The jewel glowed and death leaped from the gun

Secret of the EARTH STAR

By

HENRY KUTTNER

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories August 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The theft of the Earth Star blazed a trail of death to a weird city under the Sahara.

CHAPTER I

Despite the blazing heat of the hot Indian night, this air-conditioned room in the palace was cool and comfortable. It was a bit too luxurious for a business office; otherwise, it might have been any New York suite. Three men sat at a small glass-topped table, on which stood a Gladstone bag.

They rose as two Indians entered, bowing respectfully to the Rajah. The latter was a small, weak-faced man with a straggling moustache and lips too large and red for his sallow face. He barely acknowledged the greetings, his gaze riveted on the leather bag.

“You have the Earth Star?” he asked.

“Yes,” said one of the three Europeans. He opened the bag, unlocked a metal case built into it, and withdrew a jewel-case. This he opened and placed flat on the table.

The Rajah’s mouth went dry. He could not repress a little shiver. “The Earth Star . . .” he whispered.

On black velvet the great gem flamed. It was lens-shaped and supernally lovely, with rays of living light flaming out from its heart. The colors latent within it changed and shifted under the soft illumination. It was like a diamond—yet no diamond had ever possessed the wonder of the Earth Star.

The Rajah’s secretary breathed deeply. “Carbon,” he murmured. “A tree-fern some million years ago—”

One of the Europeans interrupted, though he did not look away from the jewel. “A little more than that, sir. It took unusual pressure to make the Earth Star. It came from the new cavern mines under the Atlantic, you know, when they were taking cores to test from immense depths. A tree-fern made the Earth Star—but that fern was somehow buried deeper than man has ever thought possible. It’s immensely harder than diamond, though it’s carbon, of course. And the only one in existence—”

The Rajah said softly, “There is an Earth Star in the crown of your ruler.”

A subdued smile went the rounds of the group. “So there is, and an excellent imitation, too. I repeat: you will be the owner of the only Earth Star in existence.”

The Rajah placed his slim hand, glittering with invaluable jeweled rings, flat on the table-top. “Then it is a bargain. My secretary will give you a check.”

Abruptly the moonlight was blotted out. The figure of a man seemed to rush out of the night, leaping in through the open window to land lightly on the deep carpet. And that window overlooked a sheer abyss, reaching down to the river gorge far below.

The sudden movements of the Europeans, and the quick gesture of the Rajah’s secretary, were arrested at sight of an oddly shaped pistol in a gloved hand. The intruder stood motionless, one hand gripping a light metal ladder that extended up through the window and out of sight. He wore ordinary flying togs, but his face was hidden by a black silk mask.

“Don’t move,” he said, in a low voice that was obviously disguised. “No—don’t do that!” The pistol jerked slightly; otherwise there was no indication that the trigger had been pulled. But one of the Europeans cursed softly as his arm dropped to his side, paralyzed.

“A neurogun,” the masked man observed pleasantly. “It can kill, you know. . . . I’ll thank you not to move. Now—” He hooked the flexible ladder across a chair and moved warily to the table. “The Earth Star, eh?”

“Don’t be a fool,” the secretary said. “You can’t hope to sell that. It’s unique.”

The intruder did not answer, but his quizzical gaze was amused. The tallest of the Europeans snarled, “Sell it? Jackass—haven’t you ever heard of the Merlin?”

As he spoke, his foot moved slightly toward the chair to which the ladder was attached. He froze as the Merlin turned toward him.

“You recognize me?”

“I’ve heard of you.”

“Good!” The Merlin’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Then listen! I have ways of finding out what I want to know. I discovered that certain powers ruling your country had decided to sell the Earth Star to our friend the Rajah. The price I don’t know, but it must be fabulous. If that money were to go to needed purposes, I’d not have come here tonight.”

The tall European kicked the chair gently. The metal ladder slipped off, slid across the carpet, and vanished out the window. The Merlin apparently did not notice, though his retreat was now cut off.

He went on: “But the money is to be used for armaments. And you gentlemen, and those behind you, are trying to foment a new war. As for you—” He glanced at the Rajah. “You are a degenerate moron. Don’t move! It’s probably the first time you’ve ever heard the truth, but you’re going to hear it now. You’re the wealthiest man in the Orient, and you inherited your fortune, as well as your powers. You won’t buy the Earth Star out of your own treasury, though. It’ll mean taxes for your people, who are starving already. Another reason why I’m here.”

The Merlin glanced down. “This bit of carbon is causing trouble, I think. So I’ll take it along. The imitation that was made to replace it won’t interest the Rajah. So—”

He slipped the jewel in his pocket and moved back toward the window. The others watched him narrowly. The Merlin apparently did not notice the absence of his metal ladder.

The gun was still steady in one hand, but in the other he now held an object like a small flashlight. “You may be interested in knowing how I evaded your guards and alarms. I came in a gyroship.”

“But—my motor-killing rays—” The Rajah’s eyes were wide.

“They extend up only 300 feet. I hovered well above that point and came down a ladder. And here it is.”

The ladder swung in from the darkness. The Merlin’s voice was amused as he slipped the “flashlight” into his flying suit.

“A clever trick—but I have a very powerful magnet. I’ll leave you, gentlemen—”

For an instant his attention was distracted as he put one foot on the window-sill. Simultaneously the tallest European acted. With a deep-voiced oath he sprang forward, seized the Merlin, and clamped one hand over the outlaw’s gun-wrist.

“Hold him!” the secretary shrilled. He dived for an alarm buzzer. The other Europeans closed in.

The Merlin fought in silence. His opponent was trying to drag him back into the room—and that would be fatal. The outlaw dropped his weapon and gripped the ladder, with both hands now.

He pulled himself up, putting all his weight on his arms. Inevitably the European was lifted too. Overbalanced, the two went arcing into the night as clutching fingers missed their mark by a fraction.

“Shoot!” the Rajah screamed. “Shoot him!”

Guns blazed from the window. Dim in the moonlight two figures were struggling on a frail metal ladder, suspended above nothingness. A scrap of cloth went fluttering down.

“His mask—”

Out of the dark came a voice, sharp and clear.

“Martell!”

It rose in a scream. One of the figures went plunging down.

The secretary was at the window, a flashlight in his hand. He focused the beam on the quarry, a man in flying togs who kept his face turned from the light. Now other rays shot out from the roof, bathing the Merlin in merciless brilliance. A shot cracked sharply.

“They’ll get him,” the Rajah said. “I’ve sub-machine guns on the roof.”

The Merlin’s hand lifted, fumbled over the ladder. And—suddenly—he was gone! Ladder and outlaw vanished!

The Rajah stared in blank amazement. “How—”

“Automatic winding device in his plane. It just wound him up.” The European who spoke looked at his empty gun. “Better get your planes after him.”

At a nod from the Rajah the secretary hurried from the room. “We’ll get him,” royalty remarked.

“No, you won’t. The Merlin’s got a fast plane. He’s pulled off these things before. But this time—well, he lost his mask.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Stone did, before he fell. He screamed a name. Remember? Martell.”

“A common name,” the Rajah frowned.

“Stone and I worked closely together. He knew no Martells. He recognized the name and the face from elsewhere. Newsreels—newspapers—everybody knows Seth Martell and his sons. I’ll get in touch with my government immediately. May I use your televisor?”

“Yes. Recover the Earth Star, and I’ll buy it.”

“That,” said the European grimly, “is a bargain.”

CHAPTER II
Escape

Seth Martell’s craggy, strong face was set in harsh lines as he sat staring at a folded paper on his desk. Sunlight came warmly through the windows of the penthouse apartment above New York, silvering Martell’s iron-gray hair and clipped moustache. He looked hard as nails—till he lifted his lids and gazed at the three young men before him.

Seth Martell was one of the biggest men in America. Connected with the military, high up in the government, his honesty had never been questioned, nor his devotion to his country. Always he had been unswerving in serving his own ideals, no matter what self-sacrifice it entailed. Now—

Now there was pain in his gray eyes.

He looked at his three sons and hesitated, tapping the folded document with stubby, calloused fingers.

“Well?”

None of the three spoke.

Martell reached for a buzzer, and then drew back his hand. He looked at the tallest of the three.

“Tony. Are you the Merlin?”

Tony—a dark, lean young man, with very keen black eyes and a thin eager face—cocked up a quizzical eyebrow. “I, sir? The—”

Martell’s restraint failed for an instant as he snapped, “Answer me!”

Tony sobered. “No, sir,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”

“Phil.”

The second youth, blond and stocky, took a stubby pipe out of his mouth.

“No, sir.”

“Jimmy.”

The third of the trio looked somewhat like Tony, though a less matured man. The eagerness in Tony’s face was enthusiasm in Jimmy’s, boyish and pleasant. He shot a quick glance at the others, hesitated, and finally said, with a little frown, “I’m not the Merlin, sir.”

Martell sighed. “All right. Go in the sun-room and wait, boys. The investigators will be in presently.” He sat steadily regarding his nails till his sons had departed.

Tony left them at the door. “Be with you directly,” he murmured, and hurried off along the corridor. The others went into the room, and ten minutes later the oldest of the three came in, his face blandly impassive. He went to the window and stood staring out over the skyscrapers of New York, waiting on the verge of the 21st century. He began to whistle ruminatively.

“Seth insisted on interviewing us before the detecs. Good of him.”

Young Jimmy, nervously lighting a cigarette, nodded. “Damn good. But all this. . . . I don’t understand it.”

Phil’s serious eyes were questioning. “Are you sure? There’s no doubt the authorities think one of us is a crook. I wonder—”

There was a little silence. Finally Jimmy asked, “Who is this Merlin, anyway?”

“Cleverest crook in the world,” said Tony, turning. “At least, he’s been kicking around for two years. That means a lot these days. He’s pretty much of a Robin Hood. Only kills in self-defense—and never for personal profit.”

Phil broke in, “Plenty of criminals have evaded capture for years, but they’re the small fry. Not important enough to attract attention. But the Merlin—everyone thinks he’s had years of experience. Remember when Janison died? The governor? The Merlin killed him, and nobody knew why till they found out Janison was one of the biggest political racketeers in the country. He’s a Robin Hood of sorts, but the law won’t stand for Robin Hoods.”

“And,” said Tony sardonically, “one of us is the Merlin. So they say.”

Phil grinned. “Which one?”

“Oh, they’ll find out. They’ll chart our psychology—our character patterns—and check it with the analysis of the Merlin’s activities. Their lie-detectors will tell them which one of us is the Merlin. That’s positive identification, you know.”

Jimmy crushed out his cigarette, lips working. He swung suddenly on the others.

“You’re damn flippant about it! What if it’s true? What if one of us is this crook—d’you know what that’ll mean to Seth? His son shown to the world as a thief and a murderer. Seth will stick by us; I know that. But I know what his honor means to him. He got that silver plate in his skull because he thought more of honor than his life. And now—”

“Shut up, Jimmy,” Phil said quietly. “We know all that. But what can we do about it?”

Tony murmured, “Our youngest brother is about to suggest that the Merlin confess. A touching sentiment. Headlines all over the world announcing the news. Seth resigning all his offices immediately—he’d do that. Everyone knowing that a son of Seth Martell was—the Merlin.”

Phil said, “The Merlin might . . . disappear.”

“He’d have to disappear for good. Suppose I’m the lad, Philip, and suppose I disappear. A signed confession would be just as effective. The moment I disappear, it proves I’m the Merlin. No one has ever watched us. As Seth’s sons, we’re above the routine character-checks. We reported to Seth once a month. Otherwise we were free, all of us, with plenty of time to do as we pleased. Including brigandage!”

Phil grunted. “Anyway, people can’t simply drop out of sight in this day and age. Not with television, specialized wireless, telephotography, and so forth. Where the devil could a man hide for years?”

“In the Foreign Legion,” Tony said, and waited. His gaze searched the faces of the other two.

Surprise, astonishment, and incredulity showed. And vanished. Into Phil’s eyes came a look of dogged grimness. And Jimmy’s face showed—excitement.

“The Legion?” he asked.

“Yeah. No extradition. Since 1960, when the company started. No government has a hand in the Legion. They rent its services from the company, just as the Hessian dukes used to sell their soldiers to fight for other countries. When there’s a job to be done too dirty for anyone else, they ask the Legion—and waive extradition. The Polar fortresses. The Sub-Sahara. The Canal Patrols on Mars. Dangerous space-lane patrols. It isn’t like the ancient French Legion. This one’s privately owned, and, once you get in, nothing on Earth or Mars can touch you. As long as you’re in the Legion. Men don’t live long in it, as a rule.”

“Cheerful thought,” Phil grunted, puffing at his pipe. “By the way, which of us is the Merlin?”

Tony smiled. “I’m the guy, lads. And that’s what I’ve been building up to. I’m going to drop out of sight. Head for the Legion. And—well, I wanted you two to know about it. I can’t tell Seth, of course. But—”

“I’ll be damned,” Phil said in blank amazement. “You’ve got the Earth Star?”

“That’s right.”

“Odd. I happen to have it myself. In a hollow tooth.”

“You’re both crazy,” said Jimmy. “I’ve got it.”

Tony shook his head. “It’s no use. There’s no point in the three of us going into the Legion. One’s enough. So—”

Phil said, “Wait a minute. Suppose all three of us disappear? Nobody’d press a charge against three men, when obviously two were innocent. I happen to have the jewel myself—”

“Yeah,” Tony grunted. “But slow down. You’re both going off the deep-end. I’m leaving now. Heading for the Legion, and you’re both staying here.”

Jimmy said, “We’ll meet you there.”

The argument kept on—with no result. Jimmy and Phil were adamant. Each one insisted he had the stolen gem. And, if they didn’t accompany Tony, they’d simply go after him on their own hook. “So we’d better stick together,” Phil said at last. “We’ll have a better chance that way.”

Tony’s lips were compressed. “You crazy fools! You’d do it, too . . . well, stay here. I’m going after an amphiplane.”

“What if the investigators get here first?” Phil asked.

“Stall ’em. And keep your eye on that window.”

Jimmy was chewing his lip. “How do you expect to get out? If there are guards—”

Tony’s grin flashed. “You’ll find out.” He turned to the door—and was gone, apparently unruffled. But as he hurried along the passage there was a gnawing uneasiness in his mind. Guards would no doubt be watching to prevent just such an attempt at escape as this. Only blind luck could help now.

He went into the big, gleaming kitchen, a bare room with murals on its walls. Every appliance had been built-in, so that stove, tables, and so forth, could be swung out from their cubbyholes by the pressure of a button. The room was empty.

Tony’s sharp eyes flickered about, resting at last on a panel near by. He went to it, swung it open, and revealed a black hole beyond. The dumbwaiter. A glance upward informed him that the little car was below, though how far he did not know. Deftly Tony swung his legs through the hole and seized the ropes in strong fingers.

He closed the panel behind him.

It wasn’t entirely dark. A diffused pale glow filtered down from above, and gently, carefully, Tony let himself slip toward the shaft’s bottom. It was a long chance. Unless he found footing on the dumbwaiter car soon, his fingers would inevitably lose their cramped grip. For this was a penthouse apartment in a skyscraper.

Down he went into the shaft. Skin scraped from his hands. It grew darker, and below him was only unfathomable blackness. Tony hooked his legs about the rope and rested for a few moments, though he dared not delay long. Time was vitally important.

Then down he went again. He was in pitch darkness now, every muscle strained and beginning to ache. His hands stung painfully. His shoulders were throbbing.

Tony’s feet thumped softly upon the peaked top of the car.

Gasping with relief, he relaxed, keeping the ropes wound about his wrist so that his weight would not carry the car to the bottom too suddenly. But a moment later he was plummeting down, occasionally checking his speed when caution grew stronger than the imperative need for haste. Up in the penthouse Jimmy and Phil were waiting, perhaps being questioned even now by the investigators. And Seth—unseen in the darkness, Tony’s face grew grim. Seth was suffering. The old man’s devotion to his ideals, to humanity was pitted against his genuine love for his three step-sons. And one of those three was the Merlin.

Finally the car thumped against the bottom of the shaft. A little crack of light indicated the panel opening into the porter’s cellar. Tony used his knife-blade to open it, easing the door outward little by little till he discovered that the room was vacant.

The rest was surprisingly easy. A pair of overalls and a cap in a closet made a satisfactory disguise, and, carrying a can of rubbish, Tony walked blandly past the service man posted on guard outside. He deposited his burden on the sidewalk, and without a pause began to hurry toward the corner. A hail stopped him.

“You, there! Wait a minute!”

Tony turned. The guard was following him, gaze probing. A thick finger thrust out suspiciously.

“Where’re you going?”

The street was almost empty. Tony didn’t wait for the guard. He hastened toward him, arms hanging loosely at his side—until the last moment. Then, as recognition came into the man’s eyes and as his hand dived into a pocket, Tony brought up his fist in a vicious uppercut. The blow was delivered at such close quarters that it went unobserved by passers-by. The dull thwack of bone against bone was the only sound. Tony caught the guard as he fell, pulled him swiftly back into the cellar, and left him there. The man was out for the count.

There were no other guards. Tony’s progress was not halted again. He reached his destination, secured a small, swift amphiplane, equipped with gyros, and lifted it through the port in the roof. Luckily, he had plenty of money in his pocket—enough to buy the plane instead of renting it, had he desired to do so. But, like most ships of this type, the instrument board was fitted with a “homing pigeon” device, by which the plane could be set to return to its garage along a radio beam whenever desired.

Tony’s fingers flickered over the controls. The ship was a honey—small and swift, built like a thick cigar, with retractable wings and props. He swung up in a wide arc that presently brought him directly over the penthouse that was his goal.

Briefly he wondered what had happened there, and whether Phil and Jimmy were still waiting. Well—fast work was vital now. The investigators were already on guard. Sight of an approaching plane would warn them of trouble. Tony checked his controls, took a few deep breaths—and dropped faster than was safe. The wind shrieked up into a high-pitched whine past the ship, almost beyond the threshold of hearing.

The skyscraper leaped toward him like a driving lance. Its top seemed about to impale him. But the controls had been expertly set, and the craft fled down safely to one side, stopping with a bone-wrenching jolt as the automatics took hold. Tony fought back giddiness and stared out through swimming eyes. His blurred vision focused. Too far to the left—

He slid the ship forward. This was the window. Inside, he could see Phil’s broad back, and one hand extended in a sign of warning. So the investigators had already arrived. But where was Jimmy? Tony couldn’t be sure.

A voice he didn’t recognize was talking. One of the investigators . . .

“Well, we’ll find him. And the lie-detectors will give us the information we want. Trying to frame Seth Martell is the dirtiest thing the Merlin ever did.”

Jimmy said, “You’re nuts.”

“Yeah? One of our men saw it. The Merlin was opening Martell’s safe—trying to put the Earth Star in it and throw the blame on Martell. But he didn’t have time. Our man was too close, and the Merlin had to scram in a hurry. Now—which one of you was it?”

Tony’s eyebrows lifted. A new element had entered into the affair. Trying to throw the blame on Seth—yeah, that was a hell of a lousy trick. So—

Tony whistled softly, and saw Phil jerk aside, crying out something. A slim form came hurtling toward the window. Tony got a glimpse of Jimmy’s pale young face; then the boy was hurtling out into space, almost overshooting the mark in his eagerness. Tony seized his arm and pulled him back as he swayed on the ship’s edge. The craft dipped slightly under the additional weight, and then lifted again as compensatory stabilizers went into action.

From within the room came a crash, and a sharp cry of pain. Phil appeared, his face stolid and expressionless. He jumped, landing accurately, and immediately whirled. In his hand, Tony saw, was a bronze figurine he had snatched up from a table.

“Run for it!” he snapped. There were faces in the window. A gun snarled viciously. Phil hurled the figurine with deadly aim, shattering the glass above the group, and the investigators dodged back as shards and splinters showered them. Almost immediately they were back—but Tony’s hands had found the controls.

The ship fled up. As it fled it curved southward, till far below could be seen the shining waters of Long Island Sound.

Jimmy said tautly, “They’re coming after us. I can see planes—”

Phil touched a lever. The upper framework of the plane was instantly sheathed with transparent walls, making it more than ever resemble a fat, shining cigar.

Tony sent the craft rocketing down. Almost at the surface of the water, he pulled out into a glide, swooping almost without a splash into the Sound. The light was blotted out by green translucence that grew darker as the ship slanted into the depths.

“Not too deep,” Phil suggested. “The hull won’t stand a crack-up.”

Tony didn’t answer. He was fingering the controls, trying to get every possible bit of speed out of the ship before the pursuers located it with their search-rays. If they could reach the outer Atlantic, they’d be safe—barring accident. But they were not safe in the Sound.

Abruptly the water ahead sizzled and bubbled with heat. An aerial torpedo had been launched. Tony shot up and then almost immediately dived again, shifting sharply to the left. Before his companions could get their breath, the ship was rushing back along the way it had came, retracing its path. Jimmy said sharply, “What the hell—”

Phil’s fingers dug into the youngster’s arm. “Good idea, Tony.”

The latter nodded. “Maybe. We’ll dig in at the mouth of the Hudson. They’ll never look for us there. Then tonight we can slip out, take the air again—and head for the Company.”

Jimmy said, “Once we’re there, we’re safe. There’s no extradition from the Legion, eh?”

“Only to Hell,” Tony remarked, grinning.

CHAPTER III
Legion of the Lost

“So,” said the fat little man with the shaved head, “so you want to join the Legion. Eh?”

Tony looked him over. The dingy office in the outskirts of the North African city was unimpressive. But, somehow, the little man was not. He wore dirty white tropical linens, his face glistened with sweat, but to the three brothers he represented fate. On his decision their destiny would depend.

“Yeah,” Tony said. “We want to join. Well?”

The little man smiled, tapping pudgy fingers on the crowded desk. “Well. Let’s see. You passed the physical examination. Your names are—Anthony. Phillips. Jameson.” The pale blue eyes sparkled maliciously. “Better remember ’em. Sometimes it’s hard at first, but you’ll get used to them. I’m sure I don’t know why everyone who enters the Legion changes his name. There’s no extradition. However . . . You are joining for a term of five years. If you wish to leave before then, you can buy your freedom if you have the money. If you have not, you must serve your term.

“You may try to escape. You may succeed. You may fail, and in that case will be assigned to the guards in the uranium pits of Mars. No one has ever escaped from there. It is not advisable—” The blue eyes were hard as steel now. “It is scarcely wise to attempt escape. Aside from all else, when you leave us, you are no longer under the Company’s protection.”

He passed a plump hand over his shining head. “Anything more?”

Tony glanced at his brothers and shook his head. “Not a thing. What happens next?”

“The Sub-Sahara post needs men. It’s an easy job for recruits, keeping the Copts in check and seeing they don’t go outside raiding. Here!” A buzzer rang, and soon a man entered, clad in the dull gray uniform of the Legion. He saluted casually.

“Sir.”

“Captain Brady,” said the fat little man, “these three are assigned to Sub-Sahara. Rookies. Anthony, Phillips, Jameson. Break ’em in.” He immediately became engrossed in the papers piled high on his desk.

Tony looked at the officer with interest. He saw a spare figure, and a worn, tired face, deeply lined, with sunken eyes and a clipped moustache. An adventurer gone to seed, he thought—grown tired.

Brady said, “Come along,” and led the way out of the room. They emerged in blazing white sunlight. A helicopter stood a few rods away, and the captain gestured toward it.

“’ntre. We’ll fly, and talk as we go. Discipline needn’t begin till we reach Sub-Sahara, so if you’ve any questions—I’m at your service.”

He pointed toward the plane, and followed the brothers into it. With quick, familiar motions he lifted the craft into the air and sent it winging southward.

“I’ll stop at Azouad. That’s an oasis on the way. You can get smokes and equipment there—personal stuff you may want. That is—if you have any money.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed, but he merely said, “We’ve a little.” He shifted on the worn leather seat, glancing aside at Captain Brady. The man’s haggard face was immobile, the eyes mere slits as he squinted into the flaming sunlight.

From the rear of the plane came Jimmy’s voice. “Just what is Sub-Sahara?”

Brady’s voice went dull with routine. “Well—twenty years or more ago a labyrinth of caverns was discovered under the Sahara. It was inhabited by survivors of prehistoric Egyptians—Copts. They were trapped underground in some ancient catastrophe, and got along there, gradually growing accustomed to their environment. Matter of fact—there was a sort of colony in the old pre-dynastic days down there. The Copts worked mines, and there was a—well, a city of miners under the Sahara. When the entrance was blocked, the miners couldn’t get out—so they stayed there.”

“What about food?” Jimmy asked. “And oxygen?”

“There’s a lot about that Copt tribe we don’t know. Food—well, fish and mushrooms are staples. The Midnight Sea lies under the Sahara. Ages ago the water in it made the desert itself a sea, but it drained underground at last. As for oxygen, there must have been outlets before we blasted some, though they’ve never been discovered. Possibly through river caves that drain into the sea.”

Captain Brady rubbed his eyes with the back of one mahogany hand. “A lot we don’t know about the Copts. Savage, ferocious—but marvelous miners. The Legion’s posted there to keep order. Prevent raids on the surface tribes. The Copts worship Isis, or the Moon—I dunno which. Probably they’re the same. Keep clear of them unless you’re armed; don’t monkey with their religion; and don’t enter any passages engraved with the emblems of the Moon and the sistrum.”

“Why not?”

“Religion, youngster. No white man has ever seen the Ka’aba—the Black Stone—at Mecca. It’s sacred to the Moslem, just as the Alu—the group of deepest caverns—are sacred to the Copts. They say Amon-Ra is down there.”

Jimmy’s eyebrows lifted. “Amon-Ra? The ancient Egyptian god?”

“Right. ‘The Hidden Light.’ We have a sort of armed truce with the Copts, provided we don’t interfere too much. When they get out of line, we whip them back. Figuratively, of course.” Brady’s hand touched the buttoned holster at his thigh.

“What did you say the sacred caves were called?” Phil asked suddenly.

“Alu.”

“What does it mean?”

“The Land of Light.” Brady looked around. His face was alight with interest. “Have you studied Egyptology?”

“No—afraid not.”

The captain’s eyes lost their glow. “Um. Bit of a hobby of mine. Land of Light—Hidden Light—Isis, the Moon goddess—I’ve always wondered what exists in Alu. Never found out. Never expect to. But I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s the wreckage of a civilization down there.”

He chuckled. “Not that the commander agrees with me—Commander Desquer, you’ll be under him. But he can’t tell me how the Pyramids were built, or the explanation of so many mysteries of Egypt. In my opinion, space travel was understood ages before Europeans achieved it. Yes . . .” He nodded thoughtfully. “A puzzle. A nomadic civilization on the Nile, and then, without warning, a civilization full-blown and decadent. Where did it come from? It was decadent when it reached Egypt. I wonder . . .”

He turned to the controls. “Here’s Azouad. Half an hour. You’ll find plenty of shops. Don’t buy any wines—they won’t keep in Sub-Sahara. Brandy’s good. And pipes wear better than cigarettes in the Legion.”

Below the gyro was a patch of gray on the brownish, rolling Sahara plain. Small dots of faded green were visible, trees struggling desperately for moisture and life. In a clearing Captain Brady set down the ship.

“All out,” he grunted. “Parte! Half an hour, remember.”

The brothers watched the lean figure move briskly across the sun-baked square, to disappear into the depths of a cantina. Then they looked at one another.

“Well!” Jimmy murmured. “So we’re in the Legion!”

“Sub-Sahara. Um. Come on; we’ve only half an hour. Let’s look over Azouad.” Tony hesitated, gripped Phil’s arm, and glanced up. “That a plane?”

“Yeah.” Phil squinted aloft. “Wait . . . not a government plane. Private. Anyway, so what? There’s no extradition.”

“I know,” Tony said softly. “But the Earth Star’s plenty valuable. Somebody might have . . . ideas.”

“Maybe I’d better mail it back home,” Jimmy grinned.

Three glances crossed. And, curiously, at that moment a shadow drifted across the brothers—the shadow of a plane, chilling them momentarily after the blast of the African sun. It was like an omen.

Phil said, “I wonder which of us really has it?”

“I have,” Tony remarked. “Come along. I want a drink.”

He led the way, shouldering through a crowd of assorted riff-raff, the usual scum of a bordertown. Odors of sesame, oils, and less familiar stenches were sickeningly strong. Dozens of mongrels roved hungrily about; the flies were countless.

They bought smokes and entered a cantina, dark and muggy. A fat native served them squareface gin, waddling toward the dim corner where they sat. Behind them, Tony noticed, was a door, half opened less to permit fresh air to enter than to allow foul to emerge. He pushed it shut with a casual foot.

The gin wasn’t good, but it was strong. Also, it was inordinately expensive. Jimmy made a wry face.

“Hell of a lot of good money will do us now. We’ve ten minutes. Think we’ll like Sub-Sahara?”

“It sounds—interesting,” Phil said slowly. “Captain Brady’s certainly hipped on his Land of Light. I wonder what sort the Copts are?”

“Tough hombres,” Tony grunted. There was a brief silence. The waiter appeared, refilled glasses, and departed. Then—

“Merlin!” a soft voice whispered.

Tony’s fingers tightened around his glass. Phil sat perfectly motionless. Jimmy’s head jerked slightly; then he was immobile.

Tony looked around, and the others followed his lead.

Standing beside them was a small, round-faced man, his beady dark eyes glinting beneath a sun-helmet, his tropical whites looking freshly laundered. His gaze swiveled sharply from one to another of the trio. A shadow of disappointment flickered over his features and was gone.

Tony said, “Who the devil are you?”

The stranger flashed white teeth. “The private secretary of a certain Rajah. One of you has seen me before. I do not know which one. However—”

“He’s crazy,” Phil grunted. “Batty as a bedbug. Drink up, boys.”

“My name is Zadah,” the man went on without heeding the interruption. “I know that one of you is the Merlin and has the Earth Star. I want it.”

Tony looked at the man. “Do you think anybody’d who’d stolen a jewel would be fool enough to keep it on him?”

“The Merlin would. Because he’d want to make certain that a certain—deal—wouldn’t ever be completed. An imitation of the stone was made, so perfect that the deception can be discovered only by comparison with the original. Someone might try to sell the imitation as the original jewel—and the Merlin could block such a transaction only by producing the real Earth Star. He won’t get rid of it. Not unless—he’s forced to.”

Tony drank gin reflectively. “There’s an offensive odor in this place,” he remarked. “Notice it, anybody?”

Zadah said, “I do not want the police to find you or the Earth Star. If I recover it myself, the Rajah will pay me any price to have the jewel—and the original owners can prove nothing. My private operatives have traced you this far. Now—” He took out a small gun. “You will stand up and walk one by one through the door behind you. Stay in single file. My plane is just near by. We will fly to my country, and there—” Again the teeth flashed. “There I think it will not be too hard to learn which of you is the Merlin.”

Tony hesitated, remembering the plane he had seen in the sky. Zadah held the gun almost hidden under his coat, but of its deadliness there could be no doubt. The brothers exchanged glances.

“Stand up!” Zadah whispered.

Tony obeyed. He turned toward the door, opened it, and stepped out into sunlight. The others followed. Zadah said, “To the left.”

They moved slowly through an alley, littered with refuse and foul with odors. Not a soul was visible—only a stray cur that ran past, tail between its legs.

“Across the square. The gun is in my pocket, but I have my finger on the trigger. Make no suspicious move.”

Tony’s lips were white. He guessed well enough what would happen once he and his brothers were captives aboard the plane. Zadah would not stop at torture to achieve his ends. If only—

But there was no sign of help. Across the square they went, toward a small gyro in its center. Loungers in the shadows of the low buildings eyed the group incuriously as they passed. They walked on, toward a cantina, past its door—

Captain Brady came out. He hesitated, his sunken eyes intent on the spectacle. Then he moved like an uncoiled spring.

Zadah sensed danger. He started to whirl, dragging his gun from his pocket. But Brady’s hand chopped down viciously, the edge of the palm smashing against the secretary’s spine, at the nape of the neck.

A little grunt came from Zadah. He went down like a wet sack of flour. Casually Brady bent, picked up the gun, and pocketed it. His humorless eyes were without any hint of emotion.

“Time to go,” he said. “Come along.”

Silently the brothers followed Brady to the latter’s plane. Without a word they took off, speeding south until the desert-stain of Azouad was lost beneath the horizon.

And not once, during the journey, did Captain Brady refer to the affair in which he had played Saviour. Tony, grinning to himself, remarked in an undertone, “There’s no extradition from the Legion.”

“Yeah,” Phil nodded. “The devil protects his own.”

Jimmy said nothing. He was too busy peering out at the rolling dunes and endless plains of the Sahara.

Sub-Sahara! Underground labyrinth—an oasis under a burning, lifeless expanse of wilderness! To the three Martells it was, at first, a relief, after the flaming heat of the desert. Though even in the beginning there was a feeling of oppression as the metal car sank down into its shaft and the weight of earth overhead was felt almost tangibly.

It seemed hours later when the car stopped and a panel in its bare side slid open. Pale radiance flickered in through the gap, lighting the men’s faces eerily. The glow seemed to come from the walls itself.

“Phosphorescent paint,” Brady said, nodding. “Saves trouble. We spray the walls and ceiling once a year, and it’s bright enough for our needs. Come along.”

The four stepped out into a passageway. It wasn’t long. It ended before a metallic door; Brady took a rod from his pocket and held it briefly pointed at the lock. The panel opened.

Beyond the threshold lay a cavern.

Huge and dim and alien as a distant world it seemed, a gigantic hollow hemisphere in the solid Earth. It was, as far as Tony could judge, about two miles in diameter, with a jagged floor that had been cleared in a few spots. The dim light filtered down from the ceiling, as sunlight through heavy cloud. When Brady spoke, his voice was incongruous in this place of silvery soft grayness.

“There’s the fort. Over there—” He pointed. “That’s the entrance to the Coptic tunnels. We guard the entrance to the surface. Though the Copts haven’t tried to make any surface raids for a long time.” He swung out along a rough path, the others following. “They hate the Bedouins, just as the ancient Egyptians did. They don’t especially dislike us, unless we get in their way. If the mineral deposits the Copts work weren’t valuable, though, they’d be left to themselves. But the Legion’s paid to make sure the mines are kept active.”

Tony didn’t answer. His eyes were slowly accustoming themselves to this strange light. He glanced up at a ceiling that was both visible and invisible. No details could be seen. A veil of shining cloud seemed to obscure the rock far above. The vault of a world, Tony thought. A world created here, perhaps, when the Sahara was a sea instead of a desert. What had Brady said a while ago? Something about a prehistoric, mighty civilization in ante-dynastic Egypt . . . and, far and far below, the Copts still worshiped Isis, in the hidden caverns of Alu where no white man had ever penetrated. “The wreckage of a civilization down there,” Brady had said.

In this eery cavern-world it was easy to believe in almost anything. A scrap of half-forgotten verse drifted through Tony’s mind:

“But you have seen the hieroglyphs on the great sandstone obelisks,

And you have talked with Basilisks, and you have walked with hippogriffs . . .”

They were at the fort. Nothing could be seen beyond a palisade of strong, dully-gleaming metal. But a bell rang sharply; a gate opened, and a man in legionnaire uniform appeared.

Even in the odd light his face seemed strangely pallid—drained of all color, like bleached papyrus. He was gaunt and fleshless almost to the point of emaciation, so that his eyes and mouth were black hollows. It seemed as though a skull wore the rakish Legion cap atop its dome.

He saluted, and Brady responded.

“Hello, Jacklyn. Tell Commander Desquer I’m here.”

Jacklyn stood aside to let the others enter. Tony discovered that within the palisade were a dozen metal shacks, prefabricated, and without sign of life. So this would be their home from now on!

Brady said, “Well? Didn’t you—”

Jacklyn’s voice was strained. “Glad you’re back, sir. The commander left for the surface an hour ago. He got a message. . . . There’s trouble, sir. The Copts—they’ve kidnapped Ruggiero.”

Captain Brady looked at his fingernails. “It’s full moon, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. I need four men. Completely armed. We’ll leave as soon as they’re ready.”

Jacklyn hurried away. Tony asked, “Is this—the usual thing, down here?”

Brady shook his head. “No. At full moon the Copts choose a victim to represent Osiris. The Husband of Isis. Usually it’s all done quietly, and the sacrifice is a Copt, of course.”

Jimmy inquired rather weakly, “What sort of sacrifice is it?”

“Degenerate form of Egyptian religion. According to legend, Seth, the evil god, was jealous of Osiris. He put him to death, tearing his body into fourteen pieces. The Copts are . . . literal-minded.”

Brady sucked in his breath. “I wish I knew more of their mythos. The ceremony glorifies Isis of the Moon. A Copt has always served before. But now . . .” He pulled at the clipped gray moustache. “Ruggiero has been taken to Alu to be sacrificed. This means trouble—plenty of it.” But there was no fear in the sunken eyes; only excited anticipation. “Alu! The Land of Light!”

And suddenly Tony understood. For years Brady had wondered about the half-mythical cavern world below, a place forbidden to him by rigid rules. Now, in the absence of the commander, it was Brady’s duty to rescue the kidnapped legionnaire. His duty—and his chance.

Tony said, “Let us go with you, captain. Eh?”

Jimmy and Phil exchanged surprised glances. Then Phil nodded. “Yeah! How about it?”

Brady hesitated. “You’re untrained. You don’t know the ropes—”

“We know how to handle guns.”

“Carbon-pistols?”

“We can learn easily enough.”

“Yes . . . they’re simple. But—all right,” the captain said with sudden decision. “You’re new, and that means you’re not scared stiff of Alu. The three of you and Jacklyn. Right!”

He bawled for the skull-faced man. “Jacklyn! Get equipment! I’m taking these three recruits. Allons!”

Tony grinned at his brothers. Their introduction to the Legion was to be exciting, after all—if not fatal!

CHAPTER IV
Sub-Sahara

Jacklyn said, “Fifty years nearly I’ve been here. It never changes. First time I’ve ever seen the Copts get out of hand. Sure, they’d try to get out once in a while to butcher the Bedouins, but they never had anything against us. Funny.”

The group was marching swiftly through a dim tunnel, Captain Brady in the lead, the others trailing. They had been moving for an hour, in a labyrinth of passages through which the captain unerringly found his way. Now he looked back and remarked:

“That’s right. I know this maze pretty well, but Jacklyn knows it blindfolded. He’s practically a Copt himself. Hasn’t been above ground for fifty years.”

“You must like it here,” Jimmy remarked.

Jacklyn said, very softly, “It’s hell. You been in New York lately? Yeah? How does the old burg look now?”

“It’s changed in fifty years,” Phil said. “But you know that already.”

“Times Square, though—that’s there, eh? I remember I used to feel empty whenever I got out of the old town. God, I’d like to see it again—but not on a televisor. In fact,” he went on slowly, “I’d like to smell fresh air again. Not this artificial ventilation. See starlight and green growing things.”

“And the Sun,” Jimmy nodded understandingly. He glanced at Jacklyn—and then caught his breath at sight of the expression on the legionnaire’s pallid face. Horror—and hate!

It was gone immediately. Jacklyn ignored the remark. He said, “I was one of the first spacemen. There’ve been plenty of improvements since my time, what with liquid fuels instead of powder, and those new magnetic induced-gravity screens they’re working on. But it’s like shipping, I guess—steam or sail, it’ll never really change. There’ll be the sea under you, or space around you. We—”

“Sh-h!” Brady held up a warning finger. “Hold it!”

They paused, but no sound came. The captain relaxed.

“Thought I heard an explosion. Guess not. Well—by the way, are you sure you know how to use the carbon-pistols?”

“It’s not hard,” Tony said. He took out his weapon, resembling an oversized revolver with a cup-shaped hollow where the hammer should have been. From his pocket he withdrew a bit of coal, slipped it into the cup, where prongs held it firmly in place, and hefted the gun. “Not so easy to sight as a Colt, but the force-charge scatters, doesn’t it?”

Jacklyn said, “Right. Watch the recoil, though. Ease the trigger-button down. And don’t run out of coal.”

“Funny,” Tony remarked. “Coal doesn’t seem much good in a pistol.”

Captain Brady laughed a little. “The thing’s based on atomic force—liberation of quanta, though I don’t understand the scientific principles of it myself. Works only on carbon. Coal’s carbon—and cheap. So, if the Copts get out of hand, we fight ’em with the coal they dig for us. Rather unfair, but it’s all in the Legion’s work.”

“Practically everything is,” Tony said dryly. “How much farther, captain?”

“We’ve been going down steadily—wait! Here’s someone. Don’t touch your guns unless I give the word.”

Tony stared ahead. For a second he saw nothing; then abruptly the tunnel was filled with a dozen bizarre figures. Clad in skin-fitting garments of unfamiliar texture, white-skinned, with blue veins showing plainly through the flesh, the men’s faces were aquiline and strong, with beaked noses and abnormally large eyes, in which the pupils nearly eclipsed the irises. The Copts’ hair—they had none on their faces—was like bleached straw, tightly curled. They seemed unarmed, yet Brady’s whole body subtly tensed as he stood waiting.

The foremost of the Copts, taller than the rest, and wearing a tapering headdress, came forward, hand lifted. He spoke in English.

“Captain Brady, why are you here?”