The World of the Red Sun

CHAPTER II Orders of Golan-Kirt

They passed between monstrous ruins. The men talked among themselves, but, although the tongue was English, it was so intermixed with unfamiliar words and spoken with such an accent that the two could understand very little of it.

They reached what appeared to be a street. It led between rows of ruins and now other humans appeared, among them women and children. All stared at the captives and jabbered excitedly.

“Where are you taking us?” Bill asked a man who walked by his side.

The man ran his fingers through his beard and spat in the sand.

“To the arena,” he said slowly that the twentieth century man might understand the words.

“What for?” Bill also spoke slowly and concisely.

“The games,” said the man, shortly, as if displeased at being questioned.

“What are the games?” asked Harl.

“You’ll find out soon enough. They are held at high sun today,” growled the other. The reply brought a burst of brutal laughter from the rest.

“They will find out when they face the minions of Golan-Kirt,” chortled a voice.

“The minions of Golan-Kirt!” exclaimed Harl.

“Hold your tongue,” snarled the man with the protruding tooth, “or we will tear it from your mouth.”

The two time-travelers asked no more questions.

They plodded on. Although the sand beneath their feet was packed, it was heavy going and their legs ached. Fortunately the future-men did not hustle their pace, seeming to be content to take their time.

A good-sized crowd of children had gathered and accompanied the procession, staring at the twentieth century men, shrieking shrill gibberish at them. A few of them, crowding too close or yelling too loudly, gained the displeasure of the guards and were slapped to one side.

For fifteen minutes they toiled up a sandy slope. Now they gained the top and in a depression below them they saw the arena. It was a great building, open to the air, which had apparently escaped the general destruction visited upon the rest of the city. Here and there repairs had been made, evident by the decidedly inferior type of workmanship.

The building was circular in shape, and about a half-mile in diameter. It was built of a pure white stone, like the rest of the ruined city.

The two twentieth century men gasped at its size.

They had little time, however, to gaze upon the building, for their captors urged them on. They walked slowly down the slope and, directed by the future-men, made their way through one of the great arching gateways and into the arena proper.

On all sides rose tier upon tier of seats, designed to hold thousands of spectators. On the opposite side of the arena was a series of steel cages, set under the seats.

The future-men urged them forward.

“They’re going to lock us up, evidently,” said Bill.

He of the protruding tooth laughed, as if enjoying a huge joke.

“It will not be for long,” he said.

As they approached the cages, they saw that a number of them were occupied. Men clung to the bars, peering out at the group crossing the sandy arena. Others sat listlessly, regarding their approach with little or no interest. Many of them, the twentieth century men noticed, bore the marks of prolonged incarceration.

They halted before one of the cells. One of the future-men stepped to the door of the cage and unlocked it with a large key. As the door grated back on rusty hinges, the others seized the two, unbound their hands and roughly hurled them inside the prison. The door clanged to with a hollow, ringing sound and the key grated in the lock.

They struggled up out of the dirt and refuse which covered the floor of the cell and squatted on their heels to watch the future-men make their way across the arena and through the archway by which they had come.

“I guess we’re in for it,” said Bill.

Harl produced a pack of cigarettes.

“Light up,” he said gruffly.

They lit up. Smoke from tobacco grown in 1935 floated out of their cell over the ruins of the city of Denver, upon which shone a dying sun.

They smoked their cigarettes, crushed them in the sand. Harl rose and began a minute examination of their prison. Bill joined him. They went over it inch by inch, but it was impregnable. Except for the iron gate, it was constructed of heavy masonry. An examination of the iron gate gave no hope. Again they squatted on their heels.

Harl glanced at his wrist watch.

“Six hours since we landed,” he said, “and from the appearance of the shadows, it’s still morning. The sun was well up in the sky, too, when we arrived.”

“The days are longer than those back in 1935,” explained Bill. “The earth turns slower. The days here may be twenty-four hours or longer.”

“Listen,” hissed Harl.

To their ears came the sound of voices. They listened intently. Mingled with the voices was the harsh grating of steel. The voices seemed to come from their right. They grew in volume.

“If we only had our guns,” moaned Harl.

The clamor of voices was close and seemed to be almost beside them.

“It’s the other prisoners,” gasped Bill. “They must be feeding them or something.”

His surmise was correct.

Before their cell appeared an old man. He was stooped and a long white beard hung over his skinny chest. His long hair curled majestically over his shoulders. In one hand he carried a jug of about a gallon capacity and a huge loaf of bread.

But it was neither the bread nor the jug which caught the attention of Harl and Bill. In his loincloth, beside a massive ring of keys, were thrust their two.45’s.

He set down the jug and the loaf and fumbled with the keys. Selecting one he unlocked and slid back a panel near the bottom of the great door. Carefully he set the jug and the loaf inside the cell.

The two men inside exchanged a glance. The same thought had occurred to each. When the old man came near the door, it would be a simple matter to grasp him. With the guns there was a chance of blazing a way to the ship.

The oldster, however, was pulling the weapons from his loincloth.

Their breath held in wonder, the time-travelers saw him lay them beside the jug and the loaf.

“The command of Golan-Kirt,” he muttered in explanation. “He has arrived to witness the games. He commanded that the weapons be returned. They will make the games more interesting.”

“More interesting,” chuckled Harl, rocking slowly on the balls of his feet.

These future-men, who seemed to possess absolutely no weapons, apparently did not appreciate the deadliness of the.45’s.

“Golan-Kirt?” questioned Bill, speaking softly.

The old man seemed to see them for the first time.

“Yes,” he said. “Know you not of Golan-Kirt? He-Who-Came-Out-of-the-Cosmos?”

“No,” said Bill.

“Then truly can I believe what has come to my ears of you?” said the old man.

“What have you heard?”

“That you came out of time,” replied the oldster, “in a great machine.”

“That is true,” said Harl. “We came out of the twentieth century.”

The old man slowly shook his head.

“I know naught of the twentieth century.”

“How could you?” asked Harl. “It must have ended close to a million years ago.”

The other shook his head again.

“Years?” he asked. “What are years?”

Harl drew in his breath sharply.

“A year,” he explained, “is a measurement of time.”

“Time cannot be measured,” replied the old man dogmatically.

“Back in the twentieth century we measured it,” said Harl.

“Any man who thinks he can measure time is a fool,” the future-man was uncompromising.

Harl held out his hand, palm down, and pointed to his wrist watch.

“That measures time,” he asserted.

The old man scarcely glanced at it.

“That,” he said, “is a foolish mechanism and has nothing to do with time.”

Bill laid a warning hand on his friend’s arm.

“A year,” he explained slowly, “is our term for one revolution of the earth about the sun.”

“So that is what it means,” said the old man. “Why didn’t you say so at first? The movement of the earth, however, has no association with time. Time is purely relative.”

“We came from a time when the world was much different,” said Bill. “Can you give us any idea of the number of revolutions the earth has made since then?”

“How can I?” asked the old man, “when we speak in terms that neither understands? I can only tell you that since Golan-Kirt came out of the Cosmos the earth has circled the sun over five million times.”

Five million times! Five million years! Five million years since some event had happened, an event which may not have occurred for many other millions of years after the twentieth century. At least five million years in the future; there was no telling how much more!

Their instrument had been wrong. How wrong they could not remotely have guessed until this moment!

The twentieth century. It had a remote sound, an unreal significance. In this age, with the sun a brick red ball and the city of Denver a mass of ruins, the twentieth century was a forgotten second in the great march of time, it was as remote as the age when man emerged from the beast.

“Has the sun always been as it is?” asked Harl.

The old man shook his head.

“Our wise ones tell us that one time the sun was so hot it hurt one’s eyes. They also tell us it is cooling, that in the future it will give no light or heat at all.”

The oldster shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course, before that happens, all men will be dead.”

The old man pulled the little panel shut and locked it. He turned to go.

“Wait,” cried Harl.

The old one faced them.

“What do you want?” he asked, mumbling half-angrily in his beard.

“Sit down, friend,” said Harl. “We would like to talk further.”

The other hesitated, half wheeling to go, then turned back.

“We came from a time when the sun hurt one’s eyes. We have seen Denver as a great and proud city. We have seen this land when the grass grew upon it and rain fell and there were broad plains where the sea now lies,” said Harl.

The oldster sank to the sand in front of their cage. His eyes were lighted with a wild enthusiasm and his two skinny hands clutched the iron bars.

“You have looked upon the world when it was young,” he cried. “You have seen green grass and felt rain. It seldom rains here.”

“We have seen all you mention,” Harl assured him. “But we would ask why we have been treated as foes. We came as friends, hoping to meet friends, but ready for war.”

“Aye, ready for war,” said the old man in trembling tones, his eyes on the guns. “Those are noble weapons. They tell me you strewed the sands with the dead ere you were taken.”

“But why were we not treated as friends?” insisted Harl.

“There are no friends here,” cackled the old man. “Not since Golan-Kirt came. All are at one another’s throats.”

“Who is this Golan-Kirt?”

“Golan-Kirt came out of the Cosmos to rule over the world,” said the old man, as if intoning a chant. “He is neither Man nor Beast. There is no good in him. He hates and hates. He is pure Evil. For after all, there is no friendliness or goodness in the universe. We have no proof that the Cosmos is benevolent. Long ago our ancestors believed in love. This was a fallacy. Evil is greater than good.”

“Tell me,” asked Bill, moving closer to the bars, “have you ever seen Golan-Kirt?”

“Aye, I have.”

“Tell us of him,” urged Bill.

“I cannot,” there was stark terror in the old man’s eyes. “I cannot!”

He huddled closer to the cage and his voice dropped to an uncanny whisper.

“Men out of time, I will tell you something. He is hated, because he teaches hate. We obey him because we must. He holds our minds in the hollow of his hand. He rules by suggestion only. He is not immortal. He fears death — he is afraid — there is a way, if only one with the courage might be found—”

The old man’s face blanched and a look of horror crept into his eyes. His muscles tensed and his clawlike hands clutched madly at the bars. He slumped against the gate and gasped for breath.

Faintly his whisper came, low and halting.

“Golan-Kirt — your weapons — believe nothing — close your mind to all suggestion—”

He stopped, gasping for breath.

“I have fought—” he continued, haltingly, with an effort. “I have won—. I have told you—. He has — killed me — he will not kill you — now that you — know—.”

The old man was on the verge of death. Wide-eyed, the two saw him ward it off, gain a precious second.

“Your weapons — will lull him — he’s easy to kill — by one who does not — believe in him — he is a—.”

The whisper pinched out and the old man slid slowly to the sands in front of the cage.

The two stared at the crumpled form of humanity.

“Killed by suggestion,” gasped Harl.

Bill nodded.

“He was a brave man,” he said.

Harl regarded the corpse intently. His eyes lighted on the key ring and kneeling, he reached out and drew the body of the future-man close. His fingers closed on the ring and ripped it from the loincloth.

“We’re going home,” he said.

“And on the way out we’ll bump off the big shot,” added Bill.

He lifted the guns from the floor and clicked fresh cartridges into the chambers. Harl rattled the keys. He tried several before he found the correct one. The lock screeched and the gate swung open protestingly.

With quick steps they passed out of the cell. For a moment they halted in silent tribute before the body of the old man. With helmets doffed the twentieth century men stood beside the shriveled form of a man who was a hero, a man who had flung his hatred in the face of some terrible entity that taught hate to the people of the world. Scanty as was the information which he had given, it set the two on their guard, gave them an inkling of what to expect.

As they turned about they involuntarily started. Filing into the amphitheater, rapidly filling the seats, were crowds of future-men. A subdued roar, the voice of the assembling people, came to their ears.

The populace was assembling for the games.

“This may complicate matters,” said Bill.

“I don’t think so,” replied Harl. “It’s Golan-Kirt we must deal with. We would have had to in any case. These men do not count. As I understand it he exercises an absolute control over them. The removal of that control may change the habits and psychology of the future-men.”

“The only thing we can do is fight Golan-Kirt and then act accordingly,” said Bill.

“The man who captured us spoke of his minions,” Harl said thoughtfully.

“He may be able to produce hallucinations,” Bill hazarded. “He may be able to make one believe something exists when it really doesn’t. In that case, the people would naturally believe them to be creatures which came at his beck and call.”

“But the old man knew,” objected Harl. “He knew that it was all mere suggestion. If all the people knew this the rule of Golan-Kirt would end abruptly. They would no longer believe in his omnipotence. Without this belief, suggestion, by which he rules, would be impossible.”

“The old man,” asserted Bill, “gained his knowledge in some mysterious manner and paid for its divulgence with his life. Still the old fellow didn’t know all of it. He believed this entity came out of the Cosmos.”

Harl shook his head, thoughtfully.

“It may have come out of the Cosmos. Remember, we are at least five million years in the future. I expect to find some great intelligence. It is physical, for the old man claimed to have seen it, and that should make our job easier.”

“The old man said he was not immortal,” commented Bill. “Therefore, he is vulnerable and our guns may do the work. Another thing — we are not to believe a single thing we feel, hear, or see. He seems to rule wholly by suggestion. He will try to kill us by suggestion, just as he killed the old fellow.”

Harl nodded.

“It’s a matter of will power,” he said. “A matter of brain and bluff. Apparently the will power of these people has degenerated and Golan-Kirt finds it easy to control their minds. They are born, live, and die under his influence. It has almost become hereditary to accept his power. We have the advantage of coming out of an age when men were obliged to use their brains. Perhaps the human mind degenerated because, as science increased the ease of life, there was little need to use it. Some fine minds may still remain, but apparently they are few. We are doubters, schemers, bluffers. Golan-Kirt will find us tougher than these future-men.”