Flash Gordon (8 page)

Holding the revolver behind him in the darkness, Zarkov raised his eyebrows.
Hubba-hubba, what a pair of gams,
he thought.

“Just hold me two seconds,” said Dale to Flash. “Then drop me and I’ll kiss the ground.”

As Flash set her down, Zarkov said, “Good morning.” Not an original salutation perhaps, certainly not one his future biographers would repeat, but under the circumstances, simplicity was the best. As the couple faced him, he took a step from his cloak of darkness. The hand gripping the revolver was cold and wet. “Are you injured?”

Forgetting the scratch on his forehead, Flash said, “Lord knows why, but it seems not.”

“A miracle. I expect you’d like to use my phone.”

“Thanks. I would,” said Flash, grateful for the stranger’s generosity, not noticing Dale was regarding the bearded man with suspicion.

“It’s in there,” said Zarkov, pointing to the capsule entrance. Fortunately, the capsule had not been damaged when the plane crashed into the greenhouse. It resembled a huge golden eraser; symmetrical projections jutted outward at equal distances apart throughout the exterior, providing the space capsule with an old-fashioned appearance that had appealed to Zarkov when he had designed it, but which he now regretted because it did not look like it could fly fifty yards without exploding. Zarkov walked behind the couple as they approached the capsule; should he take the man or the woman? It did not matter. The white light radiating from the capsule interior was like an altar in Zarkov’s mind. Or like a web.

Glancing about the wrecked greenhouse, seeing vegetables growing in the undamaged planters, Dale noticed the red stains beneath the plane and thought,
Ah, we ruined his tomato crop.
“We’ve wrecked your place,” she said. “I’m sure the insurance will . . .”

Zarkov interrupted her. “Please, don’t mention it.”

Flash asked, “What in hell’s happened to the sun?”

Zarkov shrugged, hoping he looked and sounded like an innocent layman. “Looks like an eclipse to me.”

“Are you sure?” asked Dale. “There wasn’t anything on TV last night about an eclipse today.”

Zarkov became so incensed that he nearly forgot the revolver behind his back and gestured with both hands. “Television! Pap for credulous fools! Insipid twaddle for people who twiddle their diddles!”

“You don’t have to lose control,” said Flash. “Television performs many valuable functions in today’s modern technological society, and criticizing the medium with such vehemence is not constructive.”

Zarkov cleared his throat. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I forgot that if you’re not part of the solution, then you’re part of the problem. I assure you my lapse was momentary.”

Unaware of the concealed revolver, Flash placed his hand on the scientist’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “I’m certain it was. You must forgive my tendency to moralize. It’s one of the disadvantages of being in the public eye.”

“We’ve all been under a strain,” said Dale.

“Absolutely,” said Flash. “Unexplained phenomena invariably lend life a surreal texture that makes us all subject to Sartre’s nausea.”

“I couldn’t have put that better myself,” said Zarkov, laughing, indicating the ramp leading into the capsule. “Please, right in there. I’ll show you the phone.”

Flash nodded and smiled, then, taking Dale’s elbow, walked her up the ramp. Experiencing a premonition, he was unable to pinpoint its substance. This stranger was a good man—Flash’s instincts were certain of it; nevertheless, he could not ignore the distinct sensation of walking into danger. The muscles of Dale’s arms were tense.

Inside the capsule, Flash and Dale searched wide-eyed for a telephone. Or for anything resembling a telephone. Three cushioned black chairs with straps were bolted about a white control stand. The white and pinkish-white walls were, for the most part, bare and ascetic, with console panels in two corners. Flash glanced at the instruments on the control stand; they were of the same nature but more intricate than those of the plane. It was impossible, completely surreal, but he had the sinking feeling that he knew exactly what kind of apparatus he and Dale had stepped into.

They turned almost as one to face the stranger leaning in the doorway. Dale, quite pale despite her excitement, exclaimed, “You’re Doctor Hans Zarkov!”

Zarkov performed a mock-bow, acknowledging his identity. “How did you know?”

“I saw you on ‘Sixty Minutes.’ No wonder you don’t like television.” She turned to Flash. “Don’t you remember? He’s the scientist who kept saying there’d be an attack on the Earth! They called him the poor man’s Billy Mitchell. They kicked him out of NASA and . . .”

“Enough!” said Zarkov. “Besides, I was laid off. There’s a difference, though the reporter from ‘Sixty Minutes’ can’t make the distinction.” He pointed the gun at them.

“Are you crazy?” asked Flash, raising his hands.

“Unfortunately not. The attack has begun. I estimate we have eleven days before our moon crashes down and destroys us. I need aid in taking off.”

“In what?” asked Flash, hoping to stall for time.

“In this, in my space capsule.”

“This is a space capsule?” exclaimed Dale.

“Indeed, my greatest invention. Like many dreamers, I have built a spaceship in the grand American tradition, without the aid of the government or a corporation, taking parts where I could get them, with only my native ingenuity to help me. Though my capsule wasn’t built in a backyard
per se,
it was built close enough to one so I can say that I’ve joined the honored ranks of backyard scientists! And unlike many dreamers, I have succeeded; my capsule works!”

“Have you tested it?” asked Flash.

“No, but I have faith.” Inhaling deeply, Zarkov straightened his shoulders, keeping his bead on the couple. “If not, then I wouldn’t have worked so hard. The engine for this baby was cannibalized from those of old bombers, and it sings like a bird. The body was welded from the husks of obsolete rockets I purchased from NASA. The other parts I needed I got from saving Green Stamps. No, this capsule hasn’t been tested, but I’ve my resources, young man, I’ve my resources. In just a few minutes, we’ll be taking off.”

“For where?” asked Dale.

“Up there. We are being attacked from the stars. I need one person to hold down that red pedal during blastoff.”
Which one?
thought Zarkov. He glanced at Dale’s shapely legs, felt the pangs of passion surging in his breast, and realized that if he survived his sally and was marooned in space, he would have other, deeper needs. He pointed the revolver at Dale. “You’re the lighter of the two. Sit down in the end seat.” To Flash: “You can leave. Tell the world what Hans Zarkov has done.”

He’s got a coach’s ego,
thought Flash. He said to Dale, “I guess I’ll be running along.”

Attempting to keep a brave face, Dale replied, “Remember to put out the cat, will you?”

Flash took a step toward the exit of the capsule. For a moment he wondered what his life would be like, if he would be able to look at himself in the mirror, if he allowed this mad though decent man to kidnap the woman of his dreams and take her on a trip to the stars. He whirled and leaped like a sinewy cat toward Zarkov. “Run!” he shouted to Dale. Of course she did not.

For an instant Zarkov was afraid he would be forced to shoot the young man in cold blood, but his subconscious mind, which was much wiser than he, suddenly guided his motions. Like a man in a dream, he watched himself sidestep Flash and smash him on the back of the head with the revolver. This deed successfully accomplished, Zarkov felt a heady zeal he feared was totally out of character for a man of peace. However, he could not bask in his glow of victory for long. Before the young woman could act (she was distracted by her concern for her friend), he pulled shut the capsule door.

Shaking his head to ward off dizziness, Flash picked himself up and struck the madman in his soft belly. As the madman was woefully out of shape, Flash expected him to fold like cardboard, but the madman was driven by forces which habitually allow puny mortals to overcome the limitations of their flesh. Zarkov and Flash grappled like animals, struggling for superiority, as Dale watched with horror, waiting for Flash to deal the villain a telling blow. However, when the blow came, it propelled Zarkov directly into a big red button that appeared to have been liberated from Con Edison.

“Sit down!” shouted Zarkov. “Keep a foot on the red pedal or the G-forces will kill us all!”

Wow, he’s really dedicated,
thought Flash.

The capsule began shaking like a Cadillac moving down a steep hill with its emergency brake in gear. The engines rumbled and the glass of the greenhouse shook as if the earth was moving. Flash became subliminally aware of chemicals mixing and reacting violently beneath his feet. He sensed fire and destruction only marginally harnessed. Fearing for his life, he suffered a paralyzing terror, for now the unknown was no longer an abstraction. At least he had known the capabilities of the plane; at least there he had been able to act. But suddenly the Fates had thrust him completely under Zarkov’s control.

Zarkov, who had already strapped himself in, shouted, “The red pedal! The red pedal!”

Flash experienced a curious weightlessness, though his feet remained firmly planted on the floor. Then a weight descended upon him. He saw Dale struggling to strap herself in the center chair.

The capsule was taking off!

Zarkov uttered something cryptic: “Sorry, Munson, you missed your opportunity.”

However, Flash had no time to ponder the remark’s meaning. The weight of a thousand griefs was pressing down upon him, flattening him. Every heartbeat and every tortured breath racked him with pain. He pulled himself toward the empty chair, fell into it, struggled to turn himself around. He was barely able to strap himself in. Without thinking, motivated by instinct more than his consciousness, he extended his foot and stamped on the red pedal, exerting an unexpected strength derived from a source deep within his spirit, a strength that had served him well during many exhausting football games. Just to glance at Dale (who had blacked out) cost him a tremendous effort.

Flash did not realize it, if Zarkov had told him he would not have believed it, but pressing the red pedal activated the mechanism which produced the force field affording them some relief from the murderous pull of gravity.

Zarkov mumbled, “Friendship—built this to send out in friendship—hands across the void—tentacles across the void—couldn’t bring myself to arm it—the end now—unless we three can—’less we can . . .” And he became silent.

Flash felt a twinge of concern for the scientist; he attempted to convince himself that it was a purely intellectual concern for the sanctity of a human life, but there was something engaging about that idealistic madman. Flash’s interest in Dale, however, evoked no doubts whatsoever. As he watched her still form, he was awash with love and anxiety. Then he turned his eyes upward, toward the white ceiling, and tried to see the stars through the material. Filled with the majesty of space, realizing he was fulfilling a lifelong dream he had never seriously hoped would become a reality, he, too, blacked out.

And the capsule carrying them journeyed into the inconceivable.

F
ORTUNATELY
, the trio strapped in Zarkov’s space capsule was unconscious throughout the majority of their journey, for if they had read the data of their instruments and peered through the portholes, they would have learned how puny were the most grandiose concepts of the universe in comparison with the reality; and it is doubtful that even the analytical mind of Zarkov could have grasped the sheer vastness and the startling array of colors through which his capsule passed.

In the fuel compartments beneath the sleepy travelers, chemicals mixed and exploded, one releasing enough oxygen near the exhaust pipes so that a tiny flickering flame erupted into a bolt of fire behind the capsule. The fire died as the capsule, now an insignificant mote, neared Jupiter.

Unbeknownst to all but a few confused scientists who were scanning space for clues to the phenomena occurring on Earth, the vibratory patterns of the ether altered in unfathomable, subtle ways, through incomprehensible means.

The emptiness of space gave way to red and yellow and chartreuse mists borne from some unperceived location upon ghostly winds. Gradually the mists became tumultuous; gradually the capsule became ensnared in a swirling whirlpool of myriad colors, a whirlpool of such power and celestial force that no creature, whatever its species, whatever its resources, could realistically consider escaping. Nor could any creature, whatever its surveying abilities, hope to absorb all the minute shades of the infinite sea of colors writhing like the waters of an agonized planet. A man could liken it only to the fires of the primordial universe, save that this sea of colors radiated no heat. The capsule floated through mists formed not by atoms, but by the parts of atoms, parts searching for form and function and for the fulfillment of a balanced environment. It floated through mists of jasmine, platinum yellow, vermilion, salmon, and sapphire. It floated through scientific impossibilities made mundane by the true realities and physics of the universe.

Eventually, other conglomerations of matter joined the capsule on the journey through the mists. Charred husks, all that remained of burnt-out comets. Meteors. Tiny asteroids. Clouds of space gas. The corpse of an interstellar creature. Upon entering the mists, the capsule left the solar system. After it had traveled for a spell, it reached a location no Terran equation could account for. Perhaps there was no location, perhaps there were many. Or perhaps the capsule had arrived upon a dimensional plane where all concepts of space and time were meaningless abstractions bearing no relevance to these mists—mists of matter so dormant it could not even be accurately described as inert.

Inside the capsule, Flash, Dale, and Zarkov were bathed in a succession of colorful lights. Dale, caught in the throes of a passionate dream, sweated profusely, breathed heavily, and tossed her head about. Flash dreamed of expansive fields, a shirt slung across his bare back, and a blazing yellow sun. Zarkov blinked; for a fleeting instant (for an hour?) he glimpsed the swirling lights. In a dim portion of his numbed mind he comprehended what was happening, and he mumbled, “Space is a device to keep everything from being in the same place.” Then he returned to oblivion.