Read Ebook: Pied Piper of Mars by Kummer Frederic Arnold Leydenfrost Alexander Illustrator

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Ebook has 114 lines and 10627 words, and 3 pages

"Come ... come on," Ranson said thickly. "Got to get out of here."

But his words held no force, and Elath Taen was nodding sleepily under the influence of the weird dream-music. Ranson knew he should act, swiftly, while he could; but the movement of a single muscle seemed an intolerable effort. His skin felt as though it were being rubbed with velvet, a strange purring sensation filled his brain. He tried to think, to move, but his will seemed in a padded vise. The music was dragging him down, down, into the gray mists of oblivion.

Across the laboratory Elath Taen had slumped to the floor, a vague smile of triumph on his face. Ranson turned to the direction of the music, tried to raise his gun, but the weapon slipped from his fingers, he fell to his knees. Sleep ... that was all that mattered ... sleep. The music was like chloroform, its notes stroked his brain. Through half-shut eyes he saw a door at the rear of the laboratory open, saw a slim, dark, exotic girl step through into the room. Slung about her neck in the manner of an accordian, was a square box, with keys studding its top. For a long moment Ranson stared at the dark, enigmatic girl, watched her hands dance over the keys to produce the soft lulling music. About her head, he noticed, was a queer copper helmet, of a type he had never before seen. And then the girl, Elath Taen, the laboratory, all faded into a kaleidoscopic whirl. Ranson felt himself falling down into the gray mists, and consciousness disappeared.

Steve Ranson awoke to find himself still in the laboratory, bound securely hand and foot. Opposite him Elath Taen was just struggling to his feet, aided by the dark-haired, feline girl.

"I ... I'm all right, Zeila," Taen muttered. "It was necessary that I, also, hear the sleep-melody, in order to overcome our snooping friend here. But look--he's coming to!"

The girl's gold-flecked eyes turned to Ranson, studied him impassively. Elath Taen gave a mocking smile.

"My daughter Zeila, Mr. Ranson," he murmured. "The consolation of my declining years. She, too, has devoted her life to the great cause of Martian freedom, the overthrow of Terra!"

"To be expected from your daughter," Ranson grunted. "I might have known you were at the bottom of this, Taen! Killing off the officials of the Martian Broadcasting Company!"

"Killing?" Taen smiled, glanced at the queer box slung about the girl's neck. "We only serenaded them. Induce the necessary moods for murder, suicide, madness. You have played our tunes to the remaining two, Zeila?"

The girl nodded impassively. "Cartwright unfortunately ended his own life," she said. "Rankin heard the song of hate, went berserk and was killed. Yla-tu, one of our own people, is in charge of M.B.C. until more terrestial executives arrive from earth."

"You're nuts!" Ranson laughed. "If you think...."

Again the girl's fingers danced over the keys in a wild melody of hate. Red mists rose before Ranson's eyes and he fought against the bonds that held him. Then the song changed to a dirge-like melody and Ranson fell into the black abyss of despair. This was more than music, he knew; it was something deeper that played upon the soul. Again the notes changed and crawling fear enveloped Ranson until he felt sick with horror of the unknown. Emotion after emotion gripped him, and had he not been helpless, bound, he would have obeyed the moods that swept his brain. He was himself like an instrument upon which a thousand tunes were played ... and through it all Elath Taen smiled with a vague detached air, while the girl's eyes burned into his own.

Suddenly Elath Taen raised his hand. "Enough, Zeila," he said. "He is exhausted."

The music ceased and Ranson fell back weakly, worn by the storm of emotions that had surged in waves over him.

"You.... You win!" he gasped. "What kind of deviltry is this?"

"Deviltry?" Dr. Taen laughed. "But it is so simple. Music, even normal music, can produce moods. The uplift of the ancient earthsong, 'Marsailles,' the melancholy of the 'Valse Triste,' the passion of the 'Bolero.' Indeed, many years ago on Terra, there was a strange song entitled, 'Gloomy Sunday,' which caused numerous suicides on the part of those who heard it. As for the instrument, it's merely an electrical sound producer such as your electric organ, theremins, and so on. But to it I have added a full range of supersonic notes, which, though inaudible, are the real mood-changers."

"Supersonics?" Ranson exclaimed. "You mean they're what created the emotions inside me just now?"

"Exactly." Elath Taen nodded. "The audible music helps, but it is the supersonics that determine the emotions! Their effect is upon the brain, and nothing can shut them out except counter-notes such as are set up by our helmets!" He tapped the copper dome that encased his head. "The effects of supersonics upon the emotions is interesting, Mr. Ranson. I first got my idea from old twentieth-century records on Terra itself. I read how, in the days of motion pictures before television was perfected, one of your Hollywood companies introduced a supersonic note onto the sound-track of a film in hopes of creating an atmosphere of horror at a certain point in the picture. But so great was the terror induced at the private showing that the supersonic note was immediately cut from the sound-track, and the records of the case filed away. It was the discovery and study of these records that started me on the trail of super-music. Thus with cosmic irony, Mr. Ranson, Earth has created the weapon which will destroy her! Supersonics!"

Ranson stared at Elath Taen, bewildered. Supersonics creating emotions! That was what had infuriated Haller and himself, had driven the other officials of M.B.C. to various forms of death! And now, with M.B.C. in the hands of Taen's followers, they planned to arouse the silent little reddies of Mars to revolt!

"But why?" Ranson demanded. "Earthmen have brought new life, new progress to Mars! We've built roads, canals, spaceports, taught your people our science...."

"You are aliens!" Elath Taen cried. "You must be wiped out!" He drew a whistle from his pocket, blew a shrill blast. There was a pattering of feet, and a squat Martian, his arms scarred by flame-gun burns, entered the room.

"Place the terrestial in safe keeping," Elath Taen commanded. "Watch him well." He glanced at the blinking red light of a time-signal on the wall. "Come Zeila! It's time to go!"

Then she and her father had left the laboratory, and the burly guard was forcing Ranson toward a small iron-barred door at the rear of the room. Bound, helpless, he staggered into the cell, heard the door clang shut behind him. The scarred, ugly guard stationed himself across the laboratory, where he could keep an eye on the cell.

Ranson lay there in the shadows, suddenly bitter. A nice mess he'd made of things! Wanted for murder by Captain Maxwell, tricked by Elath Taen and his daughter when he had them in his grasp, and now a prisoner here, while they sent their musical madness, their deadly supersonic notes, over the planet-wide chain of M.B.C. Ranson knew what that would mean. Except for the Foreign Legion, a few rocket-plane squadrons, Mars was undefended. If Elath Taen's supersonics aroused the reddies to revolt, his dream of making himself emperor of Mars would be at last fulfilled.

At length the ropes fell from Ranson's aching arms. Swiftly he freed his legs. The guard was still sitting in the well-lighted laboratory, unmoved. Ranson glanced at the door. Steel bars, impossible to penetrate. And seconds ticking away!

A dark fighting grin spread over Ranson's lean face. There was one chance. A wild, desperate chance, but if it worked.... Hastily he slipped off his shoes, placed them on the floor beside him. Then, thrusting his hand into his coat pocket, he bulged the cloth out with his finger to simulate a gun.

"Don't move!" he said in sibilant Martian. "Drop your flame-gun! Try anything and I'll shoot!"

The guard sprang to his feet, his bulging hairless head gleaming in the bright light, his green eyes cold with rage. As Ranson had expected, he gave no indication of surrender. Instead, he raised his weapon, fired.

At the moment that the guard pressed the trigger, the terrestial leaped to one side, seeking cover of the wall at the side of the door. A savage greenish flash spat from the gun, a terrible wave of heat swept the cell. Half-blinded, sick from the searing heat, Ranson lay in his corner and watched the door. Under the fiery blast, the iron bars turned white, ran, until only pools of molten metal lay between him and freedom.

The squat Martian snapped off the ray, approached the glowing door cautiously, to find out if there was life in Ranson's inert body. There was ... more than the little reddy had bargained for. The earthman's arm swung in an arc and one of his shoes, flying through the blasted, melted door, caught the little Martian's wrist, knocked the flame-gun from his hand. The other shoe, following swiftly, landed alongside his head, sent him reeling and staggering back into a shelf of test-tubes and beakers.

"And that's how we do it on Earth!" Grinning tightly, Ranson leaped the puddles of molten metal, plunged through the blasted, glowing remains of the door. Before the ugly little guard could recover, a hard knotted terrestial fist had slammed against his chin, sent him, limp and unconscious to the floor.

Swiftly Ranson ripped wires from the masses of intricate machinery, bound the inert reddy, then, snatching up the flame-gun, ran from the house.

Twisting, turning, he came to the embankment of the Psidian canal. A sleek water-cab slid into view, its atomic motors humming. Ranson hailed it, hand on his gun, but the wizened reddy at the wheel had apparently not heard of Elath Taen's mad melody.

"Martian Broadcasting Building," Ranson grated. "Step on it!"

The driver nodded, and, when his passenger was aboard, sent the boat surging along the canal, throwing up clouds of spray. Racing, roaring, dodging heavily-laden freight boats, the cab tore over the dark cold water that flowed, via the intricate networks of canals, from the polar caps.

As they neared the center of the city, the atmosphere of tension grew. Little bands of terrestial police patrolled the embankments, a squadron of rocket-planes droned above the towering metropolis, the light of their exhausts throwing weird shadows. Occasional shouts, the green flash of flame-guns, issued from the darkness and the crowds of reddies gathered before their radios in houses, shops, and public squares, were seething with excitement. The roar of the cab's motors drowned out the sound of the music and Elath Taen's exultant voice, but the driver moved uneasily.

"Looks like somethin's up," he muttered. "I'll see if we can get a bulletin."

Before Ranson could stop him, he had snapped on the radio within the cab. The wild, frenzied music filled the small cabin, tearing at both men's minds, while Taen's voice urged revolt. Then, under the influence of the supersonics, red flames of hatred leaped through their brains, banishing all thought, logic. The little Martian driver whirled about, only to have the butt of Ranson's gun crash down upon his head. Slumping forward, his body fell against the radio, shattering its fragile tubes. Ranson shook himself as the infernal music abruptly ceased.

The M.B.C. building lay just before them. Ranson swung the cab to the embankment, sprang out. The tall plastoid building towered white and spectral above the canal. Ranson burst through the door.

Several reddies on guard sprang forward, but a blast from the terrestial's gun cleared the great hall. He sprang into an elevator, jabbed at a button, and the car shot upward.

Ranson leaped forward. Even the supersonics were kept from the outer room by the vacuum-insulated double glass panes; Elath Taen was like a silent marionette in the broadcasting booth, his green eyes flickering with apprehension, his head encased by the shielding copper helmet.

"Drop your gun, Mr. Ranson!" Zeila's voice came from behind him.

Ranson whirled; the girl had been standing behind the door, unnoticed, as he burst into the room. Her exotic face was pale, but the flame-gun in her hand was steady. Ranson obeyed, smiling.

Zeila stared at him, lips a crimson slash across her face.

"You won't get away with it!" she exclaimed. "It's bluff!"

"Shoot, then," Ranson said. "Blow the whole top of this building to bits!" He reached out for her gun.

Zeila Taen broke suddenly, shuddering at the thought of her vivid beauty torn to shreds by an explosion.

"Take it!" she snarled. "It's too late, anyhow! Mars is in revolt! No one can stop them now! Fool! My father will be emperor after the insurrection! You might have been prince."

Ranson didn't wait to hear more. One blast of the heat gun and the glass partition shattered to a thousand fragments.

"No good, Mr. Ranson." Elath Taen lifted his hands from the keyboard, smiling thinly. "The flame is lit and cannot be put out! The red flame of revolt! Already my people are fighting! Loud-speakers in every public square have carried the sound of mad, blind fury! I am the mood-master!"

For a long moment Elath Taen stared at his daughter, then nodded his hairless head somberly.

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