The Radio Planet by Ralph Milne Farley (romantic novels in english .txt) 📗
- Author: Ralph Milne Farley
Book online «The Radio Planet by Ralph Milne Farley (romantic novels in english .txt) 📗». Author Ralph Milne Farley
“The Great Builder only knows,” his friend replied. “Anyhow they claim to possess souls, and have offered us protection.”
Doggo looked skeptical. Just then a messenger flitted over with a note from Boomalayla, reading: “The session is at an end. You will please follow me to the royal apartments for a conference.”
The king clicked sharply. Instantly all was silence in the huge hall. Solemnly the king clicked three times. In unison the assembled Whoomangs clicked back a triple answer. Then all was bustle and confusion as those without wings crowded through the doors and those with wings departed through the windows in the dome above.
Boomalayla and his snake adviser, and the three travelers from Vairkingi were the only persons—if you can call them all “persons”—left in the vaulted chamber. Whereupon the snake, gliding ahead, led the way to an anteroom, gorgeously jeweled and draped. There the five reclined on soft tapestries, attended by a swarm of little messengers and engaged in the following written conversation. Due to the speed of Porovian shorthand, the “talk” progressed practically as rapidly as if it had been spoken, although Doggo was somewhat handicapped by not having a stylus which was properly adapted to his claw.
“Who are your companions?” the king asked.
So Myles introduced Quivven the Vairking maiden, and Doggo the Formian. Boomalayla explained that the snake was Queekle Mukki, prime minister of the Whoomangs, and wise beyond all his countrymen.
“His soul is brother to my soul, although our bodies are unrelated,” the king wrote.
Myles was much perplexed. “How is it,” he inquired, “that such diversified animals as you Whoomangs are able to live at peace with each other?”
“It was not so before the days of Namllup,” the huge pterosaur replied, “but he gave us souls and made us one people. Our bodies may be unrelated, but our souls are the same. You and your two companions are as unalike as any of us; perhaps the three of you have a common type of soul.”
Myles was even more perplexed. “Who was Namllup?” he asked. “And what means all this talk of souls?”
XXISOULS?
In reply to Cabot’s question, the huge winged saurian, Boomalayla, King of the Whoomangs, wrote the following reply, “All that I am about to tell you of the traditional beginning of our race is shrouded in the mists of antiquity. The legend is as follows:
“Many hundreds of years ago this fertile continent was inhabited by warring beasts of every conceivable size and form; and they were but brute creatures, for they had no souls. Souls existed, it is true, but inasmuch as they inhabited no bodies, they had no learning, experience, or background. They were of but little use to themselves, each other, or the planet.
“Then one day there was born out of the ground a creature much like yourself. His name was Namllup. He it was who discovered how to introduce souls into bodies by making a slight incision at the base of the brain and inserting there a young soul.
“First he captured some very tame wild creatures and gave them souls. With their aid he captured others, more fierce, and so on, until there was hardly a beast left soulless on this continent. Thus did he make of one race all the creatures of Poros to dwell together on the face of the continent. This industry we have kept up to this day.
“It is reported, however, that Namllup himself had no soul. There was no scar at the back of his head, and no soul issued from his body after death. Others he gave soul to, himself he could not. This is the general belief.”
All this was as clear as mud to Myles Cabot. He could not make head nor tail out of it. Boomalayla appeared to be talking in riddles, or allegories.
Nevertheless, Myles determined to try and make a beginning somewhere in order to understand what this mass of verbiage was all about, so he wrote, “How can you tell? Surely you cannot see souls!”
“Surely we can,” the reptile king replied, “for souls are creatures just as real as we are, and have an independent existence from the day they hatch until they are inserted in the brain of somebody. From the way you talk, I cannot believe that you have any soul.”
“Of course I have,” Myles remonstrated.
“Prove it to me,” Boomalayla demanded. “Let me see the back of your head.”
Myles complied.
“No,” the winged king continued, “you have no soul. There is no scar.”
This conversation was irritating in the extreme. It led nowhere. Quivven and Doggo read all the correspondence, and were equally perplexed.
The huge pterosaur continued writing. “I can see that you do not believe me,” he wrote.
“This is not to be wondered at, since you yourself are soulless. Though I cannot understand how a beast like you, without a soul, can be as intelligent as you seem to be. Come to our temple, and I will show you souls.”
So saying, Boomalayla, accompanied by Queekle Mukki, the serpent, led Cabot and his two companions out of the buildings and through the streets of the city to another edifice, which they entered.
What a travesty on the lost religion of Cupia!
Within the temple there moved about a score or more of assorted beasts—pterodactyls, reptiles, huge insects, furry creatures, and so forth—bearing absolutely no resemblance to each other except the fact that each and every one of them wore a long robe emblazoned with a crimson triangle and swastika, emblem of the true religion of Poros.
Among them was one enormous slate-colored pterosaur, almost the exact counterpart of Boomalayla, the king, who introduced this beast to his guests by means of the following note: “This is the chief priest of the true religion. She is my mate. But come, let me show you some souls.”
The chief priest then led the party into an adjoining room, the walls of which were lined with tiny cages, most of which contained pairs of moths.
The dragon king explained as follows: “When a Whoomang dies, his body is brought to the temple and is watched day and night by a priest, net in hand, to catch the soul when it emerges.”
What it had to do with souls Cabot couldn’t see for the life of him. Neither could Quivven nor Doggo.
Having made a complete tour of inspection the party then returned to the palace, where they discussed the glories of Vairkingi and Cupia with the king and Queekle Mukki, and then dined on cereal cakes and a flesh resembling fish.
“Be not afraid to eat this,” Boomalayla urged. “It is fresh flesh. We breed these water reptiles especially for food.”
After the meal the three travelers were assigned rooms in the palace.
At Cabot’s request, tapestries were brought from the plane, and the party severally retired for the night.
The next morning they were up early, and assembled in Cabot’s room. The night had proved uneventful, but Doggo wrote in great excitement that he had talked with the green guards, who had refused to disclose the whereabouts of the plane, and had said that this was the king’s order.
Immediately after breakfast, which consisted of cakes and sweetened water, they requested an audience with the king—and, when it was granted, demanded news of the plane. But Boomalayla waved them off with an evasive answer.
“Tarry but a day or so,” he wrote, “and then your wings shall be returned to you, and you shall be permitted to depart. I promise it, on the word of honor of a king.”
So there was nothing but to wait, for it would not do to antagonize this powerful beast, and thus perhaps lose forever the chance to return which he had promised them.
The day was spent in a personally-conducted tour of the city, with Boomalayla as a most courteous and attentive guide and host. The Whoomangs appeared to be a highly cultivated race, if you can call them a “race”—a “congeries” would perhaps be the most accurate term. Objects of all the arts abounded, and the tour would have been most pleasurable if the three travelers had not been so anxious to be on their way once more to Cupia.
The night was spent as before, uneventfully, but the next day Doggo was missing. In reply to all inquiries, the Whoomangs returned evasive answers.
“He is gone on business of his own,” was all they would say.
This day Queekle Mukki, the serpent, was their host and guide. He used every effort to outdo Boomalayla in courtesy, but his two guests were strangely uneasy. Some impending calamity seemed to hang over them.
Late that evening, when they were in their quarters, Doggo rushed in bristling with excitement. He had something to tell them, and wanted to tell it quickly, but had mislaid his pad and stylus. Strange to relate, Cabot could not find his own writing materials either. Quivven finally found her stylus but no pad.
Seizing the lead-tipped stick, Doggo scratched on the pavement of the room, “Quick, give me paper! Quick! Your lives depend upon it! Quick, before it is too late!”
Cabot rushed into the hall and clicked twice with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, but nothing happened. Again and again he repeated the call, until finally one of the little winged messengers flitted into sight. To him the earth-man indicated his wants by going through the motions of writing with the index finger of his right hand upon the palm of his left. The little creature flitted away, and after what seemed an interminable wait returned with pad and stylus.
Myles snatched them and rushed back to Doggo. “What is the matter?” he wrote.
But Doggo replied, “Nothing. It was just a joke, to frighten you. We are all perfectly safe here, and Boomalayla has a wonderful plan to facilitate our departure three days from now.”
It was not like Doggo, or any other member of the serious minded race of ant-men, to play a practical joke like this. Myles could swear that his friend had been genuinely agitated a few moments ago. What could have happened in the meantime to change him?
The earth-man looked at the Formian steadily through narrowed lids. His friend appeared to act strangely. Could this, in truth, be Doggo?
If they had been on any other continent Myles would have sworn that some other ant-man, closely resembling his friend, was attempting an impersonation, but that could not be the case here, for Doggo was certainly the only Formian on this continent.
It was Doggo’s body, all right, yet it did not act or look like Doggo.
Even Quivven noticed that something was wrong. Nervously she said good night, and Cabot followed shortly after.
Instead of retiring he went to Quivven’s room, where the two puzzled together for some time, trying to guess what had come over their friend. What at last they parted for the night the mystery was no nearer solution than before. In fact, they had practically made up their minds that no mystery existed, after all; and that the strange surroundings, and strange events, and strange talk of souls, had merely cast an aura of strangeness even over their friend.
The next morning Doggo was on hand bright and early, but this time it was Quivven who was missing.
“My turn next,” thought Myles, “and then perhaps I shall find out what it is all about.”
As before, the Whoomangs were evasive as to the whereabouts of the golden one, and even Doggo was singularly unresponsive and devoid of ideas on the subject.
This day the she-dragon high-priestess was their guide, but although she outdid both Boomalayla and Queekle Mukki, Cabot fretted, and worried, and merely put on an external show of interest.
Late that afternoon—the fourth—of their stay among the Whoomangs—as soon as the tour was over, Cabot left Doggo and withdrew to his own room.
Where was Quivven all this time, he wondered.
His question was answered by the Golden Flame herself bursting into the room full of excitement.
“Thank the Builder I can talk to you with my mouth, and do not have to wait for pencil and paper,” she exclaimed. “The Whoomangs overlooked our powers of vocal speech when they hid our writing materials as before.”
It was true; their pads and styluses had miraculously disappeared again.
“Where have you been?” Cabot asked, somewhat testily. “I suppose that in a few moments you will say that all your excitement has been a mere practical joke on me, the same as Doggo’s was.”
“Yes,” she replied seriously. “I shall—undoubtedly. And therefore listen while there is yet time—while I am still Quivven.”
“What do you mean?” Myles exclaimed, staring at her.
“This,” she said. “In a few moments I shall be Whoomang.”
He started to interrupt, but she stopped him with a peremptory gesture, and continued; “Know, then, the secret of all this talk of souls. The grubs which they breed from their moths are strong personalities, potential devils, needing only a highly-developed body in order to become devils incarnate. Namllup, whoever he was, discovered this, ages ago.
“By a simple operation, the Whoomangs can insert one of these larvae at the base
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