Flash Gordon 2 - The Plague of Sound (10 page)

The platinum-haired girl said, “I have nothing to say, Zarkov. Sorry.”

They were in the android workshop on the Paradise Park grounds. An assortment of mechanical men were laid out on top of worktables, making the place look something like a morgue. Hasp, the yellow man, was tied and gagged and stretched out beside a headless mechanical pirate. The Dale Arden android, turned off now, was leaning against a wall,

“Do you people have Dale Arden?” Dr. Zarkov asked Glenna.

“I don’t know anything about her.” She was seated on a floating bench, legs crossed.

Striding up to within a yard of her, Zarkov bellowed, “I’ve got you. Talk or not, I’ve got you.”

She shrugged her left shoulder.

“Estampa Territory being relatively enlightened,” said Zarkov, “there’s no death penalty. But there’s still prison, and as an accessory to murder you’ll get the same sentence as the actual killer. A life sentence.”

“I—I’m not connected with any murder.”

“We’ll forget about what you and your little chum had in mind for Zarkov,” he boomed. “There’s still the matter of the murder of Minister Minnig.”

“I was nowhere—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were nowhere near the scene of the murder,” said Dr. Zarkov. “That’s right, because you were with the simulacra Minnig pretending to be his daughter.”

“That’s not true,” said Glenna, uncrossing her legs. “Even if it was, that’s no crime.”

“It makes you a conspirator in the plan to kill Minnig,” he said. “That means a life sentence with no possibility of parole for at least twenty years.”

“I’m not easily frightened, Doctor,” the girl said.

“You know what my reputation is on this planet.”

“Grossly exaggerated.”

“Be that as it may, it means I have influence—with the president, with the police. I can see to it you get better treatment, a lighter sentence.”

Glenna smiled. “When Pan takes over, your influence won’t be worth anything at all.”

“So that’s his name, is it? Pan. Well, that fits in with his interest in music and sound,” said Zarkov. “So he’s planning to take over this territory?”

“You’ll learn all about it quite soon.”

“Pan’s going to issue an ultimatum?”

“Exactly,” answered the girl. “Then, Doctor, things will be quite, quite different. You, should you still be alive, will have no influence at all. Whereas I—”

“Yes, you’ll be in a position of power. Or so Pan promises you now.”

“He’ll keep his word.”

“A man who can do what he’s done is not going to worry about a promise he made to you.”

“We shall see, Doctor.”

From the pocket of his trousers the burly doctor took a small silver disc. “We’ll see what your friend and associate over there has to say.” He set the disc on the table and picked up a coil of wire.

“What is that thing?”

“Little gadget I thought up.” He started winding wire around the girl’s ankles. “I call it a truth bug.”

“You’re going to use it on me, too?”

“Hands in back of you now, please. There, that’s fine.” He tied her wrists together. “No, I’m giving you a chance to talk of your own free will.”

“Very considerate,” said Glenna, completely tied up now. “I’m betting on Pan.”

“Yes, I can see where you’d have to. Otherwise all the stupid things you’ve been doing wouldn’t make any sense.”

He walked over to Hasp and clapped the silver disc against the side of the yellow man’s temple.

Zarkov leaned closer to Hasp. “Give me his name again,” he said.

“We take our orders from General Yate,” he repeated, his eyes were closed and his voice was a monotone. The truth disc was clamped to the side of his head.

Zarkov looked over at Glenna, but she would not meet his eyes. He asked Hasp, “What’s the purpose of all this?”

“When Estampa Territory falls,” droned the yellow man, “Yate will be second in command.”

“Where does this guy Pan come in?”

“He will rule.”

“Where is he now?”

“Somewhere in Mazda Territory.”

“Where exactly?”

“I don’t know the exact location. But I have heard it called Perfect City.”

“Perfect City, huh? Is Flash Gordon there?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Dale Arden?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Zarkov straightened up. “What were you supposed to do with me?”

“Stun you.”

“Then what?”

“General Yate is going to come for you.”

“Come here to Paradise Park, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Were you supposed to contact him first?”

“No, he was confident we would succeed. He will arrive at sundown.”

“Where will he show up?”

“We were to meet him in Workshop Three, next door.”

“Is he coming alone?”

“I don’t know.”

Reaching out a large hand, Zarkov detached the disc. He dropped it into a pocket, went back to Glenna.

“Changed your mind about using that thing on me, Doctor?”

“No. Do you want to tell me what you know about Yate and the rest of Pan’s followers?”

“I have nothing to tell you.”

Nodding, he fished a roll of surgical tape out of another pocket. He gagged the girl, using a handkerchief as a pad. “I’ll keep your appointment with the general,” he said.

Zarkov turned out the lights in the workshop and stepped out into the beginning twilight.

Workshop Three was even larger and more cluttered. Androids in various stages of repair were stretched out on most of the worktables. Twists of bright wire, slivers of metal, discarded transistorized android sections were strewn carelessly on the floor.

“They do good work, but they don’t keep a very neat shop,” Zarkov said.

He went through the entire workshop, switching all its windows to black so that no one would see in from outside. That done, the doctor began to roam about. “I should have an hour or more before Yate shows up.”

On top of a small portable computer, he found a spill of photos and drawings. They were all of the late Minister Minnig; several of the drawings gave the exact dimensions of his head, the exact coloration of his hair, eyes, skin. “So they did make a simulacra of Minnig,” mused the doctor. “Now if I can find some evidence that they did the same thing for Flash.”

He uncovered nothing, however.

Then, behind a pile of component cartons, he noticed the door of a cabinet. With one grunting shove, he pushed the cartons aside. He pulled the door open.

Inside the large deep cabinet stood a completed android. It was, down to the beard he’d until recently had, an exact replica of Zarkov himself.

“Huh,” he said aloud, “I wonder what they were going to do with that.”

“I’ll be glad to tell you,” said a voice quite close behind him.

F
lash knelt on the tough grass, watching the old man’s hands drawing a map on a sheet of plyopaper. Flip was squatting next to him, and Tad and Jillian stood close by. “If that’s the layout,” Flash said, “then I had better aim for the control rooms first and get a look at what Pan is using to cause the sound plague.”

Sawtel tapped the rough map of Perfect City with the tip of his pen. “According to what the lad can learn by reading the thoughts of those within the city,” he said, “Dale Arden is now being held here. This is a tower building once known as the civic center complex. Now I fear Pan refers to it as his palace.”

“Couple of miles from the control area,” observed Flash.

“By following these underground tunnels and passageways, yes,” said the old man.

“Once we get Dale,” Flash said, “I want to get out fast.” He ran a finger across the map from the palace to the tunnel. “Out this way here.”

“Exactly,” said Sawtel. “So if you intend to find out what you can about this new infernal machine of Pan’s, you had best do it before you search for Dale Arden.”

“We can forget the
gizmo,
daddy,” suggested Flip. “I mean, you want to get your chick on out. I can dig that.”

“Once we save her,” said Flash, “we may not have a chance to see anything else.”

“Could be well capture Pan ourselves.” said Flip.

“I can’t count on that,” said Flash.

“Okay, man, then I’ll do my fat green technician bit,” said the impersonator. “And we’ll get us on in that way. I sure hope I can swipe me a smock once I get inside.”

“You’ll emerge at this spot,” the old man told him, indicating the map. “The wardrobe and supply rooms are only a matter of yards away.”

“That’s cool. Maybe I’ll grab me a warm winter coat while I’m at it.” He put his palms flat against his cheeks, concentrating. Very gradually the color of his skin began to change to a bright glistening green. “Um, that’s not quite it. Too much yellow. Yeah, cool, that’s got it now.” Flip’s features quivered, seeming to melt momentarily and then reform in new shapes. His hair retracted, and soon his green head was completely bald. Holding out his green hands in front of him, Flip said, “Yeah, that ought to do it.”

The day was now waning. As the light began to drift away through the trees, giving way to dusk. Flash and the now green Flip left the others.

“Good luck,” called Jillian.

“Man,” complained Flip, “what a low-down wardrobe room this is. Not one full-length mirror.”

“Pan probably doesn’t want to encourage vanity,” said Flash.

They had traveled this far in safety, using the tunnels and the secret passways which the old man had told them of.

“Do this thing fit okay? I mean, man, do I look nice and mellow?”

“That you do,” said Flash.

“Let us commence then, Flash, baby.” Flip, dressed in a technician’s smock, moved cautiously to the door of the room. “Get one of them nutty smiles on your face now.”

The first few slaves they encountered in this area of Perfect City paid no attention to them. They were able to move through several corridors without hindrance or trouble.

“I thought you were already over in Control C, Marek?”

Flip tugged at his bright-green ear, studying the man wearing a dark helmet who was coming their way down the pale-yellow corridor. Out of the side of his mouth he whispered to Flash, “I think Marek is my handle.” In a louder voice, he said, “Good evening, how have you been keeping yourself?”

The man’s eyebrows raised. “Uh . . . fine,” he said and passed on by.

“Could be I ain’t got the voice down just right.”

“Tad got us a location on Pan right before we left the jungle,” said Flash. “This should still be his dinner and rest time.”

“You know that and I know that, but I’m wondering does this Marek dude know that.”

The corridor they were traveling along ended. A series of ramps supported on beams crisscrossed the huge three-story-high room which lay before them.

“From the few thought hints Tad was able to pick up,” said Flash, “Pan’s got his newer equipment in that section over there. That agrees with Sawtel’s speculations.” He nodded his head at an orange ramp which led to a doorway high up on the far wall.

“So let’s us truck on over there and see if we can bluff our way in for a look-see.”

They were halfway across the orange ramp, about a hundred feet above the floor, when a plump green man stepped through a doorway and onto a ramp which connected with theirs. Flip noticed him first and coughed into his hand.

“We got some trouble,” he whispered to Flash.

It was the real Marek coming straight toward them. He stopped, crying out, “What’s the meaning of this?” and pointing a green finger at Flip.

“Must be one of those funny coincidences we’re always reading about,” said Flip.

The chief technician was obviously puzzled. But he realized something was wrong, something strange. From a pocket of his white smock, he pulled a small gold whistle. He thrust it between his green lips, blew into it.

Neither Flash nor his companion heard anything. The slaves, though, obviously did. Doors started to open all through the huge building. Slaves, carrying stunguns and blasters, came running out onto the colored ramps.

“Got me a notion,” said Flip. “I’ll dig you later.” He left Flash’s side, ran to the edge of their ramp, and leaped over.

Before Flash could take a step after him, a half-dozen slaves had reached him. Flash pivoted to face them. His foot snapped out and kicked the stunpistol out of the first man’s hand. He walked into him, punching hard. The slave groaned and dropped to his knees.

Flash went after the next man. He got in two short jabs to the man’s ribs.

Another half-dozen slaves were coming at him from the other direction.

Two of the heaviest slaves jumped on him at the same instant. Another brought his gun barrel down on Flash’s head.

Flash went down under the blow. The weight of the two slaves pinned him to the smooth surface of the ramp. He managed to bring up his knees and pinwheel out of their grasp.

At the edge of the ramp, three more slaves leaped for him.

Suddenly there was nothing underfoot. All four of them, tangled and struggling, were in midair beyond the edge. Flash twisted, striking out sharply with his elbow, as he fell. He managed to get himself on top of the heap when they hit the next ramp some fifteen feet below. Kicking, he jumped free and began to run.

But more of them were running for him from both directions on this new ramp.

He went over the edge of this one voluntarily.

He landed on the sky-blue ramp, ten feet further down. Inside his head he was going over the map Sawtel had drawn for him. There should be an emergency exit two ramps over from where he was. The trick was to get there.

At least fifty slaves were involved in the chase, more appearing every minute. None of them spoke or cried out. There was too much silence in their determined pursuit of him.

“Now if—” began Flash. He was stopped stiff where he stood, three good paces from the edge of the ramp.

One of them had used his stunpistol. Nearly a dozen of the slaves piled on Flash before he realized what had happened.

L
etting his hands fall slowly to his sides, Zarkov turned around, “I’m slipping,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”