The Devil's Mirror (18 page)

The scarlet-robed emperor grasps the metal star and repeats, ‘Yes, the tests will begin at once.’ He turns and strides out of the room.

When the door clangs shut, Vola buries her face in her father’s chest and breaks into uncontrollable weeping. ‘Oh, Father! It’s been so horrible! That man is a beast—a filthy beast!’

Torak’s hands clench as a father’s indignation rises in him. ‘Vola, be brave. We must both be brave.’

As you pointed out in regard to
Vixen of Venus
, dialogue is not my strong point. I realise this and am perfectly willing to do the piece in straight reportorial form, should you so desire. However, since I have begun my outline in this style, I shall continue so:

Sparks fly in the darkened laboratory, as a group of dark-goggled men recoil from terrific heat. A powerful ray is bombarding the small piece of star-shaped metal. ‘See, my lord!’ says one of the men. ‘The upper side of the metal is white hot, while the under side—’

‘Yes?’ hisses Feng.

‘The under side is cool to the touch! Incredible! Your captive scientist has achieved perfect insulation.’ He turns off the ray and they all remove their goggles. ‘That concludes the series of tests, my lord. This piece of metal was subjected to powerful explosives, searing acids, atomic radiation, great pressure, and now—withering heat. Nothing affects it! It is completely impervious.’

Feng smiles. He turns to Torak. ‘My congratulations. You have not failed me. You shall have an honoured place in the scientific hierarchy of my empire.’ Abruptly, he turns to his chief engineer. ‘Great quantities of this metal must be produced and made into the spaceships you have designed. You will work with Torak. I shall expect you to begin tomorrow. And remember, gentlemen: the conquest of Klor means the conquest of the galaxy!’ He walks away as the scientists and generals bow. At the door, he turns to a figure in the shadows. ‘Come, Vola,’ he says. (We can play down this sex element if you wish.)

During the days that follow, Torak forces himself to be oblivious to his daughter’s tears. While she languishes in the arms of Feng, submitting silently to the legendary Seven Hundred Sacred Perversions of Sarg, the old scientist supervises at foundries where ton after ton of the molten new metal is poured from monstrous blast furnaces. Captive slave-workers from the far reaches of the galaxy labour day and night without sleep until they drop from exhaustion and are flogged into consciousness again. When they die, they are replaced by others. And often at Torak’s side is the exultant Feng who slaps him on the back and praises him.

As soon as the sheets of metal roll from the foundries, they are rushed to the shipyards where, already, the armada of amphibious destroyers is growing. Feng himself supervises the construction of the largest of these, his flagship. His escutcheon, the flaming sword of Sarg, is deeply engraved on its gleaming prow; rich draperies and costly furniture—the loot of a thousand plundered worlds—are carried aboard to embellish his cabin. It is only a matter of months (incidentally, I am using Earthtime throughout) before the fleet is finished. Poised and sparkling in the sun, the ships stand ready for embarkation.

Feng and his highest officers stand on a great platform, repeating a ritual that has taken place before the conquest of each new planet. Martial music blares from a phalanx of glittering horns. The people of Orim cheer—with Sargian guns at their backs—as Feng, resplendent in his battle armour made completely of Torak’s new metal, declaims his customary ritual speech. (I have a copy of this, for verification.) His big, rough voice thunders over the loudspeakers in phrases heavy with emotionalism and light on logic. Often ‘the glories of Sarg’ and the greatness of ‘our sacred galactic Empire’ are spoken of, but no attempt is made to define or examine these terms. Feng emphasises the importance of conquering Klor, the last remaining planet in the galaxy which still struggles in ‘a barbaric darkness unilluminated by Sargian glory.’ He tells why he has ordered not only his generals but also his eldest statesmen and advisors to accompany him in his flagship on this mission: ‘It is fitting that the chiefs of the Sargian Empire be present at the momentous conquest of the last planet.’ The speech ends with the mighty exclamation, ‘On to Klor!’ and the trumpets drown the unenthusiastic applause.

On the gangplank of his flagship, Feng pauses and turns to Torak. ‘Upon my return, you shall be decorated for your services to Sarg. And you, Vola—’ he smiles at the unresponsive girl—‘be prepared for a night of revelry on my return. Missions of conquest never fail to excite my blood, and although the water-dwelling females of Klor may turn out to be lovely,’ he winks knowingly at his generals, ‘I fear that, as proper entertainers to an emperor, mermaids may have certain... disadvantages. Eh?’ He laughs at his joke (too coarse for your readership?) and enters the flagship, followed by his generals and key statesmen.

Soon there is a terrific roar and a searing blast of rocket-fire, as the fleet shoots upwards and dwindles to a swarm of tiny specks in the clear blue sky of Orim.

During the months of the voyage, the black wine of Sarg flows freely in the imperial flagship. Feng toasts his empire, his generals and himself. He toasts each planet, each star, each comet they pass. He toasts Torak, he toasts Vola, and he toasts the nearly-forgotten women of his youth. He sings ribald Sargian ballads and he swears fantastic oaths. All this can easily be expanded into several pages.

At length, the armada approaches Klor. As his flagship hovers above the flooded planet, Feng draws his jewelled ceremonial sword and points dramatically to the objective. His voice roars through the intercoms of every ship.

‘
Attack!
’

Down they plunge, the flagship leading. Cleanly, Feng’s ship cuts the surface of the water and his fleet follows, creating a series of immense splashes and vast, ever-widening rings.

Through the transparent dome of his ship, Feng marvels at the exotic weeds and pouting giant fishes of Klor. Triumph sings in his veins.

Then, suddenly, the cries of startled men reach his ears. He turns, and his eagle’s eyes bulge with shock...

If we do this as a serial, what better place for a break? But that is up to you, of course. And now let me quickly limn the final scene which takes place back on Orim:

Torak drops a four-pointed metal star into a glass. It floats slowly to the bottom. He turns to his daughter who is gazing pensively out of the laboratory window. Tenderly, he asks, ‘Is anything troubling you, my dear?”

There are tears in her eyes. ‘I was thinking of the people of Klor, that’s all.’

Torak smiles slightly—for the first time in many, many months. ‘I wouldn’t spend my tears on them, if I were you. In fact, I see no reason for weeping at all.’

‘You don’t? Father, how can you say that?’

‘Feng,’ says Torak, grimly, ‘will never molest you again.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘And never again will he subjugate an entire galaxy. By this time, the armada should have reached Klor.’ Torak verifies this by a glance at his calendar. Teng is dead.’

Vola fears for her father’s sanity. She is silent as he continues: ‘Dead. Floating in the waters of Klor, with all his officers, his ministers and his navy.’

He looks up and sees the fear in her face. ‘No, my dear. I’m not mad. You see, I created a very wonderful metal. A metal both light and strong, resistant to heat ard cold and pressure and radiation. A miraculous metal. And Feng was smart. He tested it thoroughly. Yes, he put my metal through every possible test—except one. One so simple, so basic, that it never occurred to him. And so he built his fleet and plunged it into the seas of Klor, without knowing...’

Torak turns to regard the glass from which the metal star of Orim has vanished. ‘Without knowing,’ he says, ‘that this rather remarkable metal
dissolves
—in water.’

Now
there
, sir, even you must admit, is a natural! And true—every word. But that is not all—in fact, the greatest revelation is yet to come.

For suppose we say—or, at least, hint—that shrewd Feng, the galaxy-killer, the scourge of 75/890, the man who never trusted anybody in his life, took the characteristic, routine precaution of wearing, under his ceremonial armour of Torak-metal, a conventional depth suit (not because he suspected anything specific, but simply because suspicion was his natural state of mind); that Feng, in other words,
survived the disaster?

Perhaps we may even use a title like
Feng Is Still Alive!
or
Feng Is Still Alive?
—a time-tested attention-getter. We can imply that the indestructible Zoonbarolarrio Feng, after the demolition of his navy, made his relentless and lonely way to one of Klor’s few shreds of dry land—say, the south polar region of Fozkep—where even now he plots new conquests, like your own Napoleon of yore at Elba. You will say, perhaps, that nobody will believe such an assertion, and I would be inclined to agree with you, but what does that matter so long as they buy your magazine? And speaking of buying brings me to the touchy but unavoidable question of payment. I am in most desperate need of large sums and would expect your highest rates, on acceptance, should this article be commissioned for your pages. So
please
let me hear from you by return warpmail, since I urgently require every bit of ready cash I can muster.

‘Ghosts!’ said Melville Stone, and snorted scornfully. ‘If that is why you invited yourself to my home, then you can invite yourself right out again.’

‘Please listen to me,’ said Austin Wade. ‘For years, you have mocked and belittled me, ridiculed my work—’

‘Work—is that what you call it? Superstitious humbug! Of course I’ve ridiculed it.’

‘But it’s not superstition, Stone. Nor is it necessarily what is known as “supernatural”. Call it preternatural, para-natural—’

‘Semantics.’

‘But ghosts exist! Determined personal energy, persisting after physical death. Measurable, visible, audible.
Not
occult—scientific.’

‘I’ve heard all this nonsense before.’

‘But if I show you proof?’

‘I know your kind of proof—doctored photographs, affidavits from charlatans and psychotics—’

‘No.’ Wade leaned forward, eyes feverish and ablaze. ‘
Proof
. I will produce a ghost, here in your house, tonight!’

‘Poppycock. I won’t allow any kind of séance or other tomfoolery—’

‘Nothing like that. I didn’t say I’d invoke a ghost, call up one from beyond the veil. I said I’d produce one—
make
one.’

‘Ah. Then you admit these “phenomena” of yours are manufactured!’

‘I admit nothing of the sort, you blind fool. I will make a ghost in the only way a ghost
can
be made—by the sudden termination of a life, the violent death of a man in his prime, cut off with things left unfinished—’

And he pulled from his pocket a glistening, very black re-revolver.

Stone went pale. ‘Wade! You hate me, I know that—but murder?...’

‘I don’t hate you, Stone. I hate your narrowness, your rigidity, your smug faith in the stupidity you call science, your refusal to open your eyes, open your mind—your stuffy, airless, pitiful excuse for a mind!’

‘Don’t, Wade! Don’t kill me!’

‘Kill you? What good would that do? I am going to kill myself—and when my ghost returns to haunt you,
then
you will have your proof!’ Wade lifted the revolver to his own temple.

‘You’re insane!’

‘Semantics.’

‘You’re bluffing!’

‘Am I?’

The blast of the revolver was deafening. Wade fell to the floor, dead.

There was no trouble with the police. Stone phoned them immediately, there were a few questions, a few formalities, but Stone was a sober pillar of the community, Wade had been a notorious crackpot, and there was little reason to doubt suicide.

Somewhat later, Stone retired to his bedroom, undressed, and got into bed. As he turned off the light, he saw, in a corner near the closet, a glowing presence, silvery white, in the definite shape of a man. The face was Wade’s.

The apparition spoke, in an eerie voice that came as if from vast distances: ‘Stone... ’the voice keened. ‘Melville Stone... it is I... Austin Wade... now even
you
must believe!’

Stone smiled sourly. ‘Clever,’ he muttered to himself, and leaped out of bed. ‘Some kind of film projection and recording, set off by a timing device Wonder how he managed to get it in here? The ingenuity of a madman.’ He threw open the closet, searched it, ransacked the bedroom, but found no film equipment.

And still the Wade-like figure flickered and moaned. ‘
Not
... trick... true ghost... must
believe
!...’

Stone looked squarely at the thing and scratched his head. ‘Remarkable,’ he said.

‘Then you... believe... at last!...’

‘Truly remarkable—it even “answers” me, so to speak. What a curious mechanism the human brain is!’

‘
Yes
...’ said the presence, triumphantly. ‘Power of brain... to persist... after death...’

Stone chuckled. ‘Beautiful. A full-scale hallucination—audio-visual—concocted by my own brain. Out of shock, and a bit of guilt over poor Wade, I suppose.’ He shook his head and smiled.

As he climbed back into bed and sank into untroubled sleep, the shade of Wade departed in despair, knowing that he had thrown away his life for nothing, realising too late that against the barricaded citadel of a closed mind, he had never had a ghost of a chance.

John Stanley’s modest little car swerved sharply to avoid the oncoming truck, spun off the narrow canyon road, plunged two hundred feet straight down and burst into gaudy flame. John, that good grey man, was killed instantly.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in a vast cavern lit by red fire. Sulphur fumes made his eyes smart. On the other side of an abyss, he saw naked men and women writhing on hot rocks, their skin glistening in the red light. They groaned and screamed piteously. Looking down, he realised that he, too, was naked, and he felt embarrassed, humiliated.