The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

MacPherson will arrive first. We are going straight to the Palace of Light, my lord.”

“Are we to storm the place?” thinking of the fight MacPherson had predicted.

“Yes, my lord. Many shall die; but it cannot be helped. We must free the Jarados, although we commit sacrilege.”

“But—the Senestro?”

“That depends, my lord. We know not just what may be done.” He gave no explanation.

They had climbed to a tremendous height. The indicator showed that they were bearing east. The darkness was modified only by the faint glow from that star-dusted sky. Looking down, Chick could see nothing whatever. His companions kept silence; only the Aradna, sitting forward by the side of Jan Lucar showed any perturbation. They climbed higher and higher still, until it seemed that they must leave the Thomahlia altogether. Always the course was eastward. At last the Jan said to the Geos:

“We are now over the Region of Carbon, sir. Shall I risk the light? His lordship might like to see.”

“Follow your own judgment.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the Aradna; “do it by all means! There is nothing so wonderful as that!”

The Jan touched a small lever. Instantly a shaft of light cut down through the blackness. Far, far below it ended in a patch on the ground. Watson eagerly followed its movements as it searched from side to side, seeking he knew not what. And then—

There was a flash of inverted lightning, a flame of white fire, a blinding, stabbing scintillation of a million coruscations. Watson clapped a hand to his eyes, to cut off the sight. It was stunning.

“What is it?” he cried.

“Carbon,” answered the Geos, calmly.

“Carbon! You mean—diamond?”

“Yes, my lord. So it interests you? I did not know. Later you shall see it under more favourable conditions.” Then, to the Jan: “Enough.”

Once again they were in darkness. For some minutes silence was again the rule. Watson watched the red dot moving across the indicator, noting its approach to a three cornered figure on one edge. Suddenly there appeared another dot; then another, and another. Some came from below, others from above; presently there were a score moving in close formation.

“They are all here,” said the Jan to the Geos.

The other nodded, and explained to Chick: “It's the Rhamdas and the Crimson guards. The MacPherson is just ahead. We shall arrive in three minutes.”

And after a pause he stated that the ensuing combat would mark the first spilling of blood between the Bars and the Rhamdas. At a pinch the Senestro might even kill the Jarados, to gain his ends. “His wish is his only law, my lord.”

The red dots began to descend toward the three-cornered figure. One minute passed, and another; then one more, and the June Bug landed.

With scarcely a sound the Lucar brought the craft to a full stop. In a moment he was assisting the Aradna to alight. As for the Geos, he took from the machine two objects, which he held out to the Aradna and to Chick.

“Put these on. The rest of us fight as we are.”

They were cloaks, made of a soft, light, malleable glass, or something like it. Watson asked what they were for.

“For a purpose known only to the Jarados, my lord. There are only two of these robes. With them he left directions which indicated plainly they are for your lordship and the Aradna.”

Wondering, Chick helped the Aradna don her garment and then slipped into his own. Nevertheless, he pinned more faith in the automatic in his pocket. He did not make use of the hood which was intended to cover his head.

“Pardon me,” spoke the queen. She reached over and extended the hood till it protected his skull. “Please wear it that way, for my sake. Nothing must happen to you now!”

Chick obeyed with only an inward demur. What puzzled him most was the isolation. Seemingly they were quite alone; there was nothing, no one, to oppose them.

But he had merely taken something for granted. He, being from the earth, had assumed that strife meant noise. It was only when the Aradna caught him by the arm, and whispered for him to listen, that he understood.

It was like a breeze, that sound. To be more precise, it was like the heavy passage of breath, almost uninterrupted, coming from all about them. And presently Chick caught a queer odour.

“What is it?” he breathed in the Aradna's ear.

“It is death,” she answered. “Cannot you hear them—the deherers?”

She did not explain; but Watson knew that he was in the midst of a battle which was fought with noiseless and terribly efficient weapons—so efficient that there were no wounded to give voice to pain. Before he could ask a question a familiar voice sounded out of the darkness at his side.

“Where is the Geos?”

“Here, Bar MacPherson,” answered the Rhamda.

“Good! It is well you came, sir. We were discovered a few minutes ago; already we have lost many men. Just give us the lights, so that we can get at them! It is a waste of men, with the advantage all on their side.”

Then, lapsing into English for Chick's benefit: “'Tis welcome ye are! Ivery mon helps, how.”

“What are these sounds? You say they are fighting?”

“'Tis the deherers ye hear, lad. They fight with silent guns. Don't let 'em hit ye, or ye'll be a pink pool in the twinklin' of yer eyelid. 'Tis no joke.

“Are they more powerful than firearms?”

“I dinna say, lad. But they're th' devil's own weapon for fightin'.”

Chick did not answer—he had heard a low command from the Geos. Next instant the space before them was illuminated by clear white light, in the form of a circle—bright as day. In the centre shimmered an object like a mist of blue flame, a nimbus of dazzling, actinic lightning. There was no sign of man or life, no suggestion of sound—nothing but the nimbus, and the brilliant space about it. The whole phenomenon measured perhaps three hundred feet across.

They were in darkness. Chick took a step forward, but he was held back by MacPherson.

“Nay, lad; would ye be dyin' so soon? 'Tis fearful quick. See—”

He did not finish. A red line of soldiers had rushed straight out of the blackness into the circle of light. It seemed that they were charging the nimbus. They were stooping now, discharging their queer weapons; about three hundred of them—an inspiring sight. They