Clash of the Titans (26 page)

As it turned its attention down toward a certain rock and the small life that still throbbed there, its head buzzed with a peculiar droning. Suddenly a small flying thing of metal shot across the frozen landscape of its face.

Bubo fought to distract the Titan and just avoided the sweep of a massive tentacle. The wind of that immense limb's passing was enough to send the owl spinning. It tried to regain control, failed, and spun into the rocks. There was a nasty, sharp clang. The owl did not shatter but neither did it rise again into the sky.

The Kraken's gaze turned once more to Andromeda. Much as the Titan might have wished her single death to linger, the day was almost gone and it was under order to finish the simple work by dark.

If the one life was not present in the designated place, the Titan had been promised an entire city to destroy. But the life was there, and in its frustration at having so little work to do, the immortal was anxious to finish it quickly and return to its lair beneath the sea. There it would brood in silence, awaiting a more rewarding day.

The life below was twisting and writhing frantically, a small thing to engage the attention of so vast an instrument of destruction. The Kraken was used to battling gods and whole armies, not a single helpless mortal. Nevertheless, compulsion demanded.

A great tentacle began to descend. Andromeda turned her face to the rock and waited for the end.

Wings sounded in the sky again, and again the Kraken paused. The little metal thing which had irritated it was a motionless lump on the rocks. This, it decided, was a different sound.

Diving down out of a sunset sky came a cloud. On its back rode a scratched and bruised figure of muscle and determination. It wore no armor, carried neither sword or shield. Instead, it held tightly to a wad of red cloth.

There rose no cheer from the assembled citizens. Already this eve they'd witnessed two manifestations of the gods. A third left them struck dumb.

They watched in awestruck silence as Perseus and Pegasus swept low overhead, but a tingle of excitement, of hope, was beginning to rise in some.

The Kraken slid slightly backward in the water, uncertain what to make of this second and much larger aerial intruder, but ready to swat it from the sky as quickly as it had the first.

Perseus dug his thighs hard into the stallion's flanks. Using his legs to steer with, he directed Pegasus toward the head of the Kraken, now looming below like the crest of a mountain. With his hands Perseus began to unwrap the tangled bundle he carried. The rushing wind made it difficult to handle, a difficulty compounded by the fact that he dare not look too closely at his burden.

Cassiopeia hardly dared allow herself hope as she followed the path of man and horse through the sky. For one of the few times in his life old Ammon could not find appropriate words.

By now Andromeda too had noticed the arrival of her betrothed. She was too emotionally drained to do more than stare.

Perseus had planned well, but as so often happens, the best of planning is upset by the most mundane details. He'd decided in advance how to approach the Kraken, what angle of descent to adopt, when to flash the head of Medusa. All he had overlooked were the stubborn knots he'd tied in his cloak. Now he was wrestling frantically with them.

Too close, too near! He dug hard at the stallion's flank with his right leg. Pegasus swerved, almost too late. A tentacle the width of a river slashed at them. It barely nudged the horse's hindquarters, but the blow was enough to send him tumbling off-balance seaward.

Desperately the stallion tried to right itself, but there wasn't enough air space between it and the water. It rolled once, twice, and Perseus was thrown clear. Still clutching the red bundle, he fell head over heels. The impact of striking the water broke his grip. Pegasus plunged into the sea nearby.

Only an outstanding swimmer could have survived that impact. Perseus flailed at the water and fought his way back to the surface. Still sore all over from the concussion, he floated there, fighting to replenish his breath.

Hindered by its own bulk the Kraken turned slowly, hunting for the man who'd fallen from the flying horse. Perseus dove and swam for the nearest rock. There was no sign of the precious bundle.

It had slipped away from him when he'd struck the water. Now it was rising from the sea next to him, rising in the gleaming talons of a hesitantly clicking Bubo.

By one of those ironic coincidences that fate seems so fond of, the rock nearest Perseus was the one that projected farthest into the water. So in addition to finding himself again on dry land, Perseus also discovered he was momentarily reunited with his love.

He staggered out of the roiling waters in front of her and their eyes met for an instant. That was enough to sustain him throughout eternity, he knew. He whirled to face the Kraken, which had located him again. Perhaps, he thought with grim satisfaction, love will give him indigestion.

At which moment of final despair, Bubo swooped by and dropped the still-bound cloak into Perseus's waiting hands.

The owl rose and soared close by the Kraken's eyes. It was enough to distract it for a few precious seconds. Without having to worry now about maintaining his seat on the flying horse or fighting the wind, Perseus unknoted the cloak. He reached in, warning Andromeda to keep her eyes averted, and grasped a handful of cold, rubbery coils. Pulling it clear of the cloth, he held out the face of Medusa to the Kraken.

Freed of the bundle's artificial night, the eyes of the Corgon opened. The snakes Perseus gripped grew agitated. He held fast, ignoring their cold caress as they wiggled between his fingers.

The Kraken, last of the Titans, was stopped still in the water, mesmerized by the still sublimely evil power of the Gorgon. The huge inhuman eyes began to cloud over. Slowly the great tentacles slumped, the dragon fins stiffened. While those on the cliffs looked on in amazement, the immortal turned to stone.

That massive body was thousands of years old. It could not survive alteration of shape or consistency. Once petrified, the Titan began to crumble. Huge chunks avalanched from its sides.

As it exfoliated it became unbalanced. With a final, irrevocable rumble that signified the passage of an eon, the shell of the last Titan tumbled slowly backward into the open sea.

When the wave this threw up had subsided, Andromeda risked opening her eyes, still careful to keep them away from her love and the abomination that had saved them. "Is it over then, Perseus? Are we truly safe at last?"

"Almost," he said grimly. Drawing back his arm, he heaved the loathesome relic as far as he could.

It landed in the cove, and there was such an eruption of foam and steam where it landed, one would have thought Hades itself had risen to take lasting possession of it.

Eventually the hissing died down, the bloodred waters dispersed, and the cove was once again nothing more than a pleasant place for children and fishermen to pass the time.

The manacles and chains were impossible for the imprisoned to reach, but simple enough for a free person to unlatch, especially if he was as determined and eager as Perseus. In moments the princess stood safe and free in his arms while a vast sigh of relief and wonder rose from the assembled multitude.

There came a last, awful moment as the sea resumed its boiling. But there was only the one Kraken. What sprang from the water as though propelled by a catapult was not a threat, but the revived Pegasus.

It climbed rapidly, seeming to have to find its wings all over again, like a butterfly emerging from a watery cocoon. The people oohed and ahhed in delight, while Cassiopeia and Ammon hurried down the path to rejoin the reunited lovers.

Pegasus whinnied forlornly for his friend and Perseus responded with a shout. There was little room on its chosen rock to stand and the stallion moved to another. It stood there, trying to keep its footing, while the foolish bipeds nearby made human-noises at each other and engaged in a lot of mutual patting.

How silly a way to spend one's time, the horse thought in its own fashion, when there are so many beautiful things to taste. It cropped at the wild flowers growing from the rocks.

Once more the temple of Joppa was filled with celebrants, and again the decorations of life garnished the walls and columns. There was an unfinished ceremony deserving completion, and the entire population of Joppa tried to crowd its way into the temple to witness that consumation.

The words were spoken as they had been so many days ago while the elders in the crowd watched and nodded with satisfaction.

The old poet too looked on from his place of honor among the wedding party. A metal owl perched next to him, proud despite its dents and bruises. This time the ceremony was not interrupted by a voice from behind, for the statue of Thetis no longer dominated the temple . . . or the lives of those assembled inside it

Cassiopeia spoke the final words. Her hands moved rapidly, almost defiantly as she tied the silken ribbon around the youngsters' wrists.

Nothing stopped her. It was a day of triumph for men.

Perseus and Andromeda turned and embraced while the people shook the temple to its foundations with their cheers.

Among them were a few equally happy but less demonstrative.

"You know, my badly dented little friend," Ammon said confidentially to Bubo, "this would make a fine heroic poem. Or perhaps even a play."

A nervous chirping issued from the owl, which even Ammon thought he could understand.

"Oh, don't worry, guardian of the night. I won't leave you out."

Bubo expressed his pleasure, though to Ammon it sounded more like a waterwheel coming apart.

Two of the hundreds present were oblivious to the sounds of celebration and to the byplay between man and machine. They finally separated, but not far. Perseus glanced up at the ruins of the once magnificent statue of Thetis. His expression was visible only to a few.

There were additional small rituals to carry out. The sooner they were concluded the better he would like it. He turned and led Andromeda down the stairs and away from the impotent marble.

"Perseus has won." Zeus smiled, looking up from the amphitheater where the symbols of life were fading from sight. "My son has triumphed."

"So it seems." Hera gave him a cool smile. "A most fortunate young man."

But Zeus was not about to have his pleasure diluted. "Fortune is ally to the brave and clever. He defeated the Kraken. He defied the powers of Thetis. He dared to face the might of the gods and win!"

"Courageous, handsome and intelligent. A true hero," murmured Aphrodite admiringly.

"And you keep away from him," said Zeus warningly. "These young lovers need no further interference from the gods, especially from one as overpowering as yourself."

Aphrodite turned demurely aside. "I am hardly overpowering, great Zeus. Merely persuasive."

"Keep your persuasions away from Joppa."

"It is a dangerous precedent," declared the frustrated Thetis. "What if one day, others like him should arise? Humans ready to defy the gods and go their own way?"

"A good question that, my husband," agreed Hera. "What if courage and imagination became everyday mortal qualities? What would become of us?"

"No more sacrifices, no more belief, no more need to depend on us for guidance," Zeus replied without concern. "We would no longer be needed. Mankind would learn to deal with the universe by himself.

"You worry too much, my dear. For the moment, at least, there is sufficient cowardice, sloth, and mendacity rampant on Earth to last for some time." He looked up from the distant reaches of eternity where he'd been searching and his tone changed to one of warning.

"I forbid any further attempts at revenge against Perseus or those close to him. He has done well, better than many gods might have done." There were outraged whispers from the other immortals.

"And he shall be rewarded, as shall those who believed in him."

Andromeda lay with the man who loved her. It was a night of spectacular clarity, but there was more mystery and wonder in his eyes than in the heavens.

Had she looked outside, she might have seen a subtle glow in the night sky. Nothing had truly changed, but a new awareness of certain patterns had been injected into the minds of men. As of that night and time, certain groupings of stars came to be forever identified with the participants of those memorable events.

There a cluster of stars seemed now to take on the outline of a bold young man, though the stars had always been there. It was mankind's awareness of them that was altered.

Another distant pattern assumed the silhouette of a young woman, and still another that of a winged horse, and yet a fourth an older but still radiant lady.

"Let the stars be named after them forever," Zeus declared from high Olympus. "Perseus the brave, Andromeda the true; the noble Pegasus and even the vain but caring Cassiopeia,

"As long as man walks the Earth and looks questioningly into the night sky in wonder, he will remember the courage of Perseus. For
ever,
even if we gods are abandoned and forgotten, for the stars will never fade. And mankind will look on them and remember. Until the end of time . . ."