Flash Gordon 2 - The Plague of Sound (13 page)

“He’s working here in the palace,” said Tad. “We’ll find him soon.”

“Let’s get to Flash Gordon first,” said the girl. “He’s been suffering much more.”

Tad held out a restraining arm. He frowned, eyes nearly closed. “No one in this corridor now,” he said after a moment. He touched the wall and a portion of it slid aside.

“Listen to that,” said Jillian.

The shouting and laughing of the freed slaves could be heard dimly in the corridor they had stepped into.

“They’re realizing they aren’t slaves any more,” said Tad. “Most of them are going to leave Perfect City right away.”

“Do you know where Pan is?”

“He’s stopped torturing Flash again,” answered the youth. “He’s in his sanctum playing his pipe organ. Dale Arden is with him.”

“Then we’ll have a chance to get to Flash.”

“Yes,” said Tad. “We can go there. But wait.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve just picked up Flip’s thoughts.” Tad laughed. “He even thinks in that old-fashioned jargon. But he seems to be about to rescue Flash himself. Yes, that’s what he’s up to, so we can concentrate on your brother.”

“You’re sure Flash is okay?”

“Yes, Flip can . . . oh, no, you can’t . . .” The boy stopped, his face white.

“What’s wrong, Tad. What’s happened?”

The boy didn’t answer for a moment. “I . . . it’s nothing. I happened to catch one of Sawtel’s thoughts. It’s nothing to worry about, Jillian. Let’s get moving.”

“She took hold of his hand. “Tad, what did you find out?”

“It’s nothing,” Tad answered. “Really. Come on, I’ll lead you to your brother.”

The girl hesitated, then followed him.

B
are green feet were coming down through the ceiling.

Flash had been lying sprawled on his back. Pushing with his elbows, he began to rise. “Now what?”

“Be cool, daddy, and don’t flip your wig like. The marines have landed, you know.”

Flash shook his head, trying to clear some of the pain out of himself. “Flip, is that you?”

“Nobody else but, man. In person and in the flesh. I’m impersonating this cat name of Manyon who’s a big wheel here in PC.” He dropped to the floor. “They been giving you a bad time, man?”

“Not so good,” admitted Flash.

“Okay, you think as how you can climb out of this-here hole through that opening up there?”

Narrowing his eyes, Flash glanced upward. “Yeah, with a boost from you.”

“Good enough, daddy.” Flip linked his now green fingers together to form a stirrup.

Flash stepped on it with one foot and pushed upward. He had a few seconds of dizziness, but was able to catch hold of the edge of the opening in the ceiling. “Got it,” he said as he caught hold of the rim of the exit hole.

“Way to go, daddy,” said Flip. “Now I sure hope you can tug me on out of here.”

Flash rolled across the padded metal roof of the cell he’d been confined in. This was a corridor up here, white-walled and lit with strips of pale-orange light. He went back to the opening and was about to reach his arms down for Flip to catch.

“Here now, what goes on?” A tall black slave was trotting down the corridor toward him, hand hovering over his holster.

“Sounds like something’s going on wrong,” said Flip down in the cell.

Flash stood to face the charging guard. “You better listen to the man down there,” he said, pointing at the opening.

“You’re Flash Gordon,” said the slave. His gun appeared in his hand, pointing right at Flash.

Tensing, Flash threw himself sideways. A shot from the blaster went sizzling through the spot where he had been.

“Surrender,” shouted the slave.

Flash rose to make a dive for the black man. But another wave of dizziness hit him. He took one step and stumbled.

Down in the cell Flip was making a concerted effort to jump up and get a grip on the edge of the opening. “Higher, man, jump higher.” He was not succeeding.

The slave took careful aim at Flash with his gun. Then he straightened, beginning to laugh. “Hey, what happened? What am I doing this for?” He ripped the helmet from his head. “You okay, friend?”

Flash stared at him. “What’s happened to you?”

“I’m not quite sure, friend,” replied the slave. “Except this helmet just turned off and I don’t work for Pan anymore. Anything I can do for you before I take off and get myself far away from here?”

“Can you help me haul my friend up out of there?”

“Sure thing, friend.” The big black man knelt beside the opening. “Grab hold, buddy.”

Flip had returned to his natural self now. “Hi, brother,” he said, catching hold of the proffered hand. In a moment he was standing beside Flash, “Much obliged, daddy.”

“Nice meeting you,” said the freed slave as he wandered off.

“That’s very cool,” said Flip. “What you think done happened, Flash baby?”

“It could be that only that guy’s helmet broke down,” said Flash. “I think, though, that maybe Sawtel decided to come into the city and take a hand.”

“You mean like he maybe got to the central controls and cut off everybody’s water at the same time, man?”

“We can soon find out,” said Flash. “Do you know where Pan is holding Dale?”

“Yeah, man,” replied Flip. “I know this place inside and out now. She’s up in his music room.”

“Where he controls the sound plague?”

“No, that’s over in the control area. I mean like where he plays music, you dig? Seems like this cat is fond of laying down sounds on a pipe organ. How do you like that, a pipe organ?”

“Can you lead me there?”

“Oh, yeah, daddy. Just follow along in my wake.” Flip began walking rapidly along the corridor.

“Thanks for bailing me out,” said Flash. “How’d you manage it?”

“Well, when all those dudes jumped us, I said to myself, Flip, my boy, if you wasn’t a carbon copy of this technical cat, they wouldn’t know who you was maybe. So I whipped off my white smock, changed into a bland-looking pink-colored slave and started yelling like the rest of them. You will recall I was wearing my old slave threads under that smock.” He jabbed a finger to the left. “We go this way, baby.”

There was noise in the new corridor they’d entered. The slaves who worked there were talking among themselves, helmets held in their hands or tossed on the metal floor.

“Looks like it is all of them, then,” said Flash.

“That’s very cool,” observed Flip. “No more slaves.”

He beckoned Flash to follow him up a stairway. No one paid much attention to the two of them.

“Anyways,” continued Flip, “I did my slave bit for a while until I wormed my way into this-here building. Then I kind of skulked around and listened to this and that. I remember this Manyon cat and that he was pretty high up in the flunky ranks. So I did me a little snooping and found out he might have a set of keys to unlock your prison. Then I did one of my best impersonations yet. I swiped a cloak out of a vacant suite of rooms and I came on to Manyon like I was Pan himself. Fooled him long enough to get the keys.”

Flash grinned. “I’m glad I got the benefit of some of your finest performances.”

“Oh, man, I’m good all the time,” said Flip. “But, yeah, I think I’m really zinging tonight.” He slowed down and stopped. “We got to go careful now. We’re getting mighty close.”

P
resident Bentancourt sat at his semicircular metal desk, forlornly shuffling through reports on the effects of the plague of sound in his territory. He pushed back, stood up from the desk, and walked with shoulders hunched to the window of his office. Ribbons of fog were floating by through the dark. Hands behind his back, he stood watching the night. “What’s become of Zarkov?” he mused. “It’s been hours since he was here, with his beard shaved off and demanding the loan of an airtruck. I wish he’d told me exactly what he was . . .”

Honking sounded outside his window. An airtruck was circling the executive building.

Down below in the courtyard appeared two secret service men, waving their arms at the president and shouting. “Get away from the windows, sir.”

Bentancourt opened the window, cupping his hands to his mouth to call down, “It’s not an assassin, it’s Dr. Zarkov.”

The truck landed on the sparkling black flagstones of the courtyard. A moment later, Zarkov leaped from the cab.

The president leaned further out the window. “Now he seems to have a beard again,” he said. “Or at least part of one.”

“Come on down, Prez,” invited the doctor in his resounding voice.

There were four secret service men in the foggy courtyard now, forming a tight circle around Zarkov.

When the president reached the outside, a fifth secret service agent hurried to his side. “You shouldn’t have exposed yourself out here, sir.”

“Nonsense, I trust Dr. Zarkov.”

“We suspect this fellow’s wearing a fake beard, Mr. President, and may not be—”

“I’ve cleared up this end of things for you,” boomed Zarkov as he strode over to President Bentancourt.

“Don’t touch the president,” cautioned the secret service man.

Zarkov grunted at him and went over to yank open the rear of his airtruck. “Exhibit A,” he bellowed. “This one’s name is Hasp, nothing more than an underling.” He hefted the bound-and-gagged man out of the truck, tossed him to the nearest secret service agent “Be careful with this next one.” He hopped up into the truck, then leaped out with Glenna in his arms. He stood in the fog and explained to the president. “This is the gal who helped frame Flash Gordon for the killing of Minister Minnig. They used an andy simulacrum of Minnig and another one of Flash. I’ll give you all the details when I get back from the jungle.”

The platinum-haired girl was still gagged, but her flashing eyes told what she thought of the burly scientist.

“Jungle?” said President Bentancourt.

“Mazda Territory,” amplified Zarkov. He handed Glenna over to another puzzled secret service man. “Let me explain my truckload of crooks first.” He reached in and tugged out the General Yate android.

“Yate was plotting against me, too?”

“This isn’t Yate; it’s another andy.” Zarkov let the mechanical man clang to the flagstones. “Inspector Carr is out at Paradise Park right now cleaning out their andy factory. He’ll give you more dope than I’ve got time to,”

“You mean,” asked the president “that the murder of Minnig is tied in with the sound plague?”

“Obviously.” Zarkov jumped into the shadowy interior of the truck once more and came leaping out carrying the tied Dr. Nazzaro. “Here’s the local mastermind behind the whole thing. He’s in cahoots with a guy calling himself Pan.”

“Nazzaro?” said Bentancourt, taking a step back.

“The real Dr. Nazzaro, too,” Zarkov told him, “and not a facsimile.”

“I don’t understand,” began the shaken president.

“Simplest thing in the world,” said Dr. Zarkov. “And I’ve been on several dozen different worlds. Nazzaro wanted more power and more money. Pan made him an offer. He took it.”

“Then that was what was behind all this? More than just destruction?”

“You’ll find almost all destruction has a motive behind it,” boomed Zarkov. “Tomorrow Pan was going to issue an ultimatum. Turn over the territory to him and his boys or the sound-wave destruction would continue.”

“He can still issue an ultimatum,” pointed out the president.

“No, because I’m going to fly out to his jungle hideaway and take care of him before he gets the chance,” said Dr. Zarkov. “I guarantee it.” He gave Nazzaro to another of the secret service men. To one who was empty-handed, he said, “Call your military field and tell them to get an aircruiser ready for Zarkov. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Shall I—?”

“Yes,” the president told him. “Whatever he wants.”

“I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.” Zarkov trolled toward the cab of the airtruck.

In a moment, it roared off into the misty night.

Looking at the three prisoners and the spread-eagle android, President Bentancourt said, “I still don’t quite understand about his beard.”

D
ale suddenly realized the music she was listening to was dreadful. Strangely enough it had seemed beautiful only a moment ago. She looked curiously around her, noticing that everything seemed different.

Pan was at the gigantic pipe organ, completely immersed in his music and paying no attention to the girl.

Quietly she left the white chair she had been sitting in. Moving her hands slowly up, she lifted off the slave helmet. For some reason, it no longer controlled her. Perhaps it’s some trick of Pan’s, she thought, some new kind of torture. She stood watching the musician’s arched back. But if it is, he doesn’t seem to be paying too much attention.

The terrible music continued to pour out of the pipe organ, wild and awful.

Whatever’s happening, reflected the girl, I’ve got to take advantage of it—got to get away from here. She took a few careful steps toward the doorway. Then she remembered Flash. “Oh, lord, I’d forgotten about Flash,” she said to herself. “Pan’s got him locked in that torture room.” Recalling what she had watched Pan do to Flash, the girl shuddered.

Pan’s long-fingered hands rose and fell over the organ keys, swooping like hunchbacked birds of prey.

I can’t remember where the door to Flash’s cell is, Dale thought. But Pan must have some kind of key, some way to open that awful room.

She saw a pistol now. A blaster pistol with a silver barrel left by Pan on top of a pseudomarble table near the pipe organ. If I can get hold of that, I can force him to free Flash.

Dale started moving slowly and carefully toward the weapon.

She was still ten feet short of it when Pan suddenly wheeled around. “You’re not attentive enough, my dear,” he said. “I wish . . .” He shot to his feet “What’s happened to you slave helmet? Get it at once. That is an order from your master.”

Dale sprinted, making a desperate grab for the bright pistol.

Pan anticipated her, reaching the weapon first. He snatched it up and pointed it at the girl. “Stay right there, my dear,” he shouted. “As lovely as you are, I won’t hesitate to shoot you down.”