Lin Carter - The City Outside the World (14 page)

"But where?"

Doc would voice no opinion on that.

From his circumambulatory expedition, Zarouk came back looking wrathful. He strode into his tent without speaking, leaving Dmu Dran, who had accompanied him, standing outside. The men who had dug and probed and tapped went to their squads, looking tired and disgruntled.

Grumblings were heard from the men. They little liked camping in this ominous spot, under the shadow of the gigantic crouching stone monster. And they didn't like Zarouk's failure to find the Door.

There was going to be trouble.

At meat, Zarouk was in a vile temper, snapping at Dmu Dran, insulting Houm, and thrashing one of his servants who spilled half a cup of wine.

The scroungers had come limping back into camp, weary and surly and bad tempered. They had found nothing—neither water nor food of any kind. Luckily, it was the six-month-long summer of Mars, or carbon dioxide hoarfrost would have been ankle deep everywhere, fraying tempers even more, and making any trip more painful and difficult.

With no chance of replenishing their larder, the raiders were forced to sharply cut back on their meals to prolong the life of their supplies. Strong men get hungry after hard days of riding, and they get thirsty, too. They aren't happy when the meals get meager and the drink gets scarce.

Tempers flared, and quarreling was common.

Zarouk would have to have some good luck, soon.
Very
soon. That miracle he was going to have to come up with was needed badly already. Time was running out.

He surprised them all—and himself, as well—by producing it the very next day.

They had been probing and poking and tapping away at the insect idol again, for dreary hours. Then, suddenly, a wild, savage yell rang out. Men froze where they were, (heir blood running cold, mouths suddenly dry.

Then they started to gather from all over the camp. Ryker came thumping up, to find men transfixed with amazement and delight around the front of the Sphinx.

Four of its twelve multiple-jointed limbs were folded before it, like the outstretched paws of the Egyptian Sphinx.

The frontal curve of its thorax was a sheer, smooth surface of black crystal.

Now, in that wall of glistening jet, a doorway yawned.

15. Black Labyrinth

Ryker never found
out which of the desert men it was who had found the secret catch—a simple thing, a loose square of stone which, when pressed, swung counterweights within the thorax of the Sphinx, causing a massive slab of black crystal to sink into the ground. Nor did it really matter.

What mattered was that the way was open. And, wherever and whatever Zhiam truly was, this must be the entrance to that lost realm of legend. For what other reason would the entrance into the hollow monument have been so carefully concealed, unless it led down to Zhiam?

Zarouk was exultant, and fat Houm ebullient. The desert hawk barked orders. Men scurried to arm themselves, while Dmu Dran scuttled away to procure the precious Keystone replica from its place of safety.

This was, quite obviously, the first of at least two such doors. And the second door, it seemed, was locked in such a manner that only the stone seal could open it. Although how you employ a palm-sized scarab-shaped piece of stone in lieu of a key remained to be seen.

The prince wasn't worrying about that, obviously. It was sufficient to take one thing at a time.

Doc Herzog was ecstatic. Only a handful of scholars or scientists had studied the Pteraton as yet, the Colonial Administration's budget for archaeological research being skimpy at best. They had taken extensive depth photos, measured the monument, secured samples of the black

crystalling rock from which it had been carved, and that was about the extent of their research thus far. The possibility that the huge idol was hollow and contained chambers or passages, perhaps filled with records or inscriptions, was a tantalizing theory.

But—until now—only that: a theory. Now he was an eye-witness to the discovery of the proof of that theory.

Within an hour and a half, Zarouk's force was ready to enter the capacious interior of the stone enigma.

About twenty-five warriors and drovers were commanded to remain outside. It was their task to guard and keep open Zarouk's escape route, should retreat be necessary. They would guard the camp, tend to the beasts, and protect the wagons and other gear.

One hundred and fifty warriors, heavily armed, followed their Prince through the secret portal into the interior of the Sphinx. With them went Ryker and the old Israeli scientist. The advance guard was led by Xinga, with Zarouk commanding the main body. Raith was left behind in charge of the camp guard, with Goro to keep an eye on him.

Ryker wondered if he would ever see him again.

They filed through the portal into complete darkness. Torches of woven plant fibre, soaked in the fire chemical, lit their way. Ryker found himself in a narrow, low-roofed corridor, walled and floored with slabs of black crystal.

The air here was musty and stale. Obviously, the monument was virtually air tight, and had been sealed for a very long period. The men gasped for breath, and the chemical torches burn feebly.

The corridor ran for a length, turned at right angles to itself, then doubled back.

The silence was stifling. Thousands of tons of solid

rock drank in every sound, muffling even the echoes of boot leather scraping across the dusty floor as men walked carefully, testing every foot of the way before them, alert for concealed deadfalls or mantraps.

The curious acoustical effect fascinated the old savant, but everybody else found it uncomfortable. In the ghastly green light of the torches, men's features looked weirdly distorted, all rolling eyeballs, open mouths, cheeks greasy with sweat. They resembled a legion of the dead, on their way to hell.

After a time, the second corridor ended at the head of a long flight of stone steps, which descended into unknown depths of velvety blackness.

"Look!" the old Israeli said, pointing. "We must be underneath the monument by now, for, see, the steps are cut out of the sandstone of the plain."

Ryker held his torch high, peering into blackness. Doc was right, he saw. A thin, faint breeze blew up from unguessable depths below, smelling sour and dusty. He stifled a sneeze.

The warriors were descending the stone steps now, muttering and clutching each other, fearful of falling. Ryker and Herzog stood backed against the wall, waiting their turn to descend.

Doc rubbed the flat of his hands over the wall, mumbling to himself.

"No inscriptions," he was saying. "That's funny. I think there should be inscriptions. ..."

Then it was their turn. Holding the old man's arm in case his foot should slip, lifting his torch high before him to light the way, Ryker began to climb down the stairs.

There was no telling how far down into the depths of the planet the sandstone stair might descend. It seemed to go on forever.

And they had no way of guessing what they might find at the bottom, either. But it began to look as if Ryker had had the right idea, after all. Zhiam must be an immense cavern-world, hollowed out beneath the crust of Mars, whether this was geologically impossible, as Doc claimed, or not. What else could it possibly be?

At the bottom of the stairs, space widened out into an enormous square chamber, hewn from the solid rock, and braced and supported by girderlike pillars and arches of metal.

It was a peculiar color, this metal, richly blue-green, as if enameled in an amalgam of jade and malachite. But Ryker had seen its like before. The alloy was unique to Mars, strong and light and unrusting. "Martium," the first explorers had named it, and the metal was widely used for construction, and even exported to Earth as a novelty.

Set into one wall facing the bottom steps of the stone stair, was an immense circular portal of the same gleaming, jewel-toned metal. The shape of this door, if door is what it was, was odd. It was perfectly circular, with the bottom curve of the circle touching, as it were, the stone floor.

There were no hinges, no handles, and no keyhole. The huge metal disk seemed imbedded in the sandstone of the wall, fixed and immobile. But it
must
be a door of some kind, for what else could it be?

Doc cried out, pointing.

Carved in the sandstone above the door in a half circle, was an inscription!

Dmu Dran had been puzzling over it, but seemed unable to make out its meaning, for all his knowledge of the antique lore. Zarouk turned to Herzog, impatiently.

"Can you read that writing, old man?" he demanded. Doc peered at it thoughtfully, his eyes bright, head held a little to one side.

Then, slowly—reverently—he nodded.

"It is in the oldest known form of the Hieratic script," he whispered.' 'Even older than that, maybe. I can make it out well enough, I guess. But no one in the world speaks this dialect, or has, for millions and millions of years."

"Read it, then! Xinga—hold the torches steady."

The old scientist peered at the inscription, moving his lips silently. Then he spoke aloud.

"Dja-ih az Mhu-a Zhiam-aZar. "

"Which means?" demanded Zarouk hoarsely.

" 'This is the Door to . . . Outside-the-World,' " said the old man.

" 'Outside-the-World
,' " breathed Dmu Dran faintly, a strange expression on his gaunt skull face, one that mingled unholy loathing with unholy rapture.

"What does it mean, Outside-the-World?" asked the desert prince.

"I don't know," admitted Doc. "I honestly don't know."

Zarouk turned to stare at the strange portal. He rapped it gingerly with the end of the handle of his torch. It made a muffled, thudding sound.

"It doesn't sound hollow, lord," whispered Houm, hesitantly. "How does it open, then?"

"I don't know, fool," snapped Zarouk, eyes glittering with wild fires in the glare of the torches. "But this is the thing we came to find, nonetheless. This is the Door to Zhiam—and we have the key to it!"

The fat merchant opened his mouth to ask another question, but remained silent when he saw the look on

Zarouk's face. He was taut and quivering, and in this mood it was not wise to incur his wrath.

"So
that's
what 'Zhiam' means, eh?" muttered Ryker to Doc. ' 'All this time, I been thinkin' it was a name, not a word—"

"Yes," the old man murmured. "The dialect is so ancient the words don't sound like the language as spoken today. I knew it meant 'Outside,' sure. But I thought that was, well, you know ... a reference to the fact that the land the Lost Nation got to was outside the areas of Mars the Nine Clans ruled. But now . . . now, I'm beginning to wonder. ..."

"How's that?"

"I mean, look, my boy, what I said about no caverns being possible in this sort of soil still goes. Why, we couldn't even be standing down here in this big room, if it wasn't for all those metal girders bracing the walls and roof."

"But, hell, Doc!" grunted Ryker bewilderedly. "Where else could the door lead, otherwise?"

"I . . . don't know. I hardly dare try to guess! But remember one thing, my boy—the Old Race were masters of a strange science beyond even our present level of knowledge. You've seen the so-called 'thought-records' they left, we got 'em in museums today. Recorded thought-waves, imperishably stamped in pure metal! No idea how they did it. And other things as well—fragments of machinery with no moving parts, just geometrically-shaped pieces of crystal somehow impregnated with electromagnetic energy—'course they don't work anymore, the machines. But we couldn't duplicate 'em if we tried."

"So—'Outside-the World'?"

"Don't even try to guess," whispered Doc. " 'Cause we're about the find out—-"

He pointed. Ryker turned to look.

The priest had taken out the replica of the Keystone which Ryker had carved under the drug-induced trance.

Now, as Zarouk and the warriors shrank back, mumbling half-forgotten boyhood prayers, Dmu Dran stepped forward.

He pressed the Keystone against the very center of the huge disk of blue-green alloy.

He pressed the rounded side against the metal first.

Nothing at all happened.

Then he reversed the Keystone with trembling hands, and set the flat side against it, the side with the odd, geometrical symbolic inscription cut into the slick stone.

He tried the stone first horizontal, then with the larger, more rounded end pointing directly up.

A shiver of awe ran through the thronged warriors.

Then they cried out!

The panel melted away into a spangled, glittering mist.

Motes of quivering indigo and emerald dust swirled queerly, revealing a round, circular opening cut into the dry stone.

The motes swam in a weaving, spiral motion, like the Brownian motion of dust suspended in a liquid.

Through the opening in the wall fell a weird golden light.

A wind blew upon their faces, heady, perfumed, and— strangest of all on this desert world—
moist!