Space Hero Saturdays SILVER STARR "Operation Space Disc" Part 3

When Last We Left the Blond, Muscular, Handsome Space Hero who (we pinky-swear) isn't Flash Gordon...

Original b/w art of the cover for this premiere issue of Silver Starr by Stanley Pitt

 ...traveling to Mongo...er...Spherule, Flash...I mean Silver...joins forces with Barin....err...Miduan to overthrow Ming...no, no, that's dictator Gorla...oh, heck...just read it...

Next Saturday: the BIG Finale!

Written by Frank Ashley, beautifully-illustrated by Stanley Pitt.

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Friday Fun BIG APPLE COMIX "New York City: the Future"

In 1975, this is what we thought were headed for...

Written and illustrated by Paul Kirchner, this never-reprinted piece from Big Apple Comix (1975) is somewhat, but not totally prophetic.

Odd, though, how the armored character in the last panel looks like a Cylon, eh?

(Battlestar Galactica was created several years later...)

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FLASH GORDON THE MOVIE "Interlude" & "Chapter 9: Zarkov’s Treachery"

Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

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.

He approached, striving to remain perfectly silent as he stepped on the silk sheets. His efforts partially successful, he knelt and touched her.

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.

Forced to reveal herself, Dale moved away from concealment and fired a laser blast at the second guard. Sparks flew and yellow smoke erupted from his red robe; he staggered backward and collapsed against the wall.

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.

Sickened, resisting the urge to vomit in reaction to the suffering she had wrought, Dale retrieved the slave girl’s shoes and ran away from the intersection.

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!”

“Easy, girl. Rest a minute.”

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!”

Flash and Aura climbed the vines holding the flier until they reached the branch from which the vines hung. Climbing the branch was more difficult; its diameter was forty yards. However, the hardship was mitigated by the ample holds provided by chips of bark. Breathless and weary, still stunned by the crash, they began making their way toward Prince Barin’s forest. Aura immediately relieved Flash of his worst fears when she stated she was familiar with the area. His mind on other matters, Flash only gradually assimilated information on the new environment. Throughout the day he had acted, but had not thought, immersing his soul into his corporal self to a degree he had not attained since his boyhood hours spent throwing a football through a tire. Despite the harrowing stakes of the game, he had never felt so whole.

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.

As they broke through a thick shaft of blinding light descending from the foliage, they saw a wooden bridge, which looked to have been constructed by master craftsmen using sophisticated tools, meeting their walkway (which soon ended against a gigantic trunk). The bridge met another, and another, and soon they walked through a small village comprised of several boardwalks and treehouses, using the forest itself as a base. The boardwalks were empty. No one peered through the treehouse openings. They reached the underdeveloped village borders, where the trunks were thinnest, arriving at a treehouse built upon four intersecting boardwalks. A tree grew through the shack’s roof. By now Flash had wondered about the absence of female singers; spying a group of green-clad Tree Men through an opening, he suspected that women were not permitted within a designated radius while this very private, masculine ceremony was being performed. The Tree Men’s eyes were closed and their heads bobbed to the beat; they were intensely involved.

“It’s their sacred temple,” Aura volunteered. “A young man is being initiated.” Her anticipation was keen.

“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!”

Flash stepped onto the boardwalk. Cocking his thumb, he pointed with his forefinger toward the foliage above. “Hi!”

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.

Aura drew him closer, so that neither Flash nor the Tree Men could hear their words. “What danger is there? Everyone thinks he’s dead. I promise I’ll take him to Cytheria next week.”

“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.”

Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over them. Dale looked up and screamed as a Hawk Man lifted her from the cycle. As another Hawk Man lifted Zarkov, leaving the cycle to crash spectacularly against a mountainside, Dale screamed at the scientist, “Well, just don’t shrug, damn it! Do something!”

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.”

As she moved past Klytus, he gestured toward her. “Seize her!” For once, his voice expressed arrogance.

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.

To Be Continued on Sunday at Secret Sanctum of Captain Video
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Wednesday Worlds of Wonder CRASH RYAN "Doomsday Eve" Part 1

This May Look Like a Typical Setting for a Retro-Kool High-Adventure Tale...

...but as you'll see, this ain't your grandparents' 1930s!

It's truly a World of Wonder!

To Be Continued...Next Wednesday!

You may well ask...

WTF???

Writer/artist Ron Harris, fresh off a run on Star Trek: the Newspaper Strip, has the explanation!

We don't have the time or space to explain here, but next week, you'll see examples of the named influences on Harris' retro-future project!

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Alter Ego Volume 1

by Roy Thomas and Ron Harris

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FLASH GORDON THE MOVIE "Chapter 7: Flash Bites the Big One"

Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

Flash Bites the Big One

NIGHT was a frequent but not a routine phenomenon on Mongo. In other words, the cosmic whirlpool often sucked in dark clouds of space gas which, as it penetrated the radioactive mists between the whirlpool and the calm eye, prevented the mists’ irradiation from reaching the Mongian system. These same mists, forever fed by the constant stream of matter, had also provided the birthplace of this system, untold eons ago. They protected the system, allowing only an infinitesimal fraction to pass through (though this was an enormous amount in human terms).

It was during one of these nights—which the scientists had been able to predict for thousands of years with some degree of accuracy—that Barin, Prince of the Tree Men, stood in the shadows on a terrace overlooking the courtyard where grotesque, hunchbacked dwarfs erected the chamber wherein Flash was to be executed. Where does Ming get these people? Barin thought as he watched the blackness move across the barren landscape like an evil manifestation. I suppose someone like Ming has to take the kind of help he can get. But he was only, too aware of Ming’s methods of securing labor; he merely disliked admitting, even to himself, that he knew. He also disliked admitting that the vast, open spaces of Mongo unnerved him; he did not feel safe beneath the naked sky. He much preferred the claustrophobic, sweltering forests of his home moon. Though the space gas effectively cooled down the Mongian atmosphere, he felt perspiration on his forehead. An especially salty drop ran down his nose.

With a grim beauty, the blackness moved across a mountain capped with a forest of crystals, their rainbow reflection of the cosmic light sleeping with the finality of death itself. The scene inspired Barin to make many pessimistic philosophical observations to himself, mostly about the futility of personal accomplishments and initiatives, observations that he completely forgot about when he felt the familiar, warm fingers of Aura, daughter of Ming the Merciless, Rightful Ruler of the Universe, investigate the shape of his muscular thigh. He turned and embraced her, feeling her yielding soft breasts through the barriers of their clothing. He kissed her. He nibbled her ear. Long ago, he had complained (but only to himself) about how her mere presence caused him to lose all pretense of rationality, how her very scent caused him to forget his responsibilities to his people—and to himself. Now he gladly acquiesced to her spell. His pleasure in living entirely for the moment was mitigated only by the fear that the acquiescence was not mutual. “Your bedchamber at midnight,” he whispered into the delicate folds of her ear.

Aura winced, whether at his suggestion or at the sensation of his tongue in her ear, he could not be sure. She clarified the issue, however, by stating, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh? I know how executions excite you.”

She shrugged and frowned as if accepting the inescapable truth of his remark. Heartened, feeling the time was ripe to carry out his boldest strategies, he nuzzled her and moved his hands into all sorts of susceptible areas. As he planned, she groaned, relaxing her muscles—a prelude to yielding herself to the desires which rose to the surface of her being at the slightest provocation. Then she pushed him away. And none too gently. “I said not tonight!”

Glad she could not see his expression in the darkness of the terrace, Barin bit his lower lip. He did not want her to know how her refusal made him suffer. “You’re impossible.”

“I can’t resist it; I’ve changed my mind. You’re such a . . . such a perfect soldier.” She moved into his arms. “You’re . . . you’re always standing at attention.”

She kissed him with a furious passion.

“Fly back to your kingdom. You may see me sooner than you think,” she said, her fingers searching out Barin’s susceptible areas.

“You’ll come to Arboria?”

“If you fly there tonight. Right now.”

“But the Emperor has commanded everyone to see the execution.”

Aura stepped away and turned her back. He watched the blackness cover the last vestiges of illumination in the horizon. “I don’t care what you do,” she said. “It makes no difference to me.”

“You’re so hard to trust,” he said, refastening his trousers.

Flash awoke in darkness. He felt the chains digging into his wrists, his toes straining to hold his weight on the slimy dungeon floor. From the volume of sounds and their echoes, he deduced he hung in the dungeon’s center. He heard creatures scurrying, the groaning of other prisoners, the wielding of instruments of torture by silent guards who, doubtlessly, went about their work with an inhuman detachment. Flash did not have to see to know he had been stripped to leather briefs.

He heard the scraping of metal shoes against the floor, the rustling of robes. The scraping and rustling ceased. A disinterested voice said, “You refused your final meal. The chef is very upset.” It was Klytus. “I hope it’s not the quality of the food.”

Though he knew his voice would be muffled by the spiked hood Ming’s boys had put over his head, Flash replied as loud as he could. “Your food sucks!”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Klytus without concern. “The chef will have to be executed for this. It’s a shame. You were wise, actually. The gas will act quicker on your empty stomach. Have you any final request?”

“Let me see Dale!”

“Of course. How predictable. How droll.” Klytus clapped his hands, creating a hollow clanking noise. “Bring in the Emperor’s concubine!”

Flash struggled mightily—almost childishly—against his bonds. Previously, he had concentrated on placing the flow of his strength in one wrist so as to facilitate pulling a chain from the ceiling in an orgy of spiritual oneness. Now there was no manner of reason to his efforts. He could not free himself, he could not yank the hood from his head; yet he struggled. “Damn you! I said I want to see her!”

He heard electricity sizzling through the atmosphere; the hood flew off his head and landed in a dark corner, breaking the ends of two spikes. Klytus had lowered his hand and placed the device which had removed the hood into his robes before Flash’s eyes could adjust to the dull dungeon light.

Dale stood before him. Her eyes were misty, she was on the verge of tears. She wore a red gown which under different circumstances would have enticed and fascinated Flash, but which he now perceived as hideously degrading. The gown revealed generous amounts of Dale’s pale flesh beneath the gauze cloak hanging from the headdress. Flash managed to grin. “You look great.”

Dale turned to Klytus.

“You have until the sand runs up.” Klytus walked to a shelf and inverted a large hourglass. The sand ran upward from the partially filled bottom to the empty top. With his metal hands concealed in his sleeves, Klytus stood with his mask directed toward the Earthlings, but something in his manner indicated he was totally uninterested in anything they might say or do.

“No kidding, you look great,” said Flash, exulting in the cool sensation of Dale’s palm against his cheek.

“It’s the eye make-up. I hope I remember the trick when I wake up.”

“I’ll be darned. That’s exactly what I was going to tell you.”

Dale’s eyes fluttered. “What?”

“This isn’t happening. We’re not here. It’s just a bad dream.”

“We’ll wake up in Dark Harbor any minute and have a laugh about this.”

“Only next time I won’t just ask the host your name, I’ll walk over and talk to you.”

“You promise?” asked Dale, placing her palms on his chest.

“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to . . .” Flash winced. “I’ll really talk to you.

“What if we’re wrong, Flash?”

“We can’t be.”

“What if this isn’t a dream?”

Flash hesitated. “It’s easy. You’ll find Zarkov, save the Earth, and he’ll take you back in the capsule.”

“But what about you?”

“Don’t think of me. It’s pretty plain that one life or even a love as great as ours doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy, mixed-up universe. We gotta fight for what’s right if we’re ever going to make sense out of this confusing, deterministic existence, and if necessary, we gotta die for it. That’s just the way it is, and there’s nothing we can do about it. So don’t think of me, baby, think of the Earth. She needs you now.”

“She’s a zillion miles away. Maybe farther!

“Bring it close in your head, Dale. Think of the Earth every minute and forget me.”

“Forget you?” Her tears immediately followed one another as she stared into his face. Suddenly she shivered, and she looked at the hourglass. “You bastard, Klytus! You’re making the sands flow faster!”

“I am truly sorry,” said Klytus, unable to muster an iota of sincerity. “But I just remembered an important appointment.”

Dale rushed to the hourglass and attempted to lift it.

When she realized her efforts were doomed to failure, despite the fact that Klytus had lifted it with ease, she beat upon the unbreakable glass with her fists. Finally she was unable to strike it due to the spasms racking her body, spasms caused by her crying. She ran to Flash and embraced him. Her tears dropped from her face and onto his stomach.

Beyond the glass chamber and apparatus the hunchbacked dwarfs had built was a large terrace overlooking one of the most beautiful sights of the Mongian city—the pits of radioactive material (the radiation was virtually harmless) tapped to supply power. At various points throughout the terrace were stone vases holding glittering crystals of a variety of shapes and colors, standing in black soil. Barin and Aura had overlooked this scene when the space gas had brought the darkness to Mongo. Still, there were flecks of color in the sky.

Wearing a black gown and an ornate gold headdress, Aura stood near the chamber and watched as a few members of the court chatted and milled about. Her arms folded across her stomach, she stuck out her lower lip, an indication she was in a fiery, rebellious mood. She said nothing, she acknowledged no one. Her thoughts were mysterious, even to herself. She did not notice the Imperial Presence of her father until he had been standing next to her for several moments. “Father! You startled me!”

Ming exchanged no word of greeting; instead he partook of a strong purple wine laced with a mind-expanding drug of his own invention. He wore black robes and a black skull cap; his eyes were dreamy with the wisdom of his visions. Finally he asked, “Did you and the doctor enjoy yourselves on Sybaria last week? Don’t look surprised. You know Klytus tells me everything.” He smiled. For most, Ming’s expressions were meaningless; but not for Aura.

“Klytus wants me for himself! His agents are always making up lies about me!”

“And why is that, Daughter?” His voice was grave, even for him.

Aura knew only the truth would suffice. “Your power potions and your communions with the mystical essence of the universe won’t keep you alive forever, Father. One day I will succeed you, as is my destiny and my right. And what of Klytus then? He merely plans for his future. He is well advised to, though he does so ill-advisedly,”

Ming placed his hand on her shoulder. Three of his fingers rested on bare skin, and as usual the touch of his ever-cold rings sent involuntary shivers through her, shivers she controlled with minimal success. “I’ve brought you up well, Aura. You’re so much like me.”

She did not trust the fondness in his voice; it was the result of natural love or the natural desire of an emperor to dissuade his children from hastening the future. “Father, we haven’t been close enough the last few years. Perhaps we should remedy the situation.”

“Oh?” She did not have to see her father’s eyebrow to know he had raised it.

“I’ve missed the security of your company and the thrill of private moments when you drop your reserve and demonstrate your love for me.”

Ming rubbed his beard. “Yes, I freely admit I have missed that closeness between us as well. When I am through with this Dale Arden—I do not believe it will take very long—we shall strip down to our essences and I will tie you to my royal bed and I shall flog you senseless, until the blood flows from the wounds on your pert buttocks, just as we did during happier, more innocent days.”

“Oh yes, Father, yes!”

He took her right hand and kissed it tenderly. “And who can say? Perhaps your spanking shall be but the beginning.”

Her voice possessed a huskiness she had not quite planned on. “Yes, Father, that would be wonderful.”

By now virtually the entire court, silent and still, awaited the execution. The presence of death was very familiar to Aura, but she savored its sensation as never before. Her mind reeled at the plots she had hatched, the games she played, not for personal reward, not for power, not for sexual satisfaction (though that played its usual important supporting role), but for the purpose of alleviating the dreadful boredom that was more like a disease than a habit.

A spotlight caught Flash Gordon, escorted by two hooded, bare-chested guards, slowly walking toward his doom. The Earthling’s hands were bound by electronically sealed cuffs. He wore only black leather briefs. The women of the court audibly drew in their breaths as the spotlight accentuated Flash’s muscular torso.

Aura watched with interest the other two Earthlings, Dale and Zarkov, as they stood on a level above their companion’s path, flanked by two lamellar-clad soldiers, behind unbreakable, soundproof glass. She could not restrain a smile as the Earth woman became hysterical, displaying an unseemly weakness, and beat her ineffectual fists upon the glass until she collapsed on the floor, her body racked by the force of her sobbing. The scientist, for the most part, concealed his fear and pain; awkwardly, he knelt and picked her up. He embraced her, caressing her hair, as she sobbed on his chest.

Aura looked at her father. “Look!” she said to him. “Water is leaking from her eyes! Is that what they call tears?”

“It’s a sign of their weakness,” replied Ming. She understood a fraction of the thrill of victory illuminating Ming’s existence.

Ming would not have felt so satisfied if his science had permitted him to peer into Flash’s heart.

Other than his being extremely distraught at the sight of Dale’s overpowering grief for him, Flash was a man at peace with the universe. His only regrets were the deeds he had not accomplished, the love he had not fulfilled, the life he had wasted. Yet these debt’s did not seem significant in the wake of what he had accomplished and the love he had experienced. In fact, he was filled with the joys of love and happiness of life. Glad that he had lived, he faced the end without fear. He could not even find it in his heart to hate Ming. Though he would not have helped the son-of-a-bitch if he had seen him with a broken leg lying over a track with a pneumatic vehicle rapidly approaching, his heart remained free of the evil seeds of hatred.

The doors to the chamber opened.

A slow drumbeat began.

Unseen by all, Ming’s excitement caused him to grasp Aura’s hand.

The guards escorted Flash into the chamber. They strapped his chest and legs into the chair, freed him of the cuffs, and tied down his arms. They lowered a black hood over his face and then quickly exited.

A doctor with brown hair entered the chamber. He injected a fluid into Flash’s arm and said, “This will help you on your way.” He turned and left.

As the door closed, a hunchbacked dwarf walked from the wings and aimed a device which emanated a red ray, causing the molecules of the door and the chamber proper to travel across the crack and bind themselves together, creating an impervious seal.

As the dwarf scurried back into the wings, Klytus walked out, holding a black handkerchief. He stopped beside the chamber, then looked at Ming.

Ming nodded. Klytus dropped the handkerchief.

A technician offstage pushed buttons and pulled levers.

A purple vapor totally obscured Flash. The people of the court applauded politely, and Aura felt a funny little tingling throughout her entire body.

Ming, on the other hand, threw back his head and laughed. Flash Gordon was dead!

To Be Continued Tomorrow at Seduction of the Innocent!!

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