Upon a Sea of Stars (42 page)

But they kept on at a staggering, faltering pace and came at last to the great iron-studded doorway. Barely within Sanderson’s reach—and he was a tall man—was a huge knocker, forged in the semblance of a snarling lion’s head. The young officer had to stretch to reach it; and as he put his hand to it, it moved of its own accord, emitting a thunderous clangor like an artillery barrage.
Boom, boom! Boom, boom! Boom!

Almost as loud were the heavy footsteps that sounded thunderously behind the door. Almost as loud was the deep voice that asked, “Who on this night, so bleak and frore, disturbs the Giant Blunderbore?”

The double doors crashed outward. Standing there, silhouetted against the light, was a human figure. It was all of ten feet tall, and broad in proportion. It looked down at them, its eyes gleaming yellow in the black face, and bellowed, “Enter, Princeling! Enter, Knight!
Ye
shall be my guests tonight.” Then, as the two men drew back, it went on, “Come in, come in! This is Liberty Hall—you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard!”

The lapse from rhymed couplets and the use of an expression that had never failed to annoy him snapped Grimes back to reality. He was Commodore John Grimes, of the Rim Worlds Naval Reserve, not Sir John, and he was supposed to be investigating this crazy planet. But the castle was real enough, as was the giant who loomed there in the open doorway, as were the bruises on his body that still ached, the scratches and burns that still smarted.

“What’s the matter?” he asked nastily. “Can’t you find a rhyme for ‘bastard’? And who are you, anyhow?”

“And who are you? All I know is that you are outsiders, and I’m supposed to stop you. Not that I want to. This damn foolishness has gone on too long. Much too long.”

From the sky thundered a great voice, “Blunderbore, your duty’s plain! These prying strangers must be slain!”

The giant stared upward, growled, “—you. I’ve had you, chum, in a big way.”

The answer was a sizzling bolt of lightning, a crackling streak of dazzling energy that should have incinerated Blunderbore where he stood. But he caught it with a huge hand, laughed and hurled it back like a flaming javelin, shouting, “Try that on for size, damn you!”

“What’s going on?” Sanderson whimpered. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s a long story,” Blunderbore told him.

“It’s a story, all right,” agreed Grimes. “The city of Ayonoree . . . the Frog Prince . . . the Fairy Lynnimame . . . and you, Blunderbore.” Yes, it was all coming back to him, and it was all making a fantastic kind of sense.

“Can you be killed?” Blunderbore was asking.

“I suppose so,” said Grimes, conscious of the smart of his wounds. “Yes, I fear so. We’re the outsiders. We don’t belong in the series, do we? And you and the others go on from installment to installment. . . .”

“Only because we’re trapped. But come in. You have to wake the Princess. It’s the only way out, for all of us.”

The huge man stood to one side as Grimes and Sanderson hurried into the castle. They were barely in time, were almost knocked from their feet by the wind from the crashing volley of great rocks that fell from the black sky. Splinters stung the backs of their legs painfully. Grunting, Blunderbore pushed past them, seized the two sides of the door in his big hands, pulled them shut just as another shower of boulders crashed against the stout, iron-bound timbers. “Hurry!” he shouted. “He’s turning nasty!”

The giant led the way across the flagstoned floor, to the far end of the enormous, gloomy hall. He staggered as he ran—and with cause. The very earth was growling beneath their feet, and each successive tremor was more violent than the last. From above came a crash of toppling masonry.

The air was thickening. Tendrils of yellow fog clutched at the running, stumbling men, and the writhing mist had substance. Half-seen, evil faces leered at them, distorted visages that were all teeth and dull-gleaming eyes. Vaporous claws reached out for them, solidifying as they did so. Behind Grimes Sanderson screamed, and the Commodore stopped and turned, slashing with his laser at the gelatinous obscenity that had the young officer in its grip. It piped shrilly as it disintegrated, stinking sulfurously.

“Hurry!” Blunderbore was still shouting. “Hurry!”

The stone floor was crackling underfoot, heaving and buckling, and from the high, vaulted ceiling ominous groans resounded. The castle could not withstand this punishment for long. The flaring torches were going out and there was a strong smell of escaping gas. Then, as a chance spark reignited the explosive mixture, there was a fiery blast that almost finished the destructive work initiated by the earthquake.

Almost finished.

But Blunderbore and the two spacemen were still on their feet, somehow, and there were still walls around them, although crumbling and tottering, and over their heads the last stone arch still held, despite the torrential rain of rubble that was clattering upon and around it. Ahead of them was the great fireplace, into which the giant jumped without stooping. Then he bent slowly and fumbled among the dead ashes, and straightened even more slowly, the muscles of his naked back and arms bulging and glistening. He grunted as he came erect, holding before him an enormous slab of stone. He cast it from him—and the noise of its fall and its shattering was lost amid the general uproar.

Under the slab was a spiral stairway, a helix of rusty iron running down, and down, down to murky depths where an eerie blue glimmer flickered. The prospect was not an inviting one; how long would the walls of the shaft withstand the incessant tremors? Even so, the fire was yet to come, whereas the frying pan was becoming hotter and hotter. Great sheets of flame from the ruptured gas mains were shrieking across the ruined hall, and through them crashed increasingly heavy falls of debris. And the writhing phantasms were back, multiplying in spite of the geysers of burning, exploding gas, coalescing, solidifying, piping and tittering. They were insubstantial no longer; their claws and their teeth were sharp.

“Down with you!” bellowed Blunderbore. “Down with you! It’s the only way!”

“You lead!” gasped Grimes, using his laser like a sword, slashing at the half-materialized things that were closing in upon them.

“No . . . I’ll hold . . . them off. . . .” The giant had wrenched the great iron spit from its sockets on either side of the fireplace, was flailing away with it, grunting with every stroke. Tattered rags of ectoplasm clung to its ends, eddied through the smoke- and dust-filled air.

Grimes paused briefly at the head of the spiral staircase, then barked to Sanderson, “Come on!” He clattered down the shaking treads, his left hand on the outer guard rail, his pistol clenched in his right fist. The central column seemed to be trying to tie itself into a knot, but it held, although the steps were canting at odd angles. The walls of the shaft were starting to bulge inward.

Grimes ran—down, down, round, round—keeping his footing in spite of the earthquake shocks, in spite of his increasing dizziness. He ran, and after him ran the third officer. Up there above Blunderbore was still fighting; his joyous bellowing came rolling down on them like thunder, loud even above the clangorous destruction of the Ogre’s Keep.

Down, down. . . .

Grimes staggered on, forcing his legs to move, to go on moving, taking great gasps of the damp, fetid air. Something barred his way, something long and serpent-like, with absurdly small forelegs, with curved poison-fangs and a flickering black tongue. The Commodore tried to stop, tried to bring his pistol up to a firing position, but could not. His impetus carried him on. Then he was
through
the monster; its body offered no more resistance than wet tissue paper.

Down, down. . . .

It was more of a fall than a run.

It was a fall.

Grimes thudded gently into something thick and soft, lay sprawled on the soft bed of moss, breathing in great, painful gulps. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings: the cave, lit by a soft, rosy radiance with no apparent source, the opalescent colonnades of stalactite and stalagmite, the tinkling, glittering waterfalls. He focused his attention upon his immediate vicinity. The Prince was still with him, was himself slowly stirring into wakefulness. Sir John knew where he was. This was the Witch’s Cave, the home of the wicked Melinee.

She was standing over them, a tall woman, white of skin, black of hair, vividly red of mouth, clad in a robe of misty gray. In either hand she held a crystal goblet, bedewed with condensation. She murmured, “Rest you awhile, good knights and true, and pray accept this cooling brew.”

Sanderson reached greedily for the vessel she held out to him—and Grimes, firing from his supine position, exploded it into a spray of splinters and acrid steam.

“It’s not the mess,” protested Sanderson, “but it’s the waste! I never even got a taste!”

“Prince, had we quaffed the witch’s wine,” Grimes told him, “it would have turned us into swine.”

Melinee laughed, a low, throaty gurgle. “You know too much, too much by far. But you’ll be more fun the way you are.” She looked at Sanderson as she said this. The invitation in her black eyes, her parted scarlet lips, was unmistakable.

The young officer reacted. He got gracefully to his feet, took a step toward the witch. He said gallantly. “Who needs wine when you’re around, beautiful?”

“Careful!” warned Grimes.

“Have we been careful so far, sir? We’ve been collecting all the kicks—it’s time that we got our paws on some of the ha’pence.” Then, to the woman, “Isn’t there somewhere around here a little more private?”

She smiled. “My bower, behind the waterfall . . .”

“Sanderson! I order you to keep away from this female!”

“
I
give the orders around here, old man,” said Melinee sweetly. “This is
my
cave, and whatever your rank may be it means nothing as long as you’re on my property.” She turned again to Sanderson. The filmy robe was already slipping down from one smooth shoulder and it was obvious that she was wearing nothing underneath it. “Come,” she murmured.

The admonitory voice boomed from the roof of the cavern. “Melinee, you forget yourself!”

“I don’t!” she shouted. “I’m remembering myself. I’m a real person, not a character in some stupid children’s fairy story! If
you
can’t write adult fiction, buster,
I’m
taking charge of the plot. I’m supposed to be stopping these men from going any further, aren’t I? Then shut up and let me do it my way!”

“Melinee!”

“That’s not my name, and you know it.” She turned again to Sanderson. “Don’t be shy, spaceman. I’ll show you just how wicked a wicked witch can be!”

“Mr. Sanderson!” Grimes’s voice crackled with authority. “Leave that woman alone!”

The young man stood there, obviously thinking mutinous thoughts but not daring to express them. The woman stood there, looking at him, a contemptuous little smile curving her full lips. And then she turned, began to walk slowly and gracefully toward the waterfall. Her robe was almost transparent.

“Melinee!” The voice from the roof expressed entreaty as well as anger. And why, Grimes asked himself suddenly,
should I be on his side?
He said aloud, but quietly, “All right, Mr. Sanderson. Go with her.”

Sanderson shook his head bewilderedly. “First you tell me not to, and now you say that I can. . . . After all, we
are
on duty.”

“Go with her,” repeated Grimes. It was more of an order than a suggestion. “But, sir . . .”

“Damn it all, when I was your age I didn’t have to be told twice.”

The Wicked Witch called over her shoulder, “Do as the nice man says, darling.”

The third officer made a sort of growling noise deep in his throat, glared defiantly at the Commodore, then started after the woman. She had reached the shimmering curtain of the waterfall, was passing through it. As she turned to look back through the rippling transparency Sanderson quickened his pace. Grimes chuckled, pulled from his pocket the battered pipe that somehow had survived unbroken, filled it, then ostentatiously used his laser pistol as a lighter. It was a dangerous trick, but an impressive one.

From beyond the cascade came the sound of a crooning female voice. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?” Then there was a crash of splintering glass and a scream. “No! No! You can’t do that to me! I’ll fix you! I’ll fix you, you . . . you fairy story-teller!”

Melinee burst back into the main cavern. She was shaking with murderous fury. “Look!” she yelled. “Look what that bastard did to me!”

Grimes looked. Sanderson looked. “But—” the latter started to say. Grimes interjected hastily, “It’s shocking!” He was lying—as the mirror must have done.

“Come on!” she snarled. “This joke’s gone on quite long enough!”

She led the way into her bower, through the curtain of falling water. As Grimes passed through it he heard behind him the clatter of falling stalactites, felt the brief wave of scalding heat as the waterfall flashed into steam. But it was too late to harm him, and the others were well clear.

On the far wall of the bower was the mirror—or what had been the mirror. Now it was only an elaborately molded golden frame set into the rock face. Melinee scrambled through it, ignoring the sharp edges that ripped her robe from hip to ankle. Sanderson followed her, then Grimes. The tunnel beyond it was unpleasantly organic in appearance, a convoluted tube, with smooth and pinkly glistening walls, winding, pulsing underfoot, writhing.

Melinee ran on, sure-footed. Somewhere she had lost her sandals, had probably used one of them to smash the lying, libelous looking-glass. The men, in their shoes, slipped and slithered, but they kept up with her. Down they went, and down, losing all sense of direction, losing their footing, putting hands out to steady themselves against smooth, warm walls that shrank away from the touch. Down they went, and down, gasping in the hot air, suddenly conscious that the red-glowing walls were steadily contracting. Soon there would be no going any further ahead, and no turning back.

They were crouching, and then they were slithering on their bellies. Grimes, who had passed Sanderson while it was still possible, while there was still freedom of movement, suddenly found his way blocked, realized that the crown of his head was pressing against the soles of Melinee’s bare feet. Faintly her voice came back to him. “We’re there . . . at the air lock. But . . . I don’t know how to open it. . . .”