Flash Gordon 2 - The Plague of Sound (11 page)

“I was already here.” The thin green hand of General Yate held a blaster pistol aimed at him.

“Funny I didn’t notice you.”

“I was lying on that far table,” said the green general. “You, no doubt, mistook me for an android.” He smiled briefly. “I couldn’t resist surprising you; I’ve been here for some time.”

“You should have come to the rescue of your underlings.”

“It was more amusing for me to wait and listen.”

Wagging a thumb over his shoulder at the android replica of himself, Dr. Zarkov said, “You were going to tell me what this knicknack is for.”

“Part of a contingency plan, Doctor,” replied Yate. “Tomorrow afternoon, Pan will cut in on all broadcasts heard here in the capital.”

“Going to present his terms, is he?”

“Exactly. Our esteemed President Bentancourt will by given a certain amount of time to capitulate. Should he be too stubborn it may be necessary to remove him from office—to remove him quite suddenly.”

“The same way you tried to remove me down by the waterfront.”

The thin green figure nodded. “No matter how busy the president is, he will not refuse to see a man of as much importance as yourself. Minutes after you arrive, there will be an explosion.”

“You think the vice president and the cabinet will be easier to deal with?”

“We have reason to believe so.”

Zarkov s thumb wagged again. “This gadget’s all finished?”

“Except for activating the bomb mechanism. That will be done tomorrow.”

“Going to leave him in the closet until then?”

“You’re certainly concerned with this, as you call it, gadget, Doctor,” Yate observed. “I suppose you identify with it. As a matter of fact, he’ll be picked up later this evening and taken elsewhere. If the president behaves at all sensibly there will be no need to employ your duplicate as an assassin.”

Dr. Zarkov took a step backward. “What about the real me?”

“Now that I’ve stepped in, we can follow through with our original plan. You will be rendered unconscious and taken to a safe hiding place,” explained the green general. “After Pan takes over, as he surely will, you will have a choice to make. You might find it to your benefit to work with us.”

Zarkov scratched his cheek where his beard used to be. “That’s an interesting idea,” he said, brow furrowed. “A man who’s been able to accomplish what this guy Pan has, utilizing sound, I’d like to get together with him.”

“Once Estampa Territory has fallen, you’ll get your chance, Doctor.”

“I imagine there’d be a—let’s say, a salary involved?”

“Pan rewards his followers well.”

Zarkov scratched his other cheek. “Well, now,” he said. “Perhaps I ought to tell you what’s wrong with this andy of yours, why it’s not likely to fool the president.”

Yate’s eyes made a clicking blink. “You mean he’s seen you since you shaved your beard?”

“Yeah, I talked to him just before I came over here,” answered Zarkov. “It was the prez who helped me get the airtruck in a hurry.” He cleared his throat. “That’s the main problem; the other thing is the eyes.”

“What’s wrong with the eyes?”

“Wrong color,” boomed Zarkov. “At least the left one is.”

“I hadn’t noticed that.” Yate stepped closer to Zarkov.

The doctor swung down swiftly with his hand, delivering a chopping blow to the green man’s gun wrist. At the same time he shoved back into the standing android with his buttocks.

The mechanical man came falling out of the cabinet like a felled tree. The head hit against Yate’s head, hard, and there was an echoing clanging sound.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” muttered Zarkov. He stepped on the fallen general’s arm, kicking the gun away with his other foot.

He dragged Yate out from under the replica of himself. About to throw a punch to the green general’s jaw, he hesitated.

A thin wisp of smoke was curling out of Yate’s ear. A loud purring rattled his chest.

“I’ll be damned,” said Zarkov. “This one’s an android, too.” He thrust out a foot tipping over the simulacrum General Yate.

The android fell to the floor. Its eyes clicked shut as more smoke swirled out of its ears.

“If he’s an andy, too, then who the hell is Pan’s confederate?” Zarkov knelt to make a few adjustments in the fallen android.

F
lash opened his eyes and everything continued to be black.

He was lying on a smooth padded surface in an absolutely dark room. He could see nothing of his surroundings, but he had a feeling of enclosure. He knew he was inside a room of some kind.

Slowly he pushed himself up to a sitting position. The darkness pressed all around him. Flash raised one hand above his head, keeping it there. He rose to his feet, feeling a little unsteady. There was, as he had sensed, no ceiling immediately above him.

He had the impression, though, that this was not a large room. With one hand above him and one held out at his side, he began cautiously to move ahead. Seven paces brought him up against a padded wall. Flash ran his hand over the soft pliant surface. “No windows or doors here,” he said to himself.

He worked his way along the wall, going to the left. In eight sideways paces he came to a corner of the room. He proceeded to explore this next wall. It too, was blank and padded. Finally, when he reached the fourth wall, his exploring fingertips touched a large oval window of synthglass. He checked this final wall out and concluded, “A window, anyway, but nothing that feels like a door.”

Flash returned to the single window, ran his hand across and around it. There seemed to be no way to open it. The tough glass wasn’t the kind you could break. “Looks like they dumped me in here through the roof. Either that or there’s a concealed door in one of these blank walls.”

The absolute blackness continued for some time. Flash had returned to the center of the room, was sitting crosslegged on the floor. “Doesn’t seem to be any way out of here. So we’ll have to wait and see what Pan has in mind.”

Another hour went by. Flash had a good time sense, even in this black room where there were no visible clues to the passage of time.

Flash stiffened, alert. The room was growing lighter very gradually. This protracted dawning of light allowed him to see what sort of place he was in. As he had figured in the dark, it was a room about fifteen feet square with one large window. The walls, he now saw, were ivory-white, as was the floor. The pale-blue light which was filling the room emanated from light strips set flush in the ceiling.

Flash sensed Pan’s presence before he actually saw the man. He turned, and there was the tall bearded man on the other side of the tinted oval window.

“Good evening, Flash Gordon,” said Pan, a smile on his lips. His voice came to Flash out of the ceiling.

“You’re Pan?”

“I am called that, yes.”

“And you have Dale Arden prisoner here in your city,” said Flash, watching the man.

“She is here,” answered Pan, “but as a willing guest rather than as a prisoner.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Now perhaps, but soon you will share her outlook and feelings,” said Pan, laughing “I can assure you of that.” He leaned close to the window. “There are a few things I must know, Flash Gordon. If you will answer a few questions for me I will be most appreciative. How did you get here?”

Flash shrugged and turned up his palms. “I came to, and here I was.”

“I don’t relish flippancy,” said Pan. “How did you get inside Perfect City? How did you get into the restricted areas?”

Unless Pan was bluffing, he didn’t know the part Flip had played. Which might mean Flip had been able to get away when the slaves attacked him. “I had a hunch you had some kind of underground headquarters in this area,” answered Flash. “Once you snatched my ship, I knew I was in the right spot. For the past day I’ve been searching for some kind of entrance. This afternoon, I saw some of your men coming out of a concealed tunnel.”

“Indeed? And how do you come to be dressed as one of my slaves?”

“Is that what you call them? I waited until one of them strayed from the pack, then jumped him. You should find him out in the brush someplace.”

“The helmet you were wearing,” said Pan, “had its works ripped out.”

“Seemed to me I’d better do that before wearing the thing.”

“Are you aware,” Pan inquired, “that
six
slaves did not return from a patrol whose purpose was to search for you? Not one, Flash Gordon, but six! Would you have me believe you overpowered a half dozen of my men?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Flash. “Maybe they just got tired of their perfect life down here with you and took off.”

“Quite impossible,” said Pan. He moved back a few steps from the watching window. “You were in the capital of Estampa when I caused the first of my sound manifestations to occur.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Then you are fully aware of what I can do with sound,” Pan said, smiling, “Unless you discard this insolent attitude and tell me all I want to know, I’ll—” He finished the sentence by throwing a switch on a control panel beside him.

A harsh keening began to pour out of the ceiling speakers.

For a few seconds it didn’t bother Flash. Then his bones began to ache. He became aware of his skull beneath his scalp as it ached and throbbed. He fought against the impulse, but finally brought his hands to his ears to try to keep out the sound.

Then abruptly it stopped.

Pan said something, but Flash didn’t catch it.

“Answer me,” said Pan.

“I didn’t . . . hear . . . what . . . you . . .”

“I said, are you ready to comply with my wishes?”

“I’ve told you how I got here.”

A new sound commenced and drilled into his skull, harsher than the one before. It rattled his bones, shaking him like a cat shaking a mouse in its teeth. Someone screamed. Flash wasn’t sure if it was he who had screamed or not. His body felt as though it was contracting. Clutching at his stomach, he toppled forward.

“. . . talk . . .?” Pan was asking him something.

“What?”

“Will you talk now?”

“No.”

“This can go on for a good long time,” warned Pan as he flicked another switch.

But it didn’t. The next howl of noise was so harsh and intense that it pushed Flash down into unconsciousness in less than a minute.

F
og came rolling in across the harbor. The floating globes of light which illuminated the waterfront streets and rampways were blurred. A private aircruiser dropped quietly down through the mist to settle on the landing area behind a dark silent warehouse dome. There were no other aircraft on the landing lot.

The door of the cruiser swung open. A medium-sized man in a rumpled two-piece flying suit got out and went shuffling toward the dome. The door mechanism recognized him; a panel in the warehouse wall slid aside.

Dr. Nazzaro took out a plyochief and rubbed at his forehead. “We’re very near,” he said, “very near to victory and complete control.”

As he made his way through the hallway, the floors and walls of each section glowed faintly for an instant before he entered it and turned dark again when he had passed.

At the very center of the warehouse was a circular workroom. When the rumpled Minister of Health was inside it, the door closed and six globes of light began to glow.

Sitting next to a floating worktable was a large synthwood carton. Dr. Nazzaro hurried, in his shuffling way, to the closed crate. “In a way,” he said, “I hope we don’t have to use this. I’ve developed almost a fondness for President Bentancourt, fool that he is. Perhaps he can be persuaded to surrender to Pan.”

Dr. Nazzaro lifted the lid. “Ah, excellent. A beautiful likeness of that egocentric Zarkov. The arrogant nose, conceited curl of lip, the ridiculously opulent beard. Yes, this will certainly fool Bentancourt. I must remember to make certain the voice blares out loud enough.”

Leaving the lid open, Nazzaro reached over to the worktable to pick up a black instrument case. “A few simple procedures will activate the explosive mechanism, then our blustering friend will be ready to serve us.”

He leaned over the crate.

Two powerful hands shot up and caught his wrists.

Nazzaro’s mouth opened, but only dry gasps came out.

“Arrogant nose, huh?” said Zarkov, sitting up so that his nose was inches from the rumpled Nazzaro’s. “I’ll agree with you about the beard, since it isn’t mine.”

“Isn’t yours?”

“I borrowed it from your andy.” Keeping his strong grip on the other man, Zarkov climbed out of the crate.

“Borrowed? I don’t understand. The Yate android called me only a little more than an hour ago to report all was well, that you were stunned and a prisoner on a barge out in the harbor, with Glenna and Hasp standing guard.”

“A few simple procedures were all it took to find out what your Yate andy knew, and to get him to phone you and tell you what I wanted him to,” said Zarkov. He let go of the rumpled Nazzaro, shoved him back, and tugged a pistol from his worksuit pocket.

Regaining his balance, Nazzaro smoothed his hands over the many wrinkles in front of his suit. “Apparently I underestimated you, Doctor.”

“Apparently,” agreed Zarkov. “You’ll find I’m not an egomaniac at all, but simply a man who always tells the truth about his numerous abilities.”

“Then you’ve suspected me?”

“Not until I found out Yate was just a bucket of bolts,” replied Zarkov. He tugged at his beard with his free hand and part of it detached from his chin. “Then it occurred to me you were one of the few other people who could have known Flash was going to call on Minnig, and that I was going to be looking for the guy who piloted that aircruiser. So I was expecting you to lift that lid, Nazzaro.”

“This is all very disheartening.” Nazzaro kept rubbing at his clothes.

“What did Pan promise you?”

“A great deal more than I have now.”

“You were supposed to be a good man, Nazzaro, efficient and loyal.”

“Even a good, efficient, loyal man can want more than ha has,” said Nazzaro. “Especially after I met Glenna, I began to think—”