Flash Gordon 2 - The Plague of Sound (7 page)

The girl looked at the ground. “The basic idea was Sawtel’s. But he intended the helmet to be used only to help the mentally ill,” she explained. “Pan had other ideas, plus enough skill to be able to adapt the mechanism.”

Flash stood up. “Where did these two thousand citizens come from?”

“About five hundred are the original people who came out when the city was first opened,” Jillian said. “The rest Pan has recruited. He recruits by raiding settlements in the surrounding territories. That’s really why we’ve started to organize, to free friends and family from Pan.”

“Can’t the governments of the territories involved do anything?”

“A territory like Mazda isn’t like Estampa,” she answered. “There’s very little organized government at all, and what there is is pretty weak and ineffective. In other territories the people are ruled by dictators or venal juntas. Those kinds of governments don’t depend on votes and they’re not interested in helping a few hundred people from the outlands.”

Flash asked, “Someone you know is a slave?”

“My brother, yes.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation, Flash,” said the long, lanky Tad as he came out of the cave. “We’re not ready to make our move against Pan, but I can guide you to Perfect City.”

“Okay,” said Flash, “I accept your offer.”

Jillian got up from the grass. “I was going to offer to guide you.”

“If you both have the time,” Flash said, grinning, “I’d appreciate having both of you help out.”

“Let’s make it unanimous,” said Sawtel, appearing in the cave entrance.

T
he tower was swaying. Then, suddenly, it snapped about ten floors from the top and began to fall to pieces. None of the people working in the giant office building had time to get out. They fell with the crumbling tower, hundreds of black splotches in the early morning sky.

Dale shuddered and turned off the television wall.

She made another aimless circuit of the room, sat for a moment in a floating chair, then got up.

“So far they’ve left the capital alone,” she said to herself. “But everywhere else, all across Estampa, it’s terrible.”

She wandered down a hall.

“A little brunch?” asked the kitchen as she went by. “You didn’t have any breakfast, you know.”

“No, thanks.”

The villa seemed enormously empty, even though it was full of servomechanisms and talking gadgets. But it felt empty with Flash gone and Zarkov off at his lab being so darned pigheaded.

Dale reached out toward a closet door.

The wardrobe opened. “What does miss wish to wear?”

“A flying suit,” said Dale.

The green rental agent ran a comb once again through his wavy red hair. “Going all alone, are you?” he asked Dale.

“Yes.”

“And how long do you want the airship for, miss?” He dropped the plastic comb into a pocket of his plaid jumpsuit.

“At least a week.”

“Maybe you’d be interested in our 20-20 Plan,” said the green man. “Are you familiar with our 20-20 Plan?”

“No.”

“Well, miss, this is basically how it works.” He gestured at the dozen or more airships which surrounded them on the rental field. “You sign up for one of our shipshape ships and agree to use it for at least 20 full days. We then let you have it for only $20.00 a day, plus a few small additional charges required by law.”

“I don’t think I’ll need it for that long. A week will be fine.”

“A week’s going to cost you $32.00 a day plus.”

“I only want it for a week.”

“Okay, miss. We always give the customer what he or she asks for.” He fished out his comb once more. “Only trying to save you a little money. Where will you be flying to?”

“Mazda Territory.”

His red eyebrows went up. “Mazda, is it?” From another pocket he extracted a small vinyl book. “I was afraid of this,” he said when he found the page he’d been looking for. “There’s an extra charge of $6.00 per day if you’re going to Mazda. There’s a little red star next to Mazda here, see, which means we designate it a Hazardous Area.”

Dale pointed at a medium-sized beige aircruiser. “That’s the one I want,” she said. “Can we start filling out the papers?”

“That’s a very powerful ship,” said the rental agent “For young ladies we usually recommend . . .”

“Here are my flying licenses and permits.” She handed him an accordion pack of them. “I’m qualified to handle it.”

“My goodness,” said the rental agent, “I guess you are. And what’s this one here? A Presidential Courtesy card signed by President Bentancourt himself. My goodness! Come on into the office and I’ll speed everything through for you, Miss Arden.” As he led her back to the plastic dome of an office he combed his hair again.

Dale sat tensely in the pilot seat. “We’re just about to arrive at the place where Dr. Zarkov lost contact with Flash,” she said to herself, glancing at the screens of the ground scanner. Thick jungle showed, with no sign of any crashed aircruiser.

She began to feel vaguely strange, to have trouble breathing. “What is it? It’s like . . . some kind of . . . it’s like some sound I’m aware of but can’t quite hear.”

Dale found she no longer had control of the ship. It was being pulled down out of the sky by some powerful force.

“I could jump free,” Dale said. “But I have a feeling I’ll find out more if I stick with the ship.”

She leaned back in the chair and waited.

D
r. Zarkov made an impatient fretful sound as the escalator ramp slowly carried him up to the third-floor level of the Government Data Center. “Snail’s pace,” he muttered. Snorting, he commenced striding up the ramp on his own power.

The third level was a labyrinth of pale-yellow corridors. There appeared to be no doors anywhere. Zarkov stomped rapidly along a succession of twisting, curving walls. Here and there on the seemingly blank walls were small round dots of color. Before a small blue dot, the doctor stopped finally, hands on hips. “Now is that blue bell blue or not?” He decided it was, reached out a knobby finger, and poked the dot. At the same time he recited a string of numbers.

The wall quivered and whirred. A portion of it, about the size of a door, moved aside, revealing a large room beyond. Zarkov walked on in. “Color coded dots. What a nitwit way of running things.”

“Good morning, sir. How are you this bright sunny morning?”

“It’s raining out,” boomed Zarkov.

“Oh, really?” said the talking computer who’d greeted him. “Now why didn’t somebody tell me that.”

Zarkov ignored the large machine stretching along one wall, and crossed to the other end of the room where there was a bank of smaller computers side by side. “Which one of you is the light industry expert?”

“I am,” responded two of the computers at once.

“I’m interested in mechanical men!” bellowed Dr. Zarkov. “Androids, simulacras.”

“That’s my department,” said a computer with a pale-green front. “Ask me anything, anything at all. I’ve got all the info you’ll ever need.”

Zarkov eyed the mechanism, tugging at his bushy beard. “I want a list of all the companies in this territory who are engaged in the manufacture of robots and androids or their components,” he told the computer. “Include any companies who’ve gone out of business in the past five years.”

“Coming right up.”

“Can you separate the list into robots and andies?”

“Why, sure, a cinch.”

Dr. Zarkov scratched at his chin through his whiskers while he waited.

The pale-green computer gave a buzzing noise, then two thin sheets of plastic paper unfurled out of a slot in its front. “Here you go.”

Zarkov quickly scanned the lists. “Good,” he said. “Now give me a list of all the major clients of these companies for the past five—better make it ten years.”

“Curiosity bug’s really bitten you, hasn’t it?” said the computer.

Zarkov snorted by way of reply.

The second list was inching out of the slot when a harsh voice behind Zarkov asked, “What the devil are you doing here, mister?”

Turning, Zarkov said, “Good morning, General Yate.”

The thin green man came across the room. “I asked you a question, mister,” he said. “You may be a pet of the president’s, but that doesn’t give you the right to come nosing around in our files.”

“I’ve got all the proper permits and clearances.” Zarkov reached toward a side pocket in his worksuit.

“Go slow, mister.” The general’s hand moved toward the holster which held his blaster pistol.

Before he reached the gun Zarkov’s powerful hand had snapped out and caught the general’s wrist. “Don’t ever try to pull a gun on me, Yate,” said Zarkov, his voice unusually low.

With his other hand Zarkov produced his papers and ID chits. “Everything is in order, Yate.” He held the packet up close to the general’s nose. “I strongly suggest you go on about your business.”

“Your friend the president,” said the general as he pulled free, “is going to hear about this little manhandling incident.”

“You better get the hell out of here before it turns into a man-punching incident, Yate.”

General Yate left.

“That was nifty,” said the pale-green computer.

“I’ll take that list.” Zarkov grabbed the pages he’d been reaching for when the general had intruded.

Zarkov, his various worksuit pockets crammed with lists, was striding down another blank corridor.

On his left a piece of wall slid aside. “Dr. Zarkov, do you have a moment?”

It was the rumpled Dr. Nazzaro of the health ministry. “I suppose so,” Zarkov said, going over to the open doorway.

“I simply wanted to ask how you were,” said Nazzaro. “When I came in to do some checking in the contagion files my computer mentioned you were here.”

“Word sure gets around.”

“Computers tend to be gossips,” said Dr. Nazzaro. “Tell me, though, how you’re feeling. I understand you were in a serious accident.”

“Not as serious as they hoped,” said Zarkov. “It was only a little explosion.”

The rumpled man chuckled. “I’d already heard you were indestructible. This confirms it,” he said. “Do you have any idea who tried to kill you?’

“The same people who murdered the minister,” said Dr. Zarkov. “The same people who are behind the plague of sound.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“I’ll find out.”

“I
hope you’re watching out for spiders,” said Jillian, dropping back to walk beside Flash on the narrow jungle trail.

“I’m counting on you to protect me,” he said, grinning.

The girl asked, “You think you can persuade the government of Estampa Territory to take action against Pan?’

“Yes,” answered Flash.

Glowing yellow birds went swirling up through the spade-shaped leaves high above.

“I mean, even if he isn’t the cause of the troubles they’ve been having.”

“If what you’ve told me is true, I’m sure something will be done.”

The red-haired girl frowned. “Don’t you believe us? Do you think we’ve all been lying to you?”

“Before I suggest a raid on the Perfect City,” Flash told her, “I want to get a look at it myself. That has nothing to do with you or with Sawtel and Tad. It’s simply the way I operate.”

“I see.” She started to stride away.

He caught her arm. “There are a few more things I want to ask you, Jillian.”

“Why? I’ll probably only lie,” she said. “That’s what you seem to think.”

Several years of adventuring through the universe had taught Flash never to argue with a girl when she was angry. “Sawtel knows the layout of the Perfect City pretty well, doesn’t he?”

Eventually, after nearly a minute of silence, Jillian answered, “He ought to. He helped design most of it.”

“Then he can tell me how to get inside the city.” said Flash, “and how to explore it, with the least chance of being detected.”

“He could.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think you’d stand a chance of making it. Even if one of the slaves didn’t spot you, one of Pan’s security mechanisms would. You’d have an easier time strolling into a bank vault unnoticed.”

“The only way I can find out whether Pan’s behind the sound plague is by getting inside the Perfect City.”

“No, that’s not the only way. Tad can find out, by sending his mind exploring,” Jillian told him. “That would be much safer.”

“How close does he have to be to his target?”

“He gets the best results when he’s within a mile of the person he wants to read,” she replied. “He has, though, a much greater range than that.”

“Maybe he can help on a preliminary probe,” said Flash.

“Jill, Flash.” Tad was running back along the trail from up ahead.

“What is it?” asked the girl.

“There’s a scouting party coming this way,” said the lanky young man. “At least six slaves. They’re still about a mile or so away, gives us plenty of time to hide.”

“Six of them, four of us,” said Flash. “Not bad odds for an ambush.”

“They’ll all be armed,” said Jillian. “It’s best just to keep out of their way.”

“I want to capture them, all six of them if possible,” said Flash.

The girl asked, “Why?”

“They may give me the key to the city,” Flash said.

The slaves came in all sizes. Two of them were well over six feet tall. They were walking along a curving trail single file, moving silently over the tough yellow grass. Six men dressed in simple tunics, each one wearing one of the nearleather helmets. The upper portions of their faces didn’t quite blend with the lower. Their eyes were wary and watchful, but their lips wore bland, mindless smiles. Two of them, a man at each end of the scouting procession, carried blaster rifles; the others carried handguns. They did not speak, did not acknowledge each other’s existence beyond not stepping on each others heels.

A single leaf fell, a bright yellow-green leaf shaped like a giant heart. It came spiraling down through the hazy afternoon, brushing gently against the last man in line.

Then came Flash Gordon.

He plummeted out of the tree branches over the trail. His feet hit the rifle bearer full in the back, causing him to gasp and stumble forward.