JERRY succumbed to the inevitable and gave up his struggles. Then suddenly, to his surprise, he heard a throaty contralto voice that was strangely familiar—the voice of Nisha.
“Remove the cloak, Jeth,” she said, “and cut his bonds. My brother’s men have gone.”
The cloak dragged from his head, Jerry blinked in the unaccustomed rays of a light globe which hung above him, and flexed his numb limbs. He was in a small chamber, evidently the dressing room of Thoor’s sister.
A burly, brown-skinned guard stood beside him, and another stood watch at the door. Nisha, herself, was looking down at him.
“I hope my men have not injured you,” she said solicitously. “They acted in the emergency, under my commands, in order to save your life. The emergency has passed, but you are still in great danger. However, if you are willing to do as I tell you, it may be that I will be able to save you.”
“You have been most kind,” Jerry told her. “What do you want me to do?”
“Thoor’s men are searching the palace—in fact, the whole city—for you. I guessed that you would try to escape by way of the balcony, and set my two faithful men, here, to watch for you and bring you to me unharmed but incapable of attempting to escape. And it is well that I did so, because Thoor’s soldiers came through my apartment a moment later and searched the balcony. By telling them I had not seen you, which was true enough, I prevented their searching this dressing room.
“I have planned an escape for you, but it will involve a complete change in your appearance.”
Going to a dressing table nearby, she selected two small flasks which she handed to Jerry. “This,” she said, indicating the first, “will dye your hair jet black. And this,” pointing to the second, “will make your skin the same shade of brown as my guards’. I will go outside while they help you.”
As soon as she departed, the two men assisted Jerry to strip from head to foot. Then one set about applying the black dye to his sandy hair, while the other painted his skin with the brown liquid. Gazing into the burnished gold mirror, Jerry was astounded at the transformation; he was, to all appearances, a racial brother of the two brown men.
One of them brought him a coarse gray breechclout and head-cloak and a pair of gray boots—the clothing of a slave. Quickly donning these, he again surveyed himself in the mirror. He looked exactly like one of the thousands of browned-skinned slaves he had seen employed in the palace. A small blue and orange emblem, stitched to all of his garments, announced that they, and their wearer, were the property of Nisha Novil. After he had transferred the contents of the pouch attached to his former belt to the plain gray pouch he now wore, he was ready.
One of the guards went out and a moment later Nisha entered the room. She dismissed the other guard, and glanced at Jerry.
“Your disguise seems perfect,” she said after a careful inspection. “Your name is now Gudo. As Gudo, the slave, you’ll shortly be conducted hence in a band of fifty of my slaves, who go to work on the new canal that Numin Vil is building. Every slaveholder in Kalsivar is required to send one-tenth of his male slaves to work for one senil, or tenth of a Martian year, on the project. It fortunately happened that they were to leave tonight, to relieve the fifty who have been working there for the last senil, and who will return to my service.”
“Your Highness is most kind,” said Jerry.
“At the end of the senil,” she went on, “you will be returned to my country estate on the Corvid Canal. I will be waiting there for you, and together we will make plans for the future. Please understand that I am not pretending altruism or a disinterested friendship. I would rather see you dead than in the arms of another. You will have one senil in which to think it over.”
She spoke so calmly that Jerry could scarcely believe this was the girl who had alternately caressed and clawed him a short time before. She handed him a full flask of the black dye, one of the brown stain, and a third which contained a clear liquid.
“You may find it necessary to change your disguise,” she said. “A few drops of this liquid added to a basin of water will make a solution that will instantly restore your hair and skin to their natural color.
“In a moment more you must leave. You will be going into danger, perhaps to your death, though Deza knows I have done everything possible for your safety.” She moved closer. “Can you—will you take me in your arms—hold me for just a moment? Let me feel your lips on mine just once—willingly? A senil is so long—and if fate should take you from me, there will be, at least, this memory.”
“I can and will, Nisha,” he replied, suiting his actions to his words. “I like your candor. You’re a girl in a million. It is a pity that love is not a thing we can command like a slave, or call to heel like a dalf.”
“I know,” she replied. Then she turned and called the guards. When they entered she said: “You have your instructions, and will carry them out at once.”
“Come, Gudo,” said one, taking Jerry’s arm.
“Good-bye, Highness,” said Jerry.
“Farewell. I will always love you,” she replied, with a look of longing in her eyes.
Then he passed out the door between the two warriors.
Jerry’s conductors led him through a series of rooms and corridors into a large chamber, where an aggregation of gray-clad, brown-skinned slaves waited, guarded by a company of white warriors. A scribe took down his assumed name and the name of his owner, and he was herded in with the others.
They were kept standing there for some time, their ranks constantly swelled by newly arrived slaves. But presently Jerry noticed some sign of activity at the other end of the hall. Then he saw that a group of soldiers was painting a number on the forehead of each slave, with red pigment, and thrusting them, feet first, into a hole in the wall.
He was greatly puzzled by this at first, but presently his own turn came, and the riddle was solved. With the painted number still wet on his forehead, he was thrust into the dark hole. Instantly he shot downward at a steep angle, with a rapidly increasing acceleration, in an incredibly slippery tube about four feet in diameter.
At first he descended in a series of spirals, but presently this changed to a steep, straight incline. Then, gradually, this leveled out, slowly checking his momentum, until he presently shot out under the roof of a low shed, to land on a padded platform. Here two guards, waiting to receive him, glanced at the painted number on his forehead and turned him over to another guard, who conducted him to a place where a group of his fellows waited.
By the dim light of the farther moon—for the nearer, brighter luminary had now set—he saw that they were on a dock which fronted a canal. Moored to the dock, directly in front of him, was a strange craft. It was long and low, and roofed over in the manner of a whaleback steamer, but with blocks of translucent material through which the rays from its baridium globes shone forth. But the strangest thing about it was its propulsive mechanism, the visible part of which consisted of eight pairs of huge-jointed metal legs, each tipped with a webbed foot like that of a duck. Obviously the craft actually swam on the surface of the canal like a waterfowl.
He saw a demonstration of this a moment later when a similar boat passed, and was astounded at the smoothness and speed with which these mechanical legs could propel the craft over the water.
For some time he and his fellow slaves stood shivering on the dock. But presently they were herded aboard the vessel and into several large compartments, each of which was heated by a globular contrivance which stood in the middle of the floor.
As soon as they entered there was a rush to get near the heating globe, and those who succeeded lay down to sleep in its genial warmth. Jerry, wearied by his adventures and exertions and weakened by his wound, was glad to curl up against the outside wall and close his eyes.