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Title: Pied Piper of Mars
Author: Frederic Arnold Kummer
Illustrator: Alexander Leydenfrost
Release date: May 10, 2020 [eBook #62085]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PIED PIPER OF MARS ***
Pied Piper of Mars
By FREDERIC ARNOLD KUMMER, Jr.
Elath Taen made mad music for the men of Mars.
The red planet lived and would die to the
soul-tearing tunes of his fiendish piping.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
In all the solar system there is no city quite like Mercis, capital
of Mars. Solis, on Venus, is perhaps more beautiful, some cities of
Earth certainly have more drive and dynamitism, but there is a strange
inscrutable air about Mercis which even terrestials of twenty years'
residence cannot explain. Outwardly a tourists' mecca, with white
plastoid buildings, rich gardens, and whispering canals, it has another
and darker side, ever present, ever hidden. While earthmen work and
plan, building, repairing, bringing their vast energy and progress
to decadent Mars, the silent little reddies go their devious ways,
following ancient laws which no amount of terrestial logic can shake.
Time-bound ritual, mysterious passions and hates, torturous, devious
logic ... all these, like dark winding underground streams run beneath
the tall fair city that brings such thrilled superlatives to the lips
of the terrestial tourists.
Steve Ranson, mounting the steps of the old house facing the Han
canal, was in no mood for the bizarre beauties of Martian scenery. For
one thing, Mercis was an old story to him; his work with Terrestial
Intelligence had brought him here often in the past, on other strange
cases. And for another thing, his mission concerned more vital matters.
Jared Haller, as head of the state-owned Martian Broadcasting System,
was next in importance to the august Governor Winship himself. As
far back as the Hitlerian wars on earth it had been known that he
who controls propaganda, controls the nation ... or planet. Martian
Broadcasting was an important factor in controlling the fierce warlike
little reddies, keeping the terrestial-imposed peace on the red
planet. And when Jared Haller sent to Earth for one of the Terrestial
Intelligence, that silent efficient corps of trouble-shooters,
something was definitely up.
The house was provided with double doors as protection against the
sudden fierce sandstorms which so often, in the month of Tol, sweep
in from the plains of Psidis to engulf Mercis in a red choking haze.
Ranson passed the conventional electric eye and a polite robot voice
asked his name. He gave it, and the inner door opened.
A smiling little Martian butler met him in the hall, showed him into
Haller's study. The head of M.B.C. stood at one end of the big library,
the walls of which were lined with vivavox rolls and old-fashioned
books. As Ranson entered, he swung about, frowning, one hand dropping
to a pocket that bulged unmistakably.
"Ranson, Terrestial Intelligence." The special agent offered his card.
"You sent to Earth a while ago for an operator?"
Jared Haller nodded. He was a big, rough-featured individual with gray
leonine hair. A battering-ram of a man, one would think, who hammered
his way through life by sheer force and drive. But as Ranson looked
closer, he could see lines of worry, of fear, etched about the strong
mouth, and a species of terror within the shaggy-browed eyes.
"Yes," said Jared Haller. "I sent for an operator. You got here
quickly, Mr. Ranson!"
"Seven days out of earth on the express-liner _Arrow_." Ranson wondered
why Haller didn't come to the point. Even Terrestial Intelligence
headquarters in New York hadn't known why a T.I. man was wanted on
Mars ... but Haller was one of the few persons sufficiently important
to have an operator sent without explanation as to why he was wanted.
Ranson put it directly. "Why did you require the help of T.I., Mr.
Haller?" he asked.
"Because we're up against something a little too big for the Mercian
police force to handle." Jared Haller's strong hands tapped nervously
upon the desk. "No one has greater respect for our local authorities
than myself. Captain Maxwell is a personal friend of mine. But I
understood that T.I. men had the benefit of certain amazing devices,
remarkable inventions, which make it easy for them to track down
criminals."
Ranson nodded. That was true. T.I. didn't allow its secret devices
to be used by any other agency, for fear they might become known to
the criminals and outlaws of the solar system. But Haller still hadn't
told what crime had taken place. This time Ranson applied the spur of
silence. It worked.
"Mr. Ranson," Haller leaned forward, his face a gray grim mask,
"someone, something, is working to gain control of the Martian
Broadcasting Company! And I don't have to tell you that whoever
controls M.B.C. controls Mars! Here's the set-up! Our company, although
state owned, is largely free from red-tape, so long as we stress the
good work we terrestials are doing on Mars and keep any revolutionary
propaganda off the air-waves. Except for myself, and half a dozen other
earthmen in responsible positions, our staff is largely Martian.
That's in line with our policy of teaching Mars our civilization until
it's ready for autonomy. Which it isn't yet, by quite some. As you
know."
Ranson nodded, eyes intent as the pattern unfolded.
"All right." Haller snapped. "You see the situation. Remove us ... the
few terrestials at the top of M.B.C ... and Martian staff would carry
on until new men came out from Earth to take our places. But suppose
during that period with no check on their activities, they started
to dish out nationalist propaganda? One hour's program, with the old
Martian war-songs being played and some rabble-rouser yelling 'down
with the terrestial oppressors' and there'd be a revolution. Millions
of reddies against a few police, a couple of regiments of the Foreign
Legion. It'd be a cinch."
"But," ... Ranson frowned ... "this is only an interesting supposition.
The reddies are civilized, peaceful."
"Outwardly," Haller snapped. "But what do you or any other earthmen
know about what goes on in their round red heads? And the proof that
some revolt is planned lies in what's been happening the past few
weeks! Look here!" Haller bent forward, the lines about his mouth
tighter than ever. "Three weeks ago my technical advisor, Rawlins,
committed suicide. Not a care in the world, but he killed himself. A
week later Harris, head of the television department, went insane.
Declared a feud with the whole planet, began shooting at everyone he
saw. The police rayed him in the struggle. The following week Pegram,
the musical director, died of a heart attack. Died with the most
terrorized expression on his face I've ever seen. Fear, causing the
heart attack, his doctor said. You begin to see the set-up? Three men,
each a vital power in M.B.C. gone within three weeks! And who's next?
Who?" Jared Haller's eyes were bright with fear.
"Suicide, insanity, heart attack." Ranson shrugged. "All perfectly
normal. Coincidence that they should happen within three weeks. What
makes you think there's been foul play?"
For a long brittle moment Jared Haller stared out at the graceful white
city, wan in the light of the twin moons. When he turned to face
Ranson again, his eyes were bleak as a lunar plain.
"One thing," he said slowly. "The music."
"Music?" Ranson echoed. "Look here, Mr. Haller, you...."
"It's all right." Jared Haller grinned crookedly. "I'm not insane. Yet.
Look, Mr. Ranson! There's just one clue to these mysterious deaths!
And that's the music! In each instance the servants told of hearing,
very faintly, a strange melody. Music that did queer things to them,
even though they could hear it only vaguely. Music like none they'd
ever heard. Like the devil's pipes, playing on their souls, while....
Almighty God!"
Jared Haller froze, his face gray as lead, his eyes blue horror. Ranson
was like a man in a trance, bent forward, lips pressed tight until they
resembled a livid scar. The room was silent as a tomb; outside, they
could hear the vague rumbling of the city, with the distant swish of
canal boats, the staccato roar of rockets as some earth-bound freighter
leaped from the spaceport. Familiar, homey sounds, these, but beneath
them, like an undercurrent of madness, ran the macabre melody.
* * * * *
There was, there had never been, Ranson knew, any music like this.
It was the pipes of Pan, the chant of robots, the crying of souls in
torment. It was a cloudy purple haze that engulfed the mind, it was a
silver knife plucking a cruel obligato on taut nerves, it was a thin
dark snake writhing its endless coils into the room.
Neither man moved. Ranson knew all the tricks of visual hypnotism, the
whirling mirror, the waving hands, the pool of ink ... but this was
the hypnotism of sound. Louder and clearer the music sounded, in eerie
overtones, quavering sobbing minors, fierce reverberating bass. Sharp
shards of sound pierced their ears, deep throbbing underrhythm shook
them as a cat shakes a mouse.
"God!" Haller snarled. "What ... what is it?"
"Don't know." Ranson felt a queer irritation growing within him. He
strode stiffly to the window, peered out. In the darkness, the broad
Han canal lay placid; the stars caught in its jet meshes gently
drifted toward the bank, shattered on the white marble. Along the
embankment were great fragrant clumps of _fayeh_ bushes. It was among
these, he decided, that their unknown serenader lay concealed.
Suddenly the elfin melody changed. Fierce, harsh, it rose, until Ranson
felt as though a file were rasping his nerves. He knew that he should
dash down, seize the invisible musician below ... but logic, facts and
duty, all were fading from his mind. The music was a spur, goading him
to wild unreasoning anger. The red mists of hate swirled through his
brain, a strange unreasoning bloodlust grew with the savage beat of the
wild music. Berserk rage sounded in each shivering note and Ranson felt
an insane desire to run amok. To inflict pain, to see red blood flow,
to kill ... kill! Blindly he whirled, groping for his gun, as the music
rose in a frenzied death-wail.
Turning, Ranson found himself face to face with Jared Haller. But the
tall flinty magnate was now another person. Primitive, atavistic rage
distorted his features, insane murder lurked in his eyes. The music was
his master, and it was driving him to frenzy. "Kill!" the weird rhythm
screamed, "Kill!" And Jared Haller obeyed. He snatched the flame-gun
from his pocket, levelled it at Ranson.
Whether it was the deadly melody outside, or the instinct of
self-preservation, Ranson never knew, but he drove at Haller with grim
fury. The flame-gun hissed, filling the room with a greenish glare, its
beam passing so close to Ranson's hair as to singe it. Ranson came up,
grinning furiously, and in a moment both men were struggling, teeth
bared in animalistic grins, breath coming in choked gasps, whirling
in a mad dance of death as the macabre music distilled deadly poison
within their brains.
The end came with startling suddenness. Ranson, twisting his opponent's
arm back, felt the searing blast of the flame-gun past his hand. Jared
Haller, a ghastly blackened corpse, toppled to the floor.
At that moment the lethal rhythm outside changed abruptly. From the
fierce maddening beat of a few minutes before, the chords took on a
yearning seductive tone. A call, it seemed, irresistible, soft, with
a thousand promises. This was the song the sirens sang to Ulysses,
the call of the Pied Piper, the chant of the houris in paradise. It
conjured up pictures in Ranson's mind ... pictures of fairyland, of
exquisitely beautiful scenes, of women lovely beyond imagination. All
of man's hopes, man's dreams, were in that music, and it drew Ranson as
a moth is drawn to a flame. The piping of Pan, the fragile fantasies of
childhood, the voices of those beyond life.... Ranson walked stiffly
toward the source of the music, like a man drugged.
As he approached the window the melody grew louder. The hypnotism of
sound, he knew, but he didn't care. It was enthralling, irresistible.
Like a sleepwalker he climbed to the sill, stood outlined in the tall
window. Twenty feet to the ground, almost certain death ... but Ranson
was lost in the golden world that the elfin melody conjured up. He
straightened his shoulders, was about to step out.
Then suddenly there was a roar of atomic motors, a flashing of lights.
A police boat, flinging up clouds of spray, swept up the canal,
stopped. Ranson shook himself, like a man awakening from a nightmare,
saw uniformed figures leaping to the bank. From the shadow of the
_fayeh_ bushes a slight form sprang, dodged along the embankment.
Flame-guns cut the gloom but the slight figure swung to the left,
disappeared among the twisting narrow streets. Bathed in cold sweat,
Ranson stepped back into the room, where the still, terrible form of
Jared Haller lay. Ranson stared at it, as though seeing it for the
first time. Outside, there were pounding feet; the canal-patrolmen
raced through the house, toward the study. And then, his brain weary as
if it had been cudgelled, Ranson slid limply to the floor.
* * * * *
Headquarters of the Martian Canal-Patrol was brilliantly lighted by a
dozen big _astralux_ arcs. Captain Maxwell chewed at his gray mustache,
staring curiously at Ranson.
"Then you admit killing Haller?" he demanded.
"Yes." Ranson nodded sombrely. "In the struggle. Self-defense. But even
if it hadn't been self-defense, I probably would have fought with him.
That music was madness, I tell you! Madness! Nobody's responsible when
under its influence! I...."
"You killed Haller," Captain Maxwell said. "And you blame it on this
alleged music. I might believe you, Ranson, but how many other people
would? Even members of Terrestial Intelligence aren't sacro sanct. I'll
have to hold you for trial."
"Hold me for trial?" Ranson leaned forward, his gaunt face intent.
"While the real killer, the person playing that music, gets away? Look!
Let me out of here for twelve hours! That's all I ask! And if I don't
track down whoever was outside Haller's house, you can...."
"Sorry." Captain Maxwell shook his head. "You know I'd like to, Ranson.
But this is murder. To let a confessed murderer, even though he is a
T.I. man, go free, is impossible." The captain drew a deep breath,
motioned to the two gray-uniformed patrolmen. "Take Mr. Ranson."
And then Steve Ranson went into action. In one blinding burst of
speed, he lunged across the desk, tore Captain Maxwell's pistol from
its holster. Before the captain and the two patrolmen knew what had
happened, they were staring into the ugly muzzle of the flame-gun.
"Sorry." Ranson said tightly. "But it had to be done. There's hell
loose on Mars, the devil's melody! And it's got to be stopped before it
turns this planet upside down!"
"You can't get away with this, Ranson!" Captain Maxwell shook his head.
"It'll only make it tougher for you when we nab you again! Be sensible!
Put down that gun."
"No good. Got to work fast." Ranson backed toward the door, gun
in hand. "Let this mad music go unchecked and it's death to all
terrestials on Mars! And I'm going to stop it! So long, captain! You
can try me for murder if you want, after I've done my job here!"
Ranson took the key from the massive plastic door as he backed
through the entrance. Once in the hall, he slammed the door shut,
locked Maxwell and his men in the room. Then, dropping the gun into
his pocket, he ran swiftly down the corridor to the main entrance of
headquarters. In the hall a patrolman glanced at him suspiciously,
halted him, but a wave of Ranson's T.I. card put the man aside.
Free of headquarters, Ranson began to run. Only a few moments, he
knew, before Maxwell and his men blasted a way to freedom, set out in
pursuit. Like a lean gray shadow Ranson ran, twisting, dodging, among
the narrow streets, heading toward Haller's house. Mercis was a dream
city in the wan light of the moons. One in either side of the heavens,
they threw weird double shadows across the rippling canals, the aimless
streets. Sleek canal-cabs roared along the dark waterways, throwing
up clouds of spray, and on the embankments, green-eyed, bulge-headed
little reddies padded, silent, inscrutable, themselves a part of the
eternal mystery of Mars.
Haller's house stood dark and brooding beside the canal. Captain
Maxwell's men had completed their examination and the place was
deserted. Ranson stepped into the shadow of the clump of fragrant
_fayeh_ bushes, where the unknown musician had stood; there was little
danger, he felt, of patrolmen hunting for him at Haller's house.
The captain had little faith in copybook maxims about the murderer
returning to the scene of the crime.
Ranson stood motionless for a moment as a canal boat swept by, then
drew from his pocket a heavy black tube. He tugged, and it extended
telescopically to a cane some four feet long. The cane was hollow, a
tube, and the head of it was large as a man's two fists and covered
with small dials, gauges. This was the T.I.'s most cherished secret,
the famous "electric bloodhound," by which criminals could be tracked.
Ranson touched a lever and a tiny electric motor in the head of the
cane hummed, drawing air up along the tube. He tapped the bank where
the unknown musician had stood, eyes on the gauges. Molecules of
matter, left by the mysterious serenader, were sucked up the tube,
registered on a sensitive plate, just as delicate color shades register
on the plate of a color camera.
Ranson tapped the cane carefully upon the ground, avoiding those places
where he had stood. Few people crossed this overgrown embankment, and
it was a safe bet that no one other than the strange musician had
been there recently. The scent was a clear one, and the dials on the
head of the cane read R-2340-B, the numerical classification of the
tiny bits of matter left behind by the unknown. The theory behind it
was quite simple. The T.I. scientists had reasoned that the sense of
smell is merely the effect of suspended molecules in the air acting
upon sensitive nerve filaments, and they knew that any normal human
can follow a trail of some strong odor such as perfumes, or gasoline,
while animals, possessing more sensitive perceptions, can follow
less distinct trails. To duplicate this mechanically had proven more
difficult than an electric eye or artificial hearing device, but in
the end they had triumphed. Their efforts had resulted in the machine
Ranson now carried.
The trial was, at the start, clear. Ranson tapped the long tube on the
ground like a blind man, eyes on the dial. Along the embankment, into a
side street, he made his way. There were few abroad in this old quarter
of the city; from the spaceport came the roar of freighters, the rumble
of machinery, but here in the narrow winding streets there was only the
faint murmur of voices behind latticed windows, the rustle of the wind,
the rattle of sand from the red desert beyond the city.
* * * * *
As Ranson plunged further into the old Martian quarter, the trail grew
more and more confused, crossed by scores of other trails left by
passersby. He was forced to stop, cast about like a bloodhound, tapping
every square foot of the street before the R-2340-B on the dial showed
that he had once more picked up the faint elusive scent.
Deeper and deeper Ranson plunged into the dark slums of Mercis. Smoky
gambling dens, dives full of drunken spacehands and slim red-skinned
girls, maudlin singing ... even the yellow glare of the forbidden
san-rays, as they filtered through drawn windows. Unsteady figures made
their way along the streets. Mighty-thewed Jovian blasters, languid
Venusians, boisterous earthmen ... and the little Martians padding
softly along, wrapped in their loose dust-robes.
At the end of an alley where the purple shadows lay like stagnant
pools, Ranson paused. The alley was a cul-de-sac, which meant that
the person he was trailing must have entered one of the houses. Very
softly he tapped the long tube on the ground. Again with a hesitant
swinging of dials, R-2340-B showed up, on the low step in front of one
of the dilapidated, dome-shaped houses. Ranson's eyes narrowed. So the
person who had played the mad murder melody had entered that house!
Might still be there! Quickly he telescoped the "electric bloodhound,"
dropped it into his pocket, and drew his flame-gun.
The old house was dark, with an air of morbid deadly calm about
it. Ranson tried the door, found it locked. A quick spurt from his
flame-gun melted the lock; he glanced about to make sure no one had
observed the greenish glare, then stepped inside.
The hallway was shadowy, its walls hung with ancient Martian tapestries
which, from their stilted symbolic ideographs must have dated back to
the days of the Canal-Builders. At the end of the hallway, however,
light jetted through a half-open door. Ranson moved toward it, silent
as a phantom, muscles tense. Gripping his flame-gun, he pushed the door
wide ... and a sudden exclamation broke from his lips.
Before him lay a gleaming laboratory, lined with vials of strange
liquids, shining test-tubes, and queer apparatus. Beside a table,
pouring a black fluid from a beaker into a test-tube, stood a man.
Half-terrestial, half-Martian, he seemed, with the large hairless head
of the red planet, and the clean features of an earthman. His eyes,
behind their glasses, were like green ice, and the hand pouring the
black fluid did not so much as waver at Ranson's entrance.
Ranson gasped. The bizarre figure was that of Dr. Elath Taen,
master-scientist, sought by the T.I. for years, in vain! Elath Taen,
outlaw and renegade, whose sole desire was the extermination of all
terrestials on Mars, a revival of the ancient glories of the red
planet. The tales told about him were fabulous; and this was the man
behind the unholy music!
"Good evening, Mr. Ranson," Elath Taen smiled. "Had I known T.I.
men were on Mars I should have taken infinitely more precautions.
However...."
As he spoke, his hand moved suddenly, as though to hurl the test tube
at Ranson. Quick as he was, the T.I. man was quicker. A spurt of
flame leapt from his gun, shattering the tube. The dark liquid hissed,
smoking, on to the floor.
"Well done, Mr. Ranson." Elath Taen nodded calmly. "Had the acid struck
you, it would have rendered you blind."
"That's about enough of your tricks!" Ranson grated. "Come along, Dr.
Taen! We're going to headquarters!"
"Since you insist." Elath Taen removed his chemist's smock, began, very
deliberately, to strip off his rubber gloves.
"Quit stalling!" Ranson snapped. "Get going! I...." The words faded on
the T.I. man's lips. Faintly, in the distance, came the strains of
soft eerie music!
"Good God!" Ranson's eyes darted about the laboratory. "That ... that's
the same as Haller and I...."
"Exactly, Mr. Ranson." Elath Taen smiled thinly. "Listen!"
The music was a caress, soft as a woman's skin. Slow, drowsy, like
the hum of bees on a hot summer's afternoon. Soothing, soporific, in
dreamy, crooning chords. A lullaby, that seemed to hang lead weights
upon the eyelids. Audible hypnotism, as potent as some drug. Clearer
with each second, the melody grew, coming nearer and nearer the
laboratory.
"Come ... come on," Ranson said thickly. "Got to get out of here."
But his words held no force, and Elath Taen was nodding sleepily under
the influence of the weird dream-music. Ranson knew he should act,
swiftly, while he could; but the movement of a single muscle seemed
an intolerable effort. His skin felt as though it were being rubbed
with velvet, a strange purring sensation filled his brain. He tried to
think, to move, but his will seemed in a padded vise. The music was
dragging him down, down, into the gray mists of oblivion.
Across the laboratory Elath Taen had slumped to the floor, a vague
smile of triumph on his face. Ranson turned to the direction of
the music, tried to raise his gun, but the weapon slipped from his
fingers, he fell to his knees. Sleep ... that was all that mattered ...
sleep. The music was like chloroform, its notes stroked his brain.
Through half-shut eyes he saw a door at the rear of the laboratory
open, saw a slim, dark, exotic girl step through into the room. Slung
about her neck in the manner of an accordian, was a square box, with
keys studding its top. For a long moment Ranson stared at the dark,
enigmatic girl, watched her hands dance over the keys to produce the
soft lulling music. About her head, he noticed, was a queer copper
helmet, of a type he had never before seen. And then the girl, Elath
Taen, the laboratory, all faded into a kaleidoscopic whirl. Ranson felt
himself falling down into the gray mists, and consciousness disappeared.
* * * * *
Steve Ranson awoke to find himself still in the laboratory, bound
securely hand and foot. Opposite him Elath Taen was just struggling to
his feet, aided by the dark-haired, feline girl.
"I ... I'm all right, Zeila," Taen muttered. "It was necessary that I,
also, hear the sleep-melody, in order to overcome our snooping friend
here. But look--he's coming to!"
The girl's gold-flecked eyes turned to Ranson, studied him impassively.
Elath Taen gave a mocking smile.
"My daughter Zeila, Mr. Ranson," he murmured. "The consolation of my
declining years. She, too, has devoted her life to the great cause of
Martian freedom, the overthrow of Terra!"
"To be expected from your daughter," Ranson grunted. "I might have
known you were at the bottom of this, Taen! Killing off the officials
of the Martian Broadcasting Company!"
"Killing?" Taen smiled, glanced at the queer box slung about the girl's
neck. "We only serenaded them. Induce the necessary moods for murder,
suicide, madness. You have played our tunes to the remaining two,
Zeila?"
The girl nodded impassively. "Cartwright unfortunately ended his own
life," she said. "Rankin heard the song of hate, went berserk and was
killed. Yla-tu, one of our own people, is in charge of M.B.C. until
more terrestial executives arrive from earth."
"By which time we will have played our melodies to all Mars," Taen
murmured. "One swift, merciless uprising, and the red planet is free!
An hour or so over M.B.C.'s network...."
"You're nuts!" Ranson laughed. "If you think...."
"I don't think," Elath Taen smiled. "I _know_, Mr. Ranson. Before the
night is out, all terrestials on Mars will be imprisoned or dead. Our
people need only something to awaken them, to arouse their hate! And
I can do that! I am the master of moods!" He took a copper helmet
similar to the one the girl wore, from a shelf, placed it on his head.
"A shield against supersonics," he explained. "It produces vibrations
which nullify those set up by the _sonovox_." He faced the langorous
Zeila. "Play, child! Convince Mr. Ranson of our powers!"
Again the girl's fingers danced over the keys in a wild melody of
hate. Red mists rose before Ranson's eyes and he fought against the
bonds that held him. Then the song changed to a dirge-like melody and
Ranson fell into the black abyss of despair. This was more than music,
he knew; it was something deeper that played upon the soul. Again the
notes changed and crawling fear enveloped Ranson until he felt sick
with horror of the unknown. Emotion after emotion gripped him, and had
he not been helpless, bound, he would have obeyed the moods that swept
his brain. He was himself like an instrument upon which a thousand
tunes were played ... and through it all Elath Taen smiled with a vague
detached air, while the girl's eyes burned into his own.
Suddenly Elath Taen raised his hand. "Enough, Zeila," he said. "He is
exhausted."
The music ceased and Ranson fell back weakly, worn by the storm of
emotions that had surged in waves over him.
"You.... You win!" he gasped. "What kind of deviltry is this?"
"Deviltry?" Dr. Taen laughed. "But it is so simple. Music, even
normal music, can produce moods. The uplift of the ancient earthsong,
'Marsailles,' the melancholy of the 'Valse Triste,' the passion of the
'Bolero.' Indeed, many years ago on Terra, there was a strange song
entitled, 'Gloomy Sunday,' which caused numerous suicides on the part
of those who heard it. As for the instrument, it's merely an electrical
sound producer such as your electric organ, theremins, and so on. But
to it I have added a full range of supersonic notes, which, though
inaudible, are the real mood-changers."
"Supersonics?" Ranson exclaimed. "You mean they're what created the
emotions inside me just now?"
"Exactly." Elath Taen nodded. "The audible music helps, but it is the
supersonics that determine the emotions! Their effect is upon the
brain, and nothing can shut them out except counter-notes such as are
set up by our helmets!" He tapped the copper dome that encased his
head. "The effects of supersonics upon the emotions is interesting, Mr.
Ranson. I first got my idea from old twentieth-century records on Terra
itself. I read how, in the days of motion pictures before television
was perfected, one of your Hollywood companies introduced a supersonic
note onto the sound-track of a film in hopes of creating an atmosphere
of horror at a certain point in the picture. But so great was the
terror induced at the private showing that the supersonic note was
immediately cut from the sound-track, and the records of the case filed
away. It was the discovery and study of these records that started me
on the trail of super-music. Thus with cosmic irony, Mr. Ranson, Earth
has created the weapon which will destroy her! Supersonics!"
Ranson stared at Elath Taen, bewildered. Supersonics creating emotions!
That was what had infuriated Haller and himself, had driven the other
officials of M.B.C. to various forms of death! And now, with M.B.C. in
the hands of Taen's followers, they planned to arouse the silent little
reddies of Mars to revolt!
"But why?" Ranson demanded. "Earthmen have brought new life, new
progress to Mars! We've built roads, canals, spaceports, taught your
people our science...."
"You are aliens!" Elath Taen cried. "You must be wiped out!" He drew a
whistle from his pocket, blew a shrill blast. There was a pattering of
feet, and a squat Martian, his arms scarred by flame-gun burns, entered
the room.
"Place the terrestial in safe keeping," Elath Taen commanded. "Watch
him well." He glanced at the blinking red light of a time-signal on the
wall. "Come Zeila! It's time to go!"
The girl nodded, picked up the _sonovox_. At the door she paused,
glanced back at Ranson.
"Music for the men of Mars," she murmured. "When we return our own
people will rule this planet!" Her eyes, brooding on the earthman, were
inscrutable. "_Alotah_, Stephen Ranson!"
Then she and her father had left the laboratory, and the burly guard
was forcing Ranson toward a small iron-barred door at the rear of the
room. Bound, helpless, he staggered into the cell, heard the door clang
shut behind him. The scarred, ugly guard stationed himself across the
laboratory, where he could keep an eye on the cell.
* * * * *
Ranson lay there in the shadows, suddenly bitter. A nice mess he'd made
of things! Wanted for murder by Captain Maxwell, tricked by Elath Taen
and his daughter when he had them in his grasp, and now a prisoner
here, while they sent their musical madness, their deadly supersonic
notes, over the planet-wide chain of M.B.C. Ranson knew what that would
mean. Except for the Foreign Legion, a few rocket-plane squadrons, Mars
was undefended. If Elath Taen's supersonics aroused the reddies to
revolt, his dream of making himself emperor of Mars would be at last
fulfilled.
Ranson shot a glance at his guard. The scarred little Martian was
leaning back in his chair, eyes on the cell door. But it seemed
unlikely that he could see what went on within the shadowy cell. In one
swift movement the T.I. man smashed his wrist-watch against the wall,
then, picking up a sliver of glass with his fingertips, began to saw at
his bonds.
At length the ropes fell from Ranson's aching arms. Swiftly he freed
his legs. The guard was still sitting in the well-lighted laboratory,
unmoved. Ranson glanced at the door. Steel bars, impossible to
penetrate. And seconds ticking away!
A dark fighting grin spread over Ranson's lean face. There was one
chance. A wild, desperate chance, but if it worked.... Hastily he
slipped off his shoes, placed them on the floor beside him. Then,
thrusting his hand into his coat pocket, he bulged the cloth out with
his finger to simulate a gun.
"Don't move!" he said in sibilant Martian. "Drop your flame-gun! Try
anything and I'll shoot!"
The guard sprang to his feet, his bulging hairless head gleaming in the
bright light, his green eyes cold with rage. As Ranson had expected, he
gave no indication of surrender. Instead, he raised his weapon, fired.
At the moment that the guard pressed the trigger, the terrestial leaped
to one side, seeking cover of the wall at the side of the door. A
savage greenish flash spat from the gun, a terrible wave of heat swept
the cell. Half-blinded, sick from the searing heat, Ranson lay in his
corner and watched the door. Under the fiery blast, the iron bars
turned white, ran, until only pools of molten metal lay between him and
freedom.
The squat Martian snapped off the ray, approached the glowing door
cautiously, to find out if there was life in Ranson's inert body. There
was ... more than the little reddy had bargained for. The earthman's
arm swung in an arc and one of his shoes, flying through the blasted,
melted door, caught the little Martian's wrist, knocked the flame-gun
from his hand. The other shoe, following swiftly, landed alongside his
head, sent him reeling and staggering back into a shelf of test-tubes
and beakers.
"And that's how we do it on Earth!" Grinning tightly, Ranson leaped the
puddles of molten metal, plunged through the blasted, glowing remains
of the door. Before the ugly little guard could recover, a hard knotted
terrestial fist had slammed against his chin, sent him, limp and
unconscious to the floor.
[Illustration: _Before the ugly little guard could recover, a hard
terrestial fist had slammed against his chin._]
Swiftly Ranson ripped wires from the masses of intricate machinery,
bound the inert reddy, then, snatching up the flame-gun, ran from the
house.
Twisting, turning, he came to the embankment of the Psidian canal.
A sleek water-cab slid into view, its atomic motors humming. Ranson
hailed it, hand on his gun, but the wizened reddy at the wheel had
apparently not heard of Elath Taen's mad melody.
"Martian Broadcasting Building," Ranson grated. "Step on it!"
The driver nodded, and, when his passenger was aboard, sent the boat
surging along the canal, throwing up clouds of spray. Racing, roaring,
dodging heavily-laden freight boats, the cab tore over the dark cold
water that flowed, via the intricate networks of canals, from the polar
caps.
* * * * *
As they neared the center of the city, the atmosphere of tension grew.
Little bands of terrestial police patrolled the embankments, a squadron
of rocket-planes droned above the towering metropolis, the light of
their exhausts throwing weird shadows. Occasional shouts, the green
flash of flame-guns, issued from the darkness and the crowds of reddies
gathered before their radios in houses, shops, and public squares, were
seething with excitement. The roar of the cab's motors drowned out the
sound of the music and Elath Taen's exultant voice, but the driver
moved uneasily.
"Looks like somethin's up," he muttered. "I'll see if we can get a
bulletin."
Before Ranson could stop him, he had snapped on the radio within the
cab. The wild, frenzied music filled the small cabin, tearing at
both men's minds, while Taen's voice urged revolt. Then, under the
influence of the supersonics, red flames of hatred leaped through
their brains, banishing all thought, logic. The little Martian driver
whirled about, only to have the butt of Ranson's gun crash down upon
his head. Slumping forward, his body fell against the radio, shattering
its fragile tubes. Ranson shook himself as the infernal music abruptly
ceased.
The M.B.C. building lay just before them. Ranson swung the cab to the
embankment, sprang out. The tall plastoid building towered white and
spectral above the canal. Ranson burst through the door.
Several reddies on guard sprang forward, but a blast from the
terrestial's gun cleared the great hall. He sprang into an elevator,
jabbed at a button, and the car shot upward.
The elevator stopped at the top floor, where the broadcasting studios
were located. Ranson hurtled along the corridor, plunged through the
door. Before him lay a large room, blocked at one end by a thick,
double-paned glass. And on the other side of the glass stood Elath
Taen, crouched before a television set, his fingers running over
the keys of the _sonovox_, his face exultant as he poured out the
supersonics of his song of hate. Musical madness for the men of Mars,
making them forget all that Terra had done for the red planet, driving
them to insane mass murder! And as he played upon the _sonovox_, Taen
spoke into the microphone, urging them to revolt! Already they were
starting their reign of terror; when he reached his climax they would
pour from their houses to kill all who had terrestial blood. Unless....
Ranson leaped forward. Even the supersonics were kept from the outer
room by the vacuum-insulated double glass panes; Elath Taen was like a
silent marionette in the broadcasting booth, his green eyes flickering
with apprehension, his head encased by the shielding copper helmet.
"Drop your gun, Mr. Ranson!" Zeila's voice came from behind him.
Ranson whirled; the girl had been standing behind the door, unnoticed,
as he burst into the room. Her exotic face was pale, but the flame-gun
in her hand was steady. Ranson obeyed, smiling.
"As you wish," he said. "But T.I. has one trick we use as a last
resort. Look!" From his pocket he drew a flat metal case. "Supposedly
cigarettes, but really the most powerful explosive devised by our
laboratories. Shoot me with that flame gun and the heat sets it off.
You, your charming father, and I, will all be blown to atoms. So you
won't dare shoot!"
Zeila stared at him, lips a crimson slash across her face.
"You won't get away with it!" she exclaimed. "It's bluff!"
"Shoot, then," Ranson said. "Blow the whole top of this building to
bits!" He reached out for her gun.
The girl's eyes were fixed on the metal case, and there was fear in
them. Ranson took another step toward her. Elath Taen could not watch
since he was forced to keep his eyes on the intricate keyboard of the
_sonovox_.
"Blown to bits," Ranson repeated sardonically. "Me, too, but at least
I'll have removed the leaders of the revolt. This explosive is the last
resort of T.I. men. Squeeze that trigger and the heat will set it off!
Now give me that gun!"
Zeila Taen broke suddenly, shuddering at the thought of her vivid
beauty torn to shreds by an explosion.
"Take it!" she snarled. "It's too late, anyhow! Mars is in revolt!
No one can stop them now! Fool! My father will be emperor after the
insurrection! You might have been prince."
* * * * *
Ranson didn't wait to hear more. One blast of the heat gun and the
glass partition shattered to a thousand fragments.
"No good, Mr. Ranson." Elath Taen lifted his hands from the keyboard,
smiling thinly. "The flame is lit and cannot be put out! The red flame
of revolt! Already my people are fighting! Loud-speakers in every
public square have carried the sound of mad, blind fury! I am the
mood-master!"
"Get back to that sound-box!" Ranson grated. "Play those
sleep-producing notes! Play, or I'll blast your lovely daughter here
to a cinder! You claim you're the mood-master! Well, if your damned
supersonics started this, they can end it!" He swung his gun to cover
Zeila's sleek figure. "Play, Dr. Taen! I've never killed a woman yet,
but it's her life or those of all terrestials on Mars! Back to your
_sonovox_!"
For a long moment Elath Taen stared at his daughter, then nodded his
hairless head somberly.
"Again you win, Mr. Ranson," he said softly. "I should have killed you
or won you to my side, long ago." Turning to the _sonovox_, he began to
play.
Ranson stood tense, covering the girl with his gun. Soft, lulling
music, supersonic notes that seemed to caress his brain, filled the
room. The drowsy sound of rain on a roof, of rustling leaves, of a
soothing night wind ... all these were bound up in the melody. Peace,
rest, sleep ... every nerve seemed to relax, every muscle seemed limp,
as the dreamy musical hypnosis took effect.
Elath Taen and the girl were watching him covertly. There was a thin
smile on the doctor's dark saturnine face. Dully Ranson tried to reason
out why Elath Taen should be smiling, but somehow his mind refused to
function. Those cloudy mists rising before his eyes! Miles away Taen
was speaking, above the soporific sounds.
"Too bad," he was saying. "You forgot that whatever these supersonics
may do to my people, they also affect you. Zeila and I are protected
from the short-wave emanations by our helmets. But you, Mr. Ranson, are
not! Already you are helpless and in a moment you will sleep, as you
did in our laboratory! Then, with you secure, I shall arouse my people
once more!"
Ranson tried to move, tried to act, but the music was a silken noose
binding him, and he had no will power left. Sleep ... nothing else
mattered.... As in a dream he saw Zeila coming toward him, felt himself
crumple to the floor. Vaguely he remembered bright flashes, shouts, and
then all was grey oblivion.
"Ranson! Ranson!" The words beat like fists upon his drugged brain.
The T.I. man stirred restlessly; out of the whirling mists Captain
Maxwell's face became a stern reality.
"What happened?" the police officer was saying. "First the reddies go
kill-crazy, then start passing out! Almost went nutty ourselves, down
at headquarters, listening! But then the murder-music stopped and we
heard your voice, talking to Elath Taen! So we came here pronto. Just
in time."
"Taen! And Zeila!" Ranson gasped. "Where are they?"
"Gone." Captain Maxwell motioned to a door at the rear of the room.
"Ducked out and down the elevator. Blasted the cables when they hit
the bottom so we weren't able to follow." He shook his head. "You were
right about that music! No wonder you and Haller went berserk! Don't
worry about any trial for murder! Mars has been mad, this night!"
Ranson struggled to his feet. Taen and his daughter escaped! With the
secret of the supersonic notes! But it would be a long time before they
dared return to Mars. Still groggy, Ranson drew the metal cigarette
case from his pocket.
"How were you able to force your way in here?" Captain Maxwell
demanded. "To make them change the tune and break up the revolt?"
Ranson opened the metal case.
"Bluff," he said, taking a cigarette from the container and lighting
it. "That's what saved Mars! Just ... bluff!"
Grinning, he blew a cloud of smoke.
End of Project Gutenberg's Pied Piper of Mars, by Frederic A. Kummer
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