Part 17 (1/2)

The Viceroy was alone, now. His blade flickered as though inspired, and two more died under its tireless onslaught. Even more would have died if the head of the conspiracy, a supporter of Young Jim named Rada, hadn't pulled a trick that not even the Viceroy would have pulled.

Rada grabbed one of his own men and shoved him toward the Viceroy's sword, impaling the hapless man upon that deadly blade.

And, in the moment while the Viceroy's weapon was buried to the hilt in an enemy's body, the others leaped around the dying man and ran their blades through the Viceroy.

He dropped to the floor, blood gus.h.i.+ng from half a dozen wounds.

Even so, his fighting heart still had seconds more to beat. As he propped himself up on one arm, the a.s.sa.s.sins stood back; even they recognized that they had killed something bigger and stronger than they.

A better man than any of them lay dying at their feet.

He clawed with one hand at the river of red that flowed from his pierced throat and then fell forward across the stone floor. With his crimson hand. he traced the great symbol of his Faith on the stone-the Sign of the Cross. He bent his head to kiss it. and, with a final cry of ”Jesus!” he died. At the age of seventy, it had taken a dozen men to kill him with treachery, something all the h.e.l.l of nine years of conquest and rule had been unable to do.

And thus died Francisco Pizarro, the Conqueror of Peru.

Despoilers is, of course, a takeoff on history. It was actually the brainchild of John W. Campbell, Jr.. the great editor who guided Astounding Science Fiction from 1938, through its metamorphosis into a.n.a.log in 1962, until his untimely death in 1971.

I was in his office one day, and he said; ”There may be supermen in the future; have there ever been any in the past?”

Anyone who ever worked with John knows that that was a trick question. It, and others like it, were designed to make one think.

I hedged. (We all did.) ”It's possible.”

”Possible?” He sniffed. ”Historical evidence shows that it was true.”

I, of course, was thinking of ”superman” in terms of Kimball Kinnison, Jommy Cross, or even Clark Kent. ”You mean Biblical-”

”I mean historical. Four hundred years ago!” He paused. Then, in a low voice; ”Do you realize that less than five hundred men conquered the Empire of Peru?”

Well-h.e.l.l-with that to go on, what else could I do but write the story?

THE HORROR OUT OF TIME.

H. P. Lovecraft was a master at writing creepy horror. Those who know him-among them Robert Bloch and Donald Wollheim-were aware of his horror of the sea and the things that lived in it.

This story is dedicated to H. P., Robert, and Don, to a.s.sure them that there are more horrid things beneath the sea than Chthulu.

It all depends on your viewpoint.

By Randall Garrett

It has been more than thirty years now since I saw that terrifying thing in the crypt-like temple, but I remember it as clearly, and with all the horror, as if I had seen it but an hour ago. In those days, twenty years before the turn of the century, the sailing s.h.i.+p still held sway over most of the world's waters; now, the steam-driven vessels cover in days distances that took months. All that no longer matters to me; I have not been abroad since I returned from that South Sea voyage, still weak from fever and delirium, over thirty years ago.

I think that before the end of this new century, scientific researchers will have proven as fact things which I already know to be true. What facts lie behind the mysteries of certain megalithic ruined cities found buried beneath the s.h.i.+fting sands on three separate continents? Are they merely the constructs of our prehistoric ancestors? Or are they much older than we know, the products of some primal race, perhaps from this planet, perhaps from another, far distant in s.p.a.ce? The latter sounds wild, phantastick, perhaps even...mad, but I believe it to be true, and may hap this narrative will be of some service to those researchers who already suspect the truth. Long before our ancestors discovered the use of fire, even before they had evolved beyond animal form and intellect, there were beings of vast power and malignant intelligence who ruled supreme over this planet.

I have always been a person of leisure, spending my time in historical research, in reading books on philosophy, both natural and metaphysical, and in writing what I believe to be scholarly articles for various learned journals. When I was younger, I was more adventurous; I travelled a great deal, not only to read and research in the great universities of the world, but to do original research in hidden places of the earth, where few learned folk have gone. I was fearless then; neither the rotten foetidness of tropic jungles, nor the arid heat of harsh deserts, nor the freezing cold of polar regions daunted me.

Until the summer of my twenty-sixth year.

I was aboard the White Moon, sailing homeward through the South Seas, after having spent some months exploring the ancient ruins on one of the larger islands. (Their age can be measured in mere centuries; they have nothing to do with the present narrative. ) During the time I had been aboard, I had become quite friendly with Captain Bork, the commander of the three-masted vessel. He was a heavy-set, bluff, hearty fellow, an excellent s.h.i.+p's officer, and well-read in many subjects far divergent from mere nautical lore. Although self-educated, his behavior was that of one gently born, far above that of the common sailor of the day. He was perhaps a dozen years older than I, but we spent many an hour during that tedious journey discussing various subjects, and I dare say I learned as much from him as he learned from me. We became, I think, good friends.

One evening, I recall, we sat up rather late in his cabin, discoursing on daemonology.

”I'm not a superst.i.tious chap, myself, sir,” said he, ”but I will tell you that there are things take place at sea that could never happen on land. Things I couldn't explain if I tried.”

”And you attribute them to non-material spirits, Captain?” I asked. ”Surely not.”

In the dim light shed by the oil-lamp swinging gently overhead, his face took on a solemn expression. ”Not spirits, perhaps, sir. No, not spirits exactly. Something...else.”

I became interested. I knew the captain's sincerity, and I knew that, whatever he had to tell me, it would be told as he knew it to be.

”What, then, if not spirits?” I asked.

He looked broodingly out the porthole of his cabin. ”I don't really know,” he said slowly in his low, rumbling voice, staring out at the moonless sea-night. After a moment, he looked back at me, but there was no change in his expression. ”I don't really know,” he repeated. ”It may be daemons or spirits or whatever, but it's not the feeling one gets in a graveyard, if you see what I mean. It's different, somehow.

It's as if there were something down there-”

And he pointed straight downward, as though he were directing my attention down past the deck, past the hull, to the dreadful black sea-bottom so far beneath. I could say nothing.

”Way down there,” he continued solemnly. ”There is something old down there-something old, but living. It is far older than we can know. It goes far back beyond the dawn of time. But it is there and it...waits.”

A feeling of revulsion came over me-not against the captain, but against the sea itself, and I realized that I, too, had felt that nameless fear without knowing it. But of course I could not fall prey to that weird feeling.

”Come, Captain,” said I, in what I hoped was a pleasant tone, ”this is surely your imagination.

What intelligence could live at the bottom of the sea?”

He looked at me for a long moment, then his countenance changed. There was a look of forced cheerfulness upon his broad face. ” Aye, sir; you're right. A person gets broody at sea, that's all. I fear I've been at sea too long. Have to take a long rest ash.o.r.e, I will. I've been planning a month in port, and it'll rid me of these silly notions. Will you have another drink, sir?”

I did, and by the time I was in my own cabin, I had almost forgotten the conversation. I lay down in my bunk and went fast asleep.

I was awakened by the howling of the wind through the rigging. The s.h.i.+p was heaving from side to side, and I realized that heavy seas had overtaken her. From above, I heard the shouts of the captain and the first mate. I do not remember what they were, for I am not fully conversant with nautical terms, but I could hear the various members of the crew shouting in reply.

It was still dark, and, as it was summertime in the southern hemisphere, that meant that it was still early. I hadn't the faintest notion of the time, but I knew I had not slept long.

I got out of my bunk and headed topside.

It is difficult, even now, for me to describe that storm. The sea was roiling like a thing alive, but the wind was almost mild. It s.h.i.+fted, now blowing one way, now another, but it came nowhere near heavy gale force. The White Moon swerved this way and that under its influence, as though we were caught in some monstrous whirlpool that changed its direction of swirl at varying intervals.

There were no clouds directly overhead. The stars shone as usual in every direction save to the west, where one huge black cloud seemed to blot the sky.

I heard the Captain shout: ”Get below, sir! Get below! You're only a hindrance on deck! Get below!”