ming possessed the lean face of a wolf, with pointed eyebrows and a goatee jutting beneath his chin. His nose was straight and narrow, his black mustache prim and sinister. Standing before the court with the ease of a man alone in his private quarters, Ming was indifferent to his subjects even as he acknowledged them with a half-hearted movement of his fingers. He possessed the aura of a man whose voracious appetites were eclectic and insatiable. His manner was as weary as his eyes, but there lurked in his thin limbs and soft belly a tremendous strength awaiting its opportunity, a strength both physical and spiritual. The captives were mesmerized by his presence.

However, upon three or four separate occasions, Flash could not help but notice a particularly voluptuous, aristocratic young woman, wearing a scanty gold outfit, peeking from behind a curtain. Yanking a leash attached to a collar about the neck of a curious, red-faced midget, she did not notice, or acknowledge in the least, the court members automatically making a narrow pathway through the palace hall, as if they were performing what was expected of them with the tiniest effort. Her only words were barked to the midget: “Come along, Fellini!” Once she had ceased to move, she occasionally appraised Flash frankly, her mouth twitching and her breathing becoming heavy in proportion to the torridity of her thoughts.