Interlude
AT first the people of Earth failed to realize that their way of life, not to mention their very planet, was at the mercy of powerful forces originating in a cosmic whirlpool at the crossroads of time and space. They took the heat waves, thunderstorms, tornadoes, tidal waves, earthquakes, and atmospheric disturbances in stride; these events had been occurring throughout the millenniums and were nothing to get too excited about. (However, even the long-lived President of the Yogurt Consumption Union could not recall the time when they had happened all at once.)The scientific fraternity began to notice some truly unusual phenomena; membership in the Charles Fort Society boomed. Hordes of deceased white mice rained on Mobile, Alabama. The residents of a small Canadian fishing village awoke one morning to find the streets covered with a sticky black goo. A volcano erupted magnificently in Siberia—where three weeks before there had been no volcano! The Amazon River froze over during a blizzard. Half a million crows descended upon Paris and waged a vicious war against the pigeon population. Every leaf in Southern Africa withered and died, but the grass grew tall and strong, choking the countryside. Most perplexing, in the eyes of the layman, was that the birthrate in Japan had dropped dramatically.
The most useful accomplishment of these events was the selling of newspapers; circulation rose to record heights even as television ratings soared. But the world waited for the Reverend Bernard P. Johnson to put the proper perspective on matters. One sunny morning, as he sat in the kitchen reading a newspaper article on Palestinian terrorists machine gunning the marauding magic mushrooms springing up throughout the Middle East, he said to his wife, “You know, if I didn’t know better—and I don’t, because the Lord hasn’t been speaking to me lately—I’d say Judgment Day was upon us.”
That started his wife to thinking, and pretty soon the rumors were flying thick and fast all over the world.
Zarkov’s Treachery
IMMEDIATELY after Ming instructed Klytus to indoctrinate Zarkov, he ordered the execution of the Minister of Propaganda. It was but a whim, an eminently satisfactory one, Ming decided as he watched the prolonged ritual. The minister’s screams were loud and anguished, and he implored the Celestial One for mercy. “I fear the tack will not be successful a second time,” Ming replied, savoring the minister’s groans. “A pity; if you’d been more original, We might have been moved. As it is . . . Well, we shall spend a few moments in your honor, reflecting on the truths to be learned from your death. It is odd, isn’t it, that the old, who have given what they had to give and who should be overjoyed to make way for the young, are the most regretful when departing the shadowed stage; instead, they should readily accept their fate, with a grace that will cause their souls to radiate contentment on their final journey.”The minister’s only coherent answer was an ear-splitting scream, but Ming had expected that.
The execution merely whetted Ming’s appetite for the sexual conquest of the Earth woman. Regardless of his words to his daughter (which apparently had surprised both of them equally), he had not anticipated the obtainment of a royal prerogative since he had ascended the throne over his father’s mangled corpse. Never before had he encountered a woman with this Arden’s sexual potential. Must be something in Terran water, he deduced as he entered the sensory deprivation chamber where he habitually meditated before releasing his lustful self upon some fortunate female flesh.
Lying horizontally above the floor, suspended by antigravity magnetic beams, Ming heard only his breathing and his heartbeat. His eyes were open, but they saw only blackness; when he closed them, he saw red and gray shadings, and he searched for pictures whose only reality was in imagination. Soon he saw torrents of blood, the screams of the dying throughout the eons, the futility of all human ideals and accomplishments. There was but the sensation of the moment to live for, since ultimately all monuments—whether poems or statues—would be less than dust. Then Ming perceived the essence of the cosmic whirlpool; he touched the moments of the past and future; he had reached the eternal parts of his soul. Planets slowly, majestically moved in the black depths of space. Disruptions in the ether revealed unfathomable dimensions and impossible destinations. Ming the Merciless felt valuable insights verging on forbidden knowledge merge with his soul. For moments which stretched until time was a meaningless concept, Ming lay floating, experiencing the peace his turbulent emotions denied him, discovering the nuances of existence overwhelmed by his burdensome ennui. Finally, his spirit was tainted by the cravings of his body; his desire for Arden distracted him from oneness, divided his concept of self into many pieces. Yet this time Ming was not disappointed that his insights had fled, leaving him essentially unchanged for all his mystical experience. Quite inexplicably, his sexual desire did not seem unclean in comparison to his meditations. In fact, there was something supernaturally pure about his cravings, as if they had become an ideal as lofty as achieving permanent communion with the universe.
Acting upon another whim, Ming prepared his appearance. He bathed in a pool with mineral water imported from a prehistoric spring of an alternate universe. The incense mimicked the fragrance of crystals thrown onto the planet by the cosmic whirlpool a thousand years ago. (The crystals had long since been lost, but their fragrance lingered on.) Lobotomized eunuchs, their hungers unable to taint his, dried him with electronic equipment that blew heated, filtered air. He dressed himself in his finest red robes, concealing in the pockets various devices which would increase the pleasure.
The door providing access to his bedroom dilated open silently. His hands were in his sleeves, ensuring that the Earth woman would not see him tremble; he must be ever neutral, ever on guard with this one (perhaps a reason why she excited him so). He noted with satisfaction that she was clad in white, as he had wished. She lay on her stomach, facing away from him, her eyes fixed upon some point in her imagination.
Startled, the woman moaned and looked up at him.
Ming exclaimed, “By the hands of the gods, I’ve been foiled by a mere Earthling!”
For the woman in white was a slave girl!
Wearing the shimmering gold gown she had procured from the slave girl, Dale Arden tiptoed down a corridor. Her exhilaration at having escaped Ming’s clammy clutches, for however long, threatened to make her light-headed, and she concentrated on listening for evidence of pursuit. Holding the slave girl’s high heels by their straps, she was thankful the silken material provided her with ample freedom of movement, that Ming’s women did not wear tightly fitting dresses or some other equally inconvenient fashion.
Dale placed her hand over her heart and ceased breathing as she heard the approach of a red-robed guard, clothed like the leader of the squad which had brought her and her friends to the castle.
She set down the shoes near a partition, one of several which had been placed in the intersection of hallways for no reason she could discern. Nevertheless, she was thankful for the partition’s existence. For she circled about it while the guard stared at her shoes and then glanced about, in search of the owner, with a robotic demeanor.
“Hey!” Dale shouted.
Hefting his weapon, the guard walked beside the partition. Before he saw her, before he made his turn, Dale stuck out her foot and tripped him.
The guard landed heavily, with an outburst of escaping breath and the clanging of metal parts. Dale knelt and performed a brutal karate chop on the nape of his neck. Thankful that the guard had slumped into unconsciousness (and that she had not broken her hand on a steel plate), she picked up his weapon and glanced around the partition.
Two more red-robed guards approached.
Meanwhile, as she was considering whether she should be shocked or elated at her violent victory, the foremost guard shot her weapon from her hand. She realized instantly that her only hope lay in retrieving the weapon of the man she had felled. As the guard fired a series of blasts at her, she turned a cartwheel in the direction toward her salvation. A blast passed between her legs during the instant she stood upright on her hands.
Dale grabbed the weapon and fired point blank at the guard. Blood and metal shavings spilled from the opening in his stomach.
Another guard, his presence given away by noises which may have indicated he was thinking, approached.
They played a game of hide-and-seek around the partition, a game which abruptly ended as Dale struck the guard on the upper spine with the butt of her weapon. Gears shifted unmercifully, their screeching noises muffled by his body. Stepping around him, Dale struck him in the stomach. He fell as if he had dropped ten stories.
Though Klytus’s twelve monitors were equipped with skin, digestive systems, respiratory systems, and all the other details normally associated with humanity, they were identical; each round, hairless head lacking a characteristic enabling the casual onlooker to distinguish one from the. rest. Each monitor had a flabby torso and skinny legs. Wearing black uniforms and thick black ocular devices over their eyes, they worked quickly, methodically, never varying their mutual rhythm. They constantly murmured their reports, describing their actions as they performed them. They sat on both sides of a long console, equipped with screens that received the images from the ocular devices, which in their turn were hooked up to all the bugs in the castle and city, including communicators transplanted into the brains of spies.
His sheathed hands behind his back, Klytus paced back and forth behind the monitors, as was ever his habit when the prey had aroused Ming’s personal interest. He halted and spun on his heels, clenching his fist, as a monitor finally said, “Sire, this unworthy slug desires to please you through his tidings.”
Klytus did not listen to the monitor’s words. He watched an image of Dale moving aimlessly through the corridors. She paused to slip on her shoes. “What sector did you say?” Klytus asked.
“Section 409 Beta.”
Kala emerged from the shadowed corner. During the search she had withdrawn into the background, forcing Klytus to assume the tedious responsibilities of its operation; now that a satisfactory report to Ming was imminent, she would stand by his side. She slapped her whip on her thigh. “Shall we send a globe after Arden?” she asked briskly, deflecting Klytus’s attention to the affairs of state before he devoted a moment to their personal rivalries. (In truth, this strategy had been effective for so many years Klytus had ceased to notice it.)
Rubbing his fingers together as if his metal gloves had become as comfortable to him as a luxurious fiber, Klytus replied, “No, my dear, His Majesty has commanded us to curtail expenditures in order to reduce the staggering inflation stagnating the economy. Our Emperor does not like for his children to be unhappy. So, instead, I propose another measure,” he continued, his tone subtly altering as only Kala could know, as if he was offering her a chalice of white wine. “Merely that we should send guards after her. We should always withhold the use of machinery whenever possible; men are so much cheaper.”
“Might I suggest only one agent then, one whom she would gladly follow . . . to wherever he might lead her?”
“I understand,” said Klytus. “You have just slashed this operation’s budget by a third.” He turned to a monitor. “Activate Agent Zarkov.”
Kala pursed her lips so she would not smile. She would make certain Ming knew who thought of that little idea.
As Dale ran through a narrow corridor with dimly lit portions spaced between long blocks of pitch darkness, she fought off the sensation that, instead of running (aimlessly) toward an exit, she was somehow traveling deeper into the castle. She recalled its size. During her flight she had passed many doors, sometimes heard voices, but she saw no one. She imagined whole families, their lines stretching back through the centuries, spending their entire histories within this labyrinth. Once she laughed at herself, thinking once again of her father’s pulp stories, wherein men in machines bore through the ground until they reached the prehistoric center of the Earth, inhabitated by cavemen, mammoths, and dinosaurs. What would she find when she reached the core of the castle?
She approached an intersection cautiously. When she saw someone around a corner, she became too frozen with fear to turn and run. The same kind of fear had beset her when Flash first communicated with her via telepathy. However, the man’s relaxed posture and friendly smile convinced her. She ran to him. She embraced him. “Zarkov! I never thought I’d say this, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, you zany altruist!”
Moving away from him due to his sexist remark, Dale observed him with suspicion. There was a glassiness in his eyes, as if something important had been snuffed out. “We can’t rest,” she said, anticipating his expression when she told him the astounding news. “We’ve got to get out of here and join up with Flash!”
Zarkov blinked several times, then his eyes expanded wide open as if he was emerging from an opium dream. “Flash is alive?” he asked hoarsely. His eyes darted about with a quickness that filled Dale with relief. “That’s incredible! Almost . . . unbelievable!” He roughly grabbed her arm. “How do you know? You must tell me!”
Wrenching herself from his grip, she nevertheless forgave him his understandable enthusiasm. “I talked to him through a telepathic communicator of some kind. He’s on his way to the moon of Arboria to get some help.”
Zarkov rubbed his beard. He shook his head. “Just incredible,” he whispered.
“If we stay in these corridors much longer, we’re certain to be captured! What will we do?”
Zarkov placed his forefinger on his pursed lips. “Let me think a moment,” he mumbled, and scowled.
Dale wondered if Zarkov was applying all his mental capacities to the problem of their escape or if he was only pretending he was. From her previous experiences with men of extraordinary intellectual achievements, she knew it was sometimes impossible to tell. Especially in a domestic situation!
Zarkov abruptly raised his eyebrows. “Follow me. I think I can find a safe way out.”
She looked away from him and became dizzy, putting her hand on his shoulder only because he was the nearest support. She feared she lacked the courage to play the game.
Actually, she had no choice.
“Which way?” she asked, hoping to draw him out. “I’ve been all over this frigging place . . . !”
“Congratulations, my girl,” he said tensely, with genuine respect. “You curse with the self-assurance of a man, an attribute I guarantee you’ll appreciate as life relentlessly marches on. No questions, dear; there’s no time. Just—follow me!”
As he led her by the hand through the maze of corridors, she became increasingly astounded at how they had managed to avoid the castle’s teeming population. They didn’t even see a servant. Dale wondered just who Zarkov had managed to fool. Had he fooled his brainwashers? Or was he fooling her, leading her into the worst trap of all?
Klytus and Kala saw none of Ming’s surroundings as they viewed him in the screen above them. The communicator was propped at an angle that required them to be constantly looking up at him. They dared not look away or relax their necks. They would not commit such a grievous—hence, deadly—insult.
“I have located Dale Arden, Your Majesty,” said Klytus. “She is under the guidance of Agent Zarkov.”
Ming raised his eyebrow; he caressed his mouth, his long fingernails brushing his mustache. “Zarkov, eh?” His smile revealed a rare glimpse of genuine merriment. “A masterstroke! We recognize the hand of Kala in this.” The serpentine eyes peered down at her.
Kala nodded and smiled . . . just a little.
“Klytus, your subordinate has pleased Us. We are correct, are We not, in assuming it was her suggestion?”
“Of course, you are correct, Sire,” said Klytus without the faintest trace of rancor. “I thought it a bold, daring maneuver, certain to become a high point of the historical records of your august reign, regardless of the story’s ending, whether it be gay—or tragic. Do you not agree, Most Celestial One?”
With an effort, Kala refrained from biting her lower lip. Klytus had thrust the entire responsibility onto her shoulders. She smiled weakly. “I confess, Sire, my only intent was to save expense . . .”
“Of course, of course, my dear,” said Ming, chiding her good-naturedly. “You must understand, We truly admire an underling who freely risks so much for the good of the realm.”
So the matter being thus settled, Klytus boldly interrupted Ming. “I must also report that Flash Gordon is still alive!”
Ming could not have been more startled if Klytus had slapped him with a dead lizard. All his façades dropped at once, exposing a seething morass of anger. Now Klytus and Kala were faced with a mutual task: deflecting the ruthless temper of Ming the Merciless.
Kala spoke up. “Gordon was revived by a traitor who spirited him from the city. We know this much from the Earth woman.”
Ming snarled from the screen. “Who was the traitor?”
“I have my suspicions,” said Klytus; his subtle lightness of tone was as daring as it was confident. “We request authority to pursue them in our own way.”
“Stop at nothing.”
“Regardless of the expense?”
“Of course, you sniveling imbecile!”
“No matter to whom the trail leads?” asked Klytus with a blandness so rife with connotations that it frightened Kala.
“Stop at nothing!”
Then, as his motions became mechanical and he had no choice but to leave the trailblazing to Aura, he suffered selfdoubts, and he wondered if the day’s events were a hallucination. The only mind-expanding drug Flash had ever taken was the peyote he had eaten during a winter spent as the disciple of an Amerind medicine man, but the visions had never been anything like this. He had fallen hopelessly in love, been condemned to death by a mad monarch, and escaped execution through fortunate circumstances—all in one day! Not to mention that he had traveled an incalculable number of miles across the cosmos. And that the existence of Earth was in jeopardy. Absorbing all this in twelve hours required a definite effort on Flash’s part.
Now he had to adjust to the sight of Arboria.
The trees were miles high; Flash and Aura walked on branches two miles from the ground. Save for white patches of light, the dense foliage shut out the visual evidence of the cosmic whirlpool. Flash felt like he had plummeted into a tableau in close contact with the essence of the life-giving forces. Dense green fog concealed the ground; green droplets formed on the tremendous leaves. The forest was a wet and steamy closed system. It was quiet, motionless. The struggle for life and death among the plants was prolonged and resolute. From what Flash had seen of Barin and his people, he was certain that beneath the peaceful tableau, the struggle was quick and final.
Flash’s musings had taken him to grimmer, more forebidding spheres when the sullen silence was broken by a dimly heard chant. The music totally mystified him; it sounded like a combination of reggae and a Bach cantata, with just a touch of soul rock. As Flash and Aura altered direction by crossing upward at intersecting branches, the chant became louder; the drums and other percussive instruments became more frenzied; the singers clapped their hands at a counterpointing rhythm, thus adding another layer of sound to the sparse, repetitious arrangement. Flash assumed some sort of ceremony was transpiring. He disliked Aura’s wide smile and her twitching lip. He wanted to ignore her completely, following her lead as if she was no more than a guide. But the brief glimpses of her beautiful face mesmerized him. Her smile bordered on childhood innocence.
“What do I do?” asked an awed Flash.
“We must hide outside until it’s over, but in the meantime, let’s climb on that branch over there and watch!”
In the center of the temple, a hollow stump protruded through the floor. Standing about it were an aged priest in green robes, a young Tree Man, and Prince Barin. The blond, gaunt-faced youth facing the priest had just reached the latter teen years. The chanting suddenly dropped, becoming less frenzied and more solemn, and the youth said, “I am of age now, Green Father. I ask for the test of manhood.”
The old priest croaked, “Choose your passage into this world—or the next! May Arbor guide you!” He coughed and tapped his fist on his chest. The chanting ceased. The priest stuck his staff deep into the stump, briskly stabbing and poking. A muffled roar, followed by a high-pitched hissing, resounded from the interior; the stump vibrated slightly from the shiftings and onslaughts of the creature within.
The youth brought up his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow; he then thought better of it, rubbing his chin to conceal the motion’s original intent. Trembling, he held his fist over an open stub of the stump.
He thrust his arm in it up to the shoulder.
He held his arm inside. He bit his upper lip. The youth twice belatedly stifled outcries of fear. But no man in the temple, not even Barin or the priest, shook his head to express shame over the youth’s behavior. Their faces were, instead, grim and concerned. They considered his courage admirable merely for performing the deed, though they obviously expected it of him.
The youth tentatively smiled and began to remove his arm. He felt that he had survived the danger, that the worst of his fear was over with. The creature roared and hissed. The youth uttered a sharp cry and yanked out his arm. Holding his hand tightly about the wrist, he stared disbelieving at the green pus seeping into his wound, pus that had overspilled from the creature’s stinger.
The youth knelt before his Prince. “Send me on my way! Spare me the madness!”
No willingness registered itself on Barin’s face as he stated simply, “I will.”
Barin snapped his fingers. As he took off his gloves and tucked them into his belt, two men approached. The foremost man poured a chalice of water over Barin’s hands; the second man patted them dry with a green towel. The Prince faced the kneeling, silently pleading youth. His fingers trembling (with nervousness? anticipation?), he withdrew his sword. He stared at the blade. He thrust it into the youth’s breast, running it through his back.
After Barin had wrenched the blade out, the youth fell to the floor, his forehead striking the wood with a hollow thud. His hands caressed his Prince’s boots. “Thank you,” he whispered. And then he expired.
Aura laughed softly and moved out of hiding.
Barin looked through the opening. He smiled.
Aura indicated that Flash remain out of sight. She ran into Barin’s arms on the boardwalk outside the temple. They stared intently at one another. “That was extremely moving,” said Aura.
“You came!” Barin breathed.
“I do sometimes keep a promise.”
“We’ll have a feast!”
“Not for me, thanks,” she said, briefly touching the tip of his nose. “I must return to the castle before I’m missed.”
Barin was crestfallen. “Then why did you come?”
“I’ve brought you a present,” replied Aura teasingly. She looked toward the forest and called out, “Flash!”
Barin’s mouth moved several times before he managed to say, “You were executed.”
“I saved him,” Aura said. “I want you to keep him for me until my father has had his way with Dale Arden.”
Stunned, Flash recoiled from them. “My God! Does anyone ever trust you twice?” he yelled at Aura. “No wonder I wasn’t able to reach your decent core. There is no decent core!”
“I’ll keep Gordon all right! In my larder with the rest of the hanging meat!” exclaimed Barin. Following his signal, several Tree Men rushed toward Flash and circled him with a row of naked blades.
“No! I forbid it!” Aura said, forcibly preventing Barin from advancing upon his captive. “If you kill Flash, we’ll never know another night of mutual ecstasy again!”
Barin ceased all resistance.
“Harboring a fugitive from Ming is treason!”
“Not if it isn’t discovered!”
“It will be,” said Barin grimly. “You’re too isolated, you don’t know the effect of his little defiance on the people. Already the story is spreading throughout the moons. People strive to remain neutral, neither approving nor disapproving, for they no longer know friend from foe—not that it’s ever been easy. They realize this, however: Gordon’s defiance wasn’t an act of desperate bravado like that of Prince Thun. No, it was an act resulting from a perpetual state of will, powered by an inner strength born of an innate courage of convictions. If other Americans are like him, they’re the most dangerous breed of men in the cosmos. Gordon’s brave death has inspired people to contemplate the value of their honor, Aura. What the end of it may be, no one can say. But wise men say this, Princess, they say that once the concept of rebellion is born, its actuality is the sole certainty. You’ll never be able to hide Gordon. Not on Cytheria or anywhere! Never!”
“We’ll see about that. You just keep him here. Your men will never betray you.”
Barin rubbed his cheeks. “Every man has his price. I know I do.”
Aura ran her finger over his collar. “Hiding Flash isn’t so much if you really love me.”
“You’re asking me to play with fire.”
She grinned. “Of course I am. Would I make love to a man who wouldn’t?”
Across the blazing crimson sky of the city of Mongo flew a sky cycle, a round, finned disc with enough standing room for two people behind the control banks. Peasants on mountainsides where they could easily view the cycle passengers were confused about their appearances. The woman wore the clothing of a slave girl and the man wore a costume like nothing they had ever seen. The peasants would have been dumbfounded if they had heard the man’s song: “Won’t Get Fooled Again.”
Dale got Zarkov’s attention by yanking his jacket at the shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Zarkov laughed. “Never better. I just realized we’re sure to win. We’re stronger than a hundred Mings.”
“Ha! What makes you think so?”
“They placed me under a fiendishly clever device back there; they tried to brainwash me. They didn’t realize I had attended More Science High at the height of the red scare during the fabulous fifties. The teaching staff knew the mightiest weapons of the Cold War were the minds of tomorrow’s scientists, and so they familiarized us with all methods of brainwashing. Klytus and Kala tried to wipe out my memory—dare I utter such an obscenity—they tried to dehumanize me and turn me into a Mongian agent. They thought they had succeeded, ha! ha!” Zarkov’s laughter was lusty and bold.
“Goodness, Doctor, how did you trick them?”
“Well, at first I didn’t. Klytus and Kala do know their way around a fiendishly clever device. For a while it looked like they were going to strip my memory like a coal mine. But can you guess why they failed, Dale?”
“If I could, I wouldn’t have asked you.”
“As I was succumbing to that strange device, I began to recite from the bountiful works of mankind—Shakespeare, the Talmud, the formulas of Einstein, Childhood’s End, anything I could remember. Even a Beatles song. I think it was ‘Revolution.’ It armored me. Klytus couldn’t take my mind away. He didn’t know it’s impossible to beat the human spirit!”
“That’s terrific. Now how are we going to rescue Earth and Flash, not necessarily in that order?”
“Though I wasn’t programmed, all the information we need was planted into my mind, just as all the routes out of the castle and the paths of the patrols had been planted. I’ll calculate our rescue mission the same way I calculated our escape route.”
“I’ve just picked up some information myself,” said Dale.
“What?”
“Optimism is a six-letter word spelled Z-a-r-k-o-v!”
The Earth scientist laughed and leaned the sky cycle to the left. “There must be a happiness shelter around here somewhere.”
Night had unexpectedly fallen once again, and as Mongian meteorologists lamented the unpredictable pranks of the universe to their superiors, Aura landed her damaged flier upon its private pad on the docks. While a tractor beam on Arboria had stabilized the flier, the Tree Men had cut it from the vines and guided it to the nearest takeoff site; it had sustained damage in the crash but remained able to fly. Aura was pleased to note that it still flew smoothly through the turbulent air currents. However, as she admitted to herself, her mind was preoccupied, and she simply might not have noticed the jolts.
Standing on the edge of the pad, Aura paused to appreciate the crisscrossing, multicolored spotlights probing the darkness. She felt warm and lonely; emptiness and ennui beset her as she yearned for Flash, for Barin, for the doctor, for any number of men she approved of. Then she lowered her eyes and saw Klytus before her. Behind him stood three black-clad soldiers.
“Good evening, Princess,” said Klytus neutrally. “Did you have a good flight from Arboria?”
“Arboria?” Aura laughed weakly. “I’ve just been flying around checking out my instruments.”
Flash faced Barin through a wooden cage suspended by vines hung by a pulley system. With him inside were a bleeding Frigian and a Hawk Man whose rotting bandages were crusted with dried blood. Three Lizard Men in good health pawed ineffectually at the wood bars. The stench of the cage and prisoners made it difficult for Flash to breathe.
Barin glared at the Earthling with poorly concealed hatred. He fingered the switch of his crossbow, somehow resisting his murderous urge.
“Prince, I’m not your enemy,” Flash said calmly. “Ming is. You know it yourself. Ming’s the enemy of every living creature in this system. Come on, Barin, what do you say? Let’s team up and fight him! Why, with a good offensive strategy, we can put him on the run in no time at all!”
But Barin strode away as if his prisoner’s words were inconsequential raindrops. “Lower them into the swamp!” he said to the Tree Man operating the pulley system.
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