Chapter III

He decided that he was dying and that as he died he dreamed. He felt no pain. Only triumphant gladness. They had died like men. What did it matter that the story of the Zharkon's double-brain injury was only a glorious dream? What was the difference if the Martians continued to rule the system for a million years?

It made no difference. The song these ragged, filthy slaves had sung in a Concentration camp would be a symphonic background for the final chaotic death-pangs of the Martian culture. The songs of Earth, somehow, had always possessed a kind of deathless quality.

But what an odd dream for a dying mind! He was floating down a dark, dripping hall. Strange lights glowed. Something moved under him, something very solid and real for a dream or for death.

A far-away voice said very softly against his ear, "Sleep, my friend. Rest. Sleep deeply and build up your strength. Get ready for a desperate journey."

And then, dropping into a velvet abyss, he really did sleep. Sometime later, Karl Venard awoke. And really knew he still suffered among the living when he heard a familiarly whining voice shouting: "I been cheated! I prayed--but them stalagmites look awful suspicious to me. You ain't foolin' me, La Crue! I'm in hell!" Larson was evidently very much alive.

Another familiar, but almost forgotten voice answered, "You're raising plenty of it, that's certain."

Venard could hardly believe it. La Crue, alive! The name snapped Venard's consciousness on full like a sudden bright flame. He sat up on a narrow bed. He was in a dry, comfortable spot surrounded by the mores of civilization, though in a chaotic rapidly constructed state. But some distance along a rough, natural underground cavern of vaulted proportions, calcareous water dripped monotonously. From the phosphorescent rock strata he realized he was deeply underground. A deeply buried natural cavern with damp recesses that justified Larson's violent waking reaction.

And La Crue, alive. La Crue had been the physician aboard the war ship _Valeron_, an old friend from pre-war Academy days. How many others of the Terran Guards were alive who, logically, should be dead? Venard raised up onto his elbows, watched La Crue leave Larson's side and come toward him. He looked ghost-like. Pallid from months spent underground. But his lean body was healthy and vital enough otherwise. His square jaw was smoothly shaven. He grinned broadly at Venard.

"How you feeling, Karl?" He sat down on a flat rock. Below them, Venard could hear an underground river churning. He answered, "La Crue--you're--all three of us are supposed to be dead."

La Crue smiled wryly. "Not every Guardsman who fought that last battle over the Polar Palaces of Mars was killed. I'd say about a thousand escaped to the Martian Underground. Some of them, including myself, were transferred here by Underground space ships."

"That many?" Venard sat up, shutting his eyes a moment against dizziness. "Must have a bigger Underground than I thought."

"Comparatively few, but it allows us greater freedom of movement, greater capacity for cooperative effort. Most of the Martian commoners fell for the Zharkonistic program though." La Crue, who had been a psycho-medic in the guards, knew what he was talking about. "They were ripe for a crackpot philosophy like Zharkon provided. Too much specialization and not enough varied interests for individuals. Resultant mass hysteria. The old Zharkonian Royalists were just waiting in exile for such a break to move in. They've always resented the Martian revolution which established representative government on Mars. Anyway, there's another strong subversive Underground right here on Earth now, as well as on Mars and several other planets. We have cooked up a rather mad plan, or rather an old friend of yours has cooked it up. He won't even trust me with the details. He says only you and Kewpie Doll can carry it through."

"Let's get to that later," said Venard impatiently. "I want to know how Larson and I got out of that Concentration Camp explosion alive? Or did we?"

"The explosion itself wasn't sufficiently powerful to kill everyone, though it did a lot of damage. Partly luck, of course, that you survived. You would have been crushed when the structure crumbled after the explosion, if it hadn't been for this old friend of yours who dragged you two not only to safety, but to an escape tunnel and here to the Underground; with help of course. There were some of us there to meet him."

"Who is this old friend?" said Venard dutifully.

"This old friend, Karl, was one of the Martie Guards. He didn't know you had the memory-crystal and you darn near blew him to pieces, too."

"One of the Martie Guards!" exclaimed Venard. "That's madness. You mean--?"

"That's right, Karl. You see this Underground of ours--this particular post, that is--is located pretty close to Concentration Camp 7. We've been digging an escape tunnel into Camp 7. This Martie was supposed to work with us. At a specified time, he was supposed to lead as many of the hostages as possible into this escape tunnel. But you beat us to it with the memory-sphere. The chaos helped the escape."

"But this old friend," persisted Venard. "Are you sure he's my old friend?"

"Yeah," grinned La Crue, "this old friend claims you're the only man living, Karl, who ever beat him ten consecutive games of sun-spot draw and--"

"Jhongan!" cried Venard. "Jhongan, that leathery monstrosity. That animated sponge. That--_he_ was one of those lousy guards? Why--"

* * * * *

Venard turned, and there was the Martian, his skin iridescent in the cold light. "Hello, you old space-eater," he said in that peculiar, slurred accent.

An entanglement of arms and tentacles to which Larson added his own scrawny arms. For a moment of joyous reunion it might have been the good old days when Jhongan and other Marties had been attending Terran Academy of Interplanetary Law. That had been a cultural policy, to exchange students in the various world academies.

"You were one of those Guards, and you got us out of that torture chamber?"

The Martie inclined his body sac in a nod. Few could converse with a Martie; it required a special skill. "I was planning it differently, as La Crue said. But it worked out just as well. La Crue has kept your consciousness submerged for three days. To build up strength. La Crue has also mentioned a plan. Not because I know you love flattery, I tell you that you and Larson are the only ones for this job." Jhongan leaned forward and added: "It is possible, Karl, almost overnight, to save the Solar System and return to a peaceful, progressive Federation."

* * * * *

Venard stared and Larson's little eyes became bright beads. Then Venard decided to take it easy, get the whole thing gradually. He was still in an unstable physical condition and too much of Jhongan's abruptness all at once might tip the scale back.

He rubbed his jaw. His eyes went again round the depressing reaches of the big Underground living quarters, or that particular part of it. Two women and a small ragged boy entered carrying crude cooking equipment. They smiled, and went through a small opening.

Larson mumbled, "I'd swear that girl was Glora Karstedt who just went through there." He hobbled across the shadowed cavern and disappeared after the woman, yelling "Hey! Hey, Glora. It's me, Kewpie Doll Larson. Remember--"

Jhongan said, "Not even a Solar War could change that guy."

La Crue shook his head slowly. "Wish all neurotics in the Undergrounds were as rational as old Kewpie Doll. We're having lots of psycho troubles down here in our Underground."

Jhongan let his heavy torso sink down between his four legs so that he now resembled a huge crab, while La Crue went on. He could wait. He was patient. He only hoped they would accept it when he presented the seemingly insane plan. La Crue explained, "Too much pressure down here. It's too unnatural an environment. No real hope either, so far, to relieve it. The complete abnormality of never getting a glimpse of the green hills of Earth, you know. They're developing what I call subterranean psychosis. A strange combination of claustro- and taphobia."

The psycho-medic looked pointedly at Jhongan. "And we've even had several outbreaks of planetary prejudice. Jhongan here looks just like any other Martie to an unintegrated mind. He's been physically attacked several times and almost killed since coming here from Mars a week ago. Special Underground passenger lines have been set up."

Venard stood up, stretched. "Trivia," he said finally. "That's what is driving all the Underground dwellers mad. False hope. Why not preach resignation?"

"After that speech you gave which stirred those people to sing the Terran Anthem, that is an obviously unrealistic statement on your part," said La Crue.

"We do have a chance," said Jhongan. "More than just a chance. I'll explain whenever you two pedantics get ready to listen."

"Where there's life, there's hope, eh?" said Venard sardonically. "That could also apply to a paramecium."

"There's more to this hope than you can ever guess," said Jhongan. "Listen, old friend. The rumor's true."

Venard stared, sagged. "You mean about Zharkon?"

"Yes," La Crue's black eyes shone. "Zharkon the Third's corto-brain half has been irreparably injured. The greatest conquering army in Solar History is temporarily leaderless."

Venard almost fell, caught himself by grasping La Crue's shoulder. "Shhhhh," he whispered. "Let me sleep."

"It's no dream," assured La Crue, while Jhongan gloated. "And Jhongan has a plan concerning the Zharkon. He won't tell me, or anyone else."

"I'll not even tell you, Venard," said Jhongan, "why you are to do what you are to do. If you are taken prisoner, they might put a thought recorder on you and find out the truth. That must not happen at any cost. The Solar System's future is at stake."

"If the Zharkon's brain is really injured, irreparably, why worry any more?" asked Venard.

"Because a new double-brain is developing in the breeding vats, and will soon be able to take office. Listen, old friend. The rumor's true because I was one of the subversives who planted the electron pellet beneath the Zharkon's throne. My five years of exemplary service to the Zharkonites was repaid. If the Zharkon dies, there may be temporary disorganization of the Zharkonistic government machine. During that brief upheaval, we might just possibly be able to organize resistance against the Martian hordes, although I don't know where we could find sufficient weapons, ships, or even capable fighting men. Do you?"

"No," said Venard. "No."

"In the Zharkonian breeding room a new double-brain is being carefully incubated. The High Priests of Zharkon can easily transfer present worship from the dying old Zharkon to the new and very embryonic Zharkon even though it is under age. But the High Priests aren't sure that during that period of transition, the Allied Worlds of Earth, Ganymede, Callisto, Mercury, Neptune and the Asterites, may not be able to manage some kind of devastating revolt. Though that's too much of a gamble for us. You see, if my plan succeeds, it's absolutely certain that practically overnight Mars will become a lover of peace, and the System will return to a Democratic Federation."

"What is the plan?" said Venard impatiently. "Don't tell me you've found a magic wand somewhere?"

"It isn't really my plan," said Jhongan. "It's _their_ plan--the High Priests of Zharkon. They're going to Venus. They're going to attempt an invasion of Solar Science City."

* * * * *

Venard felt a little lost. His brain spun chaotically. "The Martians can't invade S.S.C. Even their science isn't big enough to crack open those force fields around S.S.C. That's the greatest fortress ever built in the System. And according to the original laws concerning S.S.C., no member or members of an aggressor planet can gain legal entry into S.S.C. for any reason. So what's the matter with the High Priests?"

"Nothing, Karl. They're going to try, and maybe they do have some secret method worked out. Whatever benefits to the System are available in S.S.C, those Martians are absolutely not entitled to them. The High Priests of Zharkon will have to force their way into S.S.C."

"Okay," shrugged Venard, "they can't. That settles that. Why do they want to get into--" He straightened, his eyes narrowed. "I get it. They want into the hetero-transplant wards. They want to replace the brain of the injured Zharkon with the one that's preserved in the body bank in S.S.C. Then no one will ever know that their Zharkon was ever injured. That's clever--but they can't do it. Don't they know that?"

"They're desperate," said Jhongan. "That Zharkon double-brain in the S.S.C. body bank has been there for three hundred years. It's perfectly preserved and has never been injured. It was granted to S.S.C. by the Martian Democratic Presidium for research purposes."

"Then you want Larson and me to prevent them from getting the brain, or warn S.S.C. that the Martians are going to try to get it?"

"No," said Jhongan softly. "I hope you believe me. You see, your assignment is to help the High Priests get that brain out of S.S.C. Whatever the cost, that brain transplantation must be a success."

Venard said nothing. Through his stunned brain suspicion was creeping like a cloying disgusting fog. Maybe Jhongan was a counter-spy. And yet, he knew that couldn't be.

"I wish I could explain why," said Jhongan. "But, as I've said, if the Martians capture you and clamp a thought recorder on you, they'll know the truth and will not make the transplantation." Jhongan paused. His stalked eyes snaked down, probed deeply into Venard's. "Believe me, old friend," he said with a terrible passion. "This is the great test of the mutual trust our worlds held with each other before the war. Believe me, old friend. Say you believe me and will do this thing?"

Venard hesitated only an instant, then said slowly. "I believe you, Jhongan. We'll do it. But how?"

Jhongan's body sac sunk inward with a sigh of intense relief. "You and Larson have an advantage. Earth isn't an aggressor nation and therefore has legal right to enter S.S.C.--if there is some personal reason for doing so. Larson has that reason. If any person has missing body parts, he has the privilege of requesting entry into S.S.C. to replace that missing part."

"You mean, Larson," said Venard. "His missing left hand would give him entry not only into S.S.C. but directly into the hetero-transplant wards."

Jhongan bobbed his body sac. "He can probably get into S.S.C. if that sorrowful institution has retained even that much of its original purpose. After that, his duty will be to get the double-brain somehow, and get it outside S.S.C. The High Priests of Zharkon will be outside trying to get in, if Larson times it right. He can give them the brain. Whether they'll let him live or not as a reward, I don't know. The sacrifice will be worth it, to a Guardsman. The High Priests will take that brain to Mars and transfer it to the dying Zharkon's brain case. If that is done, I assure you, peace throughout the Solar System will be only a matter of hours. But you and Larson will have to move fast. I know that the High Priests are probably heading for Venus right now."

"Sounds incredible," said Venard. "But, Jhongan, I believe you. We'll do it, of course. But I wish I knew why."

Jhongan said, "This is a point to regard--the reason is quite simple. You could figure it out, Venard, if you tried hard enough. Therefore, don't even try to evolve an answer. If you're captured by the Martians, you must know nothing."

"But if that's the case," said Venard suddenly, "then you--"

* * * * *

The Martian trembled violently. A loud commotion suddenly spilled through the cave opening. Two men and a woman were leaping toward them. One wore a tattered Guardsman's uniform. The other man and woman were dressed in drab civvies.

"They're psychos who've escaped from the sanitarium," yelled La Crue. "They're Martophobes; they're after Jhongan! Stop 'em."

The mad Guardsman had a long alloy knife which Guardsmen formerly carried more for uniform decoration than for utilitarian purposes. He raised it as he leaped at Jhongan. The screaming woman and shouting man were also headed for Jhongan with clutching hands. The man's eyes gleamed insanely. The woman screeched, "Martie dog! Dirty, filthy Martie devil!"

Before either Venard or La Crue could intercept the man with the knife, he had thrown himself upon Jhongan's unresisting body. With screaming nerves, Venard saw the knife rise and fall again and again, savagely. He saw the green life juices spurt like a monstrous fountain. He heard himself swearing madly as he pulled the death-drenched Guardsman off Jhongan's twitching body, felt his fists crunch and saw the psycho topple away, his face crushed in.

Venard and La Crue were leaning over Jhongan's punctured body sack. "He's dying," said La Crue hoarsely. "They die fast in Earth atmosphere. There's nothing anyone can do."

A tentacle reached up slowly, wrapped itself around Venard's hand. Venard heard the funny slurred tones of the Martie say in a dying whisper, "You promised. Don't fail. Promise you won't fail, Karl, old friend?"

"Yes," Venard gripped the tentacle. It went lax, plopped lifelessly down onto the cold damp stone.

"That's his answer," said Venard as he straightened wearily but with a stony resolution of face.

"Answer?" said La Crue. "To what?"

"I was going to ask him what would happen if he were captured by Martians. He knows the reason for this plan of helping transplant the Zharkon's brain. He answered that." He looked down at Jhongan. "He could have gotten away. He let the psycho kill him. Perhaps it was better that way. It saved him from having to kill himself."

La Crue, after a long silent moment, said, "How could anyone have planetary prejudice when a Martie is capable of such magnificent heroism for all civilized species?"

"They won't, someday," assured Venard, his jaw tense. "Someday, every species in the system will be judged only by their individual worth rather than by their physical appearance--thanks to the complete unselfishness of men like Jhongan."

"Anyway," said La Crue, "we know now that Jhongan's plan must be sound, if he believed in it so completely."

"Yes," said Venard, "we know now." He saw Larson stagger a little as he emerged from a tunnel mouth into the cavern with a half-emptied plastic bottle of _stihn_ in one hand. Hanging on the little man's other arm was a rather shapely girl. She was looking at Larson with curiosity more than interest.

When Larson saw Jhongan, dead, the bottle of _stihn_ bounced on the stone floor. The girl whirled away from him, uttering a sharp cry of protest that died as she saw Larson's violent reaction.

Then he came up close to Venard, cold sober now, and waited. He was ready now, ready for anything.

Abruptly, Venard said, "We're going to Venus. Tonight. Come on!"

"Okay, just a minute while I--what? Venus? Why?" Larson stared. His little eyes shifted to Jhongan. "About that plan of his, huh? I'm ready. Let's go."

Venard told him everything he knew, with intermittent injections from La Crue.

"It's about as clear as that Venusian mud's gonna be," said Larson.

"You need a left hand. That'll get us inside S.S.C. or rather get you inside. We hope. A few have taken advantage of their body bank facilities; but S.S.C. doesn't encourage it. There are stories of horror coming out of S.S.C. And you know the one I was telling you about the concept of an alien God."

"Yeah," breathed Larson. "That alien god. I don't like that."

La Crue cut in, "A small Scouter's ready to blast off from a subterranean cradle near here. The Underground has several of them cradled at strategic points for emergencies."

"Let's go, Kewpie Doll," snapped Venard. "And don't try to guess why. Although in your case, I can't see the danger."

"Goodbye," said La Crue as a Guard appeared to lead them through secret tunnels to their waiting Scouter. "And good luck...."