Amazon Planet

VIII

There must have been some sort of signal. Warriors, who had been standing far to the side, were approaching on the double.

Guy Thomas didn’t bother to look for a possible way out. The legendary Houdini couldn’t have escaped from this monstrous reception hall, throne room, or call it what you will. There must have been a thousand uniformed and armed women present.

He stood, unchanging, looking straight ahead.

The Hippolyte held her silence for a long moment. In less than that time, Guy and the major were flanked with a double score of young, efficient-looking guards. The major, he noted, was glaring at him, speechlessly.

The Hippolyte said finally, “You have heard Marpesia’s accusation. What is your answer. Earthling?”

Guy took a breath and said, “I am a citizen of United Planets and a resident of the planet Earth. I demand to be turned over to the UP Embassy.”

The Hippolyte said, “Put him to the question.”

He had a warrior at each arm. Less than gently, he was about-faced and marched back to the entrance through which he had come only ten minutes or so earlier.

At the entry to the elevator, Clete and Lysippe stared at him but didn’t move to join his retinue which consisted of Major Oreithyia and all the guards who could squeeze into the compartment.

He had no way of knowing what methods they had of interrogating him. Simple torture? He assumed that he could bear as much as the next man. But was their torture simple? There had been no hint in the Hippolyte’s words to suggest of just what his interrogation would consist.

Would he have a chance to suicide?

Unlikely.

He cursed himself for not having had the foresight to provide himself with a capsule of cyanide. He cursed Sid Jakes for not having thought of it.

The elevator compartment sank and then, as before, shunted to the right, stopped, shunted left, stopped, seemed to twist and then moved forward at a clip.

No one, not even the major, said a word.

His mind raced, but there was nowhere for it to go. Everything was out of his control. There merest movement and the hands on his arms tightened. Without doubt, some of them bore some type of stun gun. He had enough problems without being muffled by a tuned-down stun gun.

The moving compartment halted, shunted about again and then zoomed upward at a knee bending velocity. It came to a halt and the door opened.

They marched him down a corridor which had the odors and atmosphere of a hospital, rather than of a prison or military building.

They hustled him into a room which continued the hospital motif, up to and including an operating table.

“Wait a minute,” he blurted inadvertently, even as two of his warrior guards reached down and grabbed him by the ankles. The two at his arms acted in unison and he found himself tossed up onto the table and held firmly.

He didn’t see who it was that put the clamps on arms, legs and head. He was unable to move.

Someone blatted orders and all except a few seemed to leave the room. He stared at the ceiling, not bothering to turn his eyes in attempt to see who was entering, who leaving.

He knew what was coming. There was to be no torture.

Shortly his suspicions were fulfilled. He felt a sudden prick in his arm. He clenched his teeth, knowing even as he did how meaningless the gesture was. There was another injection.

He might have known. In all other respects, the Amazonians had proven themselves to be as advanced as any of the member worlds of United Planets. There was no reason to believe they weren’t thoroughly familiar with Scop, or its equivalent. He had no illusions. He had just received a shot of Scop and of some other drug as well.

There was a period of possibly five minutes in which various mutterings and shuffling went on in the background. He didn’t bother to try to look. He kept his eyes on the ceiling.

Finally a voice said, “What is your name?”

Deep within him his soul screamed.

He said, “Ronald Bronston.”

“What is your official position?”

“I am an operative of supervisor grade of Section G, of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice, Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, of United Planets.”

“Under whose orders are you working?”

“Sidney Jakes.”

“What is his position?”

“Assistant to Ross Metaxa.”

“Who is Ross Metaxa?”

“Commissioner of Section G.”

“From whom does he take orders?”

“I do not know.”

There was a pause for a moment and some whispering in the background.

Finally the voice came again. “What are you doing on Amazonia?”

“An Amazonian refugee requested aid of the Octagon. I was sent to investigate the situation on this planet.”

“What was her name?”

Ronny Bronston remained silent. Within him there was ultimate despair but it was meaningless. He was fully conscious. He was in control of mind and body, save this one thing. Save this one thing.

In the background muttering and an air of disbelief.

A different voice said, “What was his name?”

“Sarpedon.”

“What was his genos name?”

“I do not know.”

“What do you mean, a refugee?”

“He fled Amazonia to request political asylum and to secure aid.”

“What sort of aid?”

“Aid to overthrow the politico-economic system of Amazonia.”

There was an unbelieving intake of breath in the background.

“What would take its place?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know anything about this projected new politico-economic system?”

“Yes, it would include men in the administration of the planet.”

There was another short silence.

Finally a voice said, “Would it include women as well?”

“I do not know.”

“Where is this Sarpedon now?”

“I do not know.”

“Has he returned to Amazonia?”

“I do not know.”

“Is he still on Earth?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know anything else about Sarpedon?”

“Yes, he is thought to be dead.”

“Why?”

“He disappeared from the apartment which Section G had assigned him.”

There was a long pause again. Finally still another voice said, “Does this Section G believe the Amazonian Embassy on Earth is guilty of Sarpedon’s death?”

“Yes.”

“How did Sarpedon get to Earth?”

“He was smuggled onto the artifical satellite that houses the UP Embassy, and from there returned by regular spaceship.”

“Who smuggled him aboard the satellite?”

“The Sons of Liberty.”

“The Sons of Liberty! Who in the name of the Goddess are the Sons of Liberty?”

“An underground organization of men.”

“An underground organization of men! Don’t be ridiculous.”

That last had come from the background somewhere. It was not a voice Ronny had heard before.

“Quiet,” an authoritative speaker said.

The questioning continued. “What is the purpose of this underground organization?”

“To overthrow the present government.”

“How?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know the names of any of the members?”

“Yes. Sarpedon, Zeke, Teucer, Damon.”

“What are their genos names?”

“I do not know.”

“Who is Zeke?”

Ronny Broston remained silent.

“Where did you learn Zeke’s name?”

“At the underground drop at Number 35 Hiliopolis Street.”

“How did you know this address?”

“It was given to me by Sarpedon.”

“Did he give you any other addresses here on Amazonia?”

“No.”

“When were you at the underground drop on Heliopolis Street?”

“Last night.”

He could hear the major’s voice in the background. “Artimis! He was under guard and in bed.”

Somebody else snapped, “I assume you were the guard, Major Oreithyia? You realize it’s impossible for him to lie.”

“Silence,” the authoritive voice rapped.

“Who else did you meet at the underground drop?”

“Teucer.”

“Who is Teucer?”

“A Lybian refugee.”

“Lybian refugee! What do you mean by Lybian refugee?”

“A man who fled Lybia and sought sanctuary in Paphlagonia.”

“Sanctuary? Sanctuary with whom?”

“With the Paphlagonian Sons of Liberty.”

Someone blurted, “Is there a Lybian Sons of Liberty?”

“Yes.”

There was another lengthy silence and muttering in the further parts of the room.

Finally, “Who else did you meet at the Heliopolis address?”

“Nobody.”

“Where did you meet Damon?”

He remained silent.

“How did you learn Damon’s name?”

“Zeke told it to me.”

“What did Zeke tell you about Damon?”

“He is the head of the Sons of Liberty.”

“How many followers are there of this fantastic organization?”

“Tens of thousands of members and half the male population as inactive sympathizers.”

“Ridiculous!” said the voice from the background which had been shushed before.

“Confound it, shut up, Penthesileia,” the authoritive voice said. “Go back to this Section G organization, Hippo.”

The original inquisitor’s voice said, “What is Section G?”

“A department of the Bureau of Investigation of the Department of Justice.”

“But what is its purpose?”

“To help overthrow the politico-economic systems of planets on which progress is being held up by restrictive governments.”

There was a shocked hush. Someone muttered, “The rumors we heard were correct.”

“But that is in direct conflict with Articles One and Two of the United Planets Charter.”

Ronny Bronston said nothing.

“Were you sent to Amazonia to help the Sons of Liberty overthrow the present socioeconomic system.”

“No.”

“Why were you sent to Amazonia?”

“To investigate the situation and discover if the present socioeconomic system was holding up progress.”

“Have you come to any conclusion?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“That the present socioeconomic system is holding up progress by preventing half the population from utilizing its full abilities.”

“If you made this report, would Section G then take measures to subvert our government?”

“It is most probable.”

“Are there any other Section G operatives on Amazonia?”

“It is improbable. If there were, I would most likely have been informed.”

They squabbled some more in the background.

Finally the demanding voice came again. “Why does the Department of Justice concern itself with the internal affairs of member planets of United Planets?”

“It wishes to institute socioeconomic systems which will lead to the fastest progress of which the planet is capable.”

“Progress in which sense?”

“Scientific progress, industrial progress, progress in education, in freeing the individual from any restriction that prevents him from realizing his abilities.”

The voice had an impatient edge. “Why does the Department of Justice think it its business to force its version of progress upon sovereign member planets of UP?”

“It believes such progress is necessary to prepare the human race for its eventual confrontation with the aliens.”

“What aliens?”

“The intelligent aliens first discovered by the Space Forces over a century ago.”

“Discovered where?”

“A space scout came upon a derelict which had obviously been crisped in an interplanetary fight. Its pilot was small but obviously intelligent. The craft was more sophisticated than any we are capable of building.”

“Why were not the member planets immediately informed of this?”

“The UP heads decided that the human race must go into all-out preparation for the eventual confrontation with the aliens. Even though the aliens may be peaceful, the stronger the human race the better bargaining position it will be in, whatever the issues that arise upon our two life forms meeting.”

The authoritive voice which had, thus far, done none of the questioning, said, “But why were the member planets not informed so that they could unite more strongly in the face of the mutual danger and thus progress together?”

“It was decided by the UP that a common danger does not necessarily unite the human race. The member planets include almost every race and color, socioeconomic system, religion and political governmental form that man has developed over the ages. Many of these, if not all, would reject progress if it threatened their institutions. For instance, a planet with a feudalistic social system would reject any attempts to have a system of free enterprise foisted upon it, no matter what such a change might mean in the way of progress. Another example is the early days of nuclear weapons on Earth. The whole world was faced with destruction, but that did not stop the rush toward war on the part of conflicting socioeconomic systems. Both sides would rather have pulled the whole race down, rather than give up its institutions. Better dead than red, was the slogan on one side, and the opposing side had slogans as strong or stronger. Mutual danger does not necessarily unite the race.”

The voice said musingly, “Then the Department of Justice and its cloak-and-dagger arm, Section G, does not believe that Amazonia would necessarily give up its own institutions in the face of a common danger to the race.”

It was not exactly a question. Ronny Bronston said nothing.

Somebody said, “We’ve already got more information than we need to bring this to the immediate attention of the Hippolyte.”

The authoritive voice rapped, “Put this man under tight guard. Everyone present in this room is to consider herself bound by top priority security. Under no circumstances can anything revealed here be spread. Is that clear?”

There were murmers of earnest assent.

Ronny felt himself being lifted, mattress, arm, leg and head clamps and all from the table onto a hospital operating room cart. He still stared at the ceiling, uncaringly.

He felt himself pushed through the door into the corridor. He could sense the warriors about him, but didn’t care their number or where they were taking him.

They were taking him to what seemed a very ordinary hospital room. He was lifted from the cart and placed on a bed.

“Should we undress him and put him under the sheets?” one of the guards said.

“Why?” another said impatiently. “This boy isn’t going to do any sleeping for a good long while. If you ask me, the Hippolyte, the full council and half the scientists in Paphlagonia will be ripping over here within the half hour. Then they’ll have our boy here stuck like a pin cushion with more Scop and Come-Along. He’ll be lucky if they take time out in the next forty-eight hours to give him some nourishment.”

“We shouldn’t be talking in front of him.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we shouldn’t.”

“He’s not going to repeat anything to anybody.”

“How do you know? Did you hear what Marpesia called him? The triggerman of Sidney Jakes. Maybe he doesn’t look like much, but that Section G sounds like a rugged outfit and he’s evidently one of their top trouble-shooters.”

“So what?”

“So we shouldn’t talk in front of him. Some day he might get away from us, or be freed for one reason or the other.”

The other snorted contempt of that opinion.

“Well, let’s go out in the hall and talk. I’m bursting with all this. I’ve got to discuss it with somebody.”

“Leave him here alone?”

“In the name of Artimis, what could possibly happen to him? He’s got clamps an elephant couldn’t break. Besides that, he’s full of Come-Along and Scop, and neither will wear off for hours, He’ll obey anybody’s orders until the stuff wears off.”

A face bent over him.

“Ronald Bronston, don’t you move from this bed, understand?”

“Yes.”

He heard the door open and close and assumed he was alone. He had spilled enough of the inner workings of Section G and the ultimate purpose of United Planets to tear down the work of tens of thousands of dedicated men.

There was small comfort in the fact that as yet they hadn’t quite drained him of the secrets his mind held. For one thing, they’d got an inadequate picture of the threat of the aliens. They hadn’t asked enough questions to bring out all the ramifications. However, there was no reason to believe that in the immediate future he wouldn’t spill every bean.

He had no doubts whatsoever that within days Amazonia would broadcast his revelations. Then every member planet in the confederation which feared interference with its institutions would drop away from United Planets. The work of centuries would be ended within within weeks. And all because of Ronald Bronston.

He cursed the fact that he had ever attended that Octagon reception. They should have known better. It was a tradition of Section G to avoid the public eye.

He heard a door open. Evidently, one of his guards returning, just to check. What was there to check? He couldn’t move a muscle and even had he been able to, he had been given orders to remain in this bed, and it was impossible to disobey.

He heard footsteps approaching him across the room, and frowned that they seemed to be stealthy.

A face looked down into his. A face that was grinning amusement.

She spoke in whisper. “Cutey, I hear you’ve got yourself into some sort of trouble.”

It was Minythyia. How had she ever gotten into the room?

She began fussing with his bonds, muttering, “How’d you get into this mess?”

“One of the Hippolyte’s council recognized me,” Ronny said.

She looked up and shot a puzzled glance at him, even as she worked, as though wondering at the Zombie-like inflection of his voice.

“You’re under Scop, aren’t you?”

Yes.”

“Oh, oh. I’m probably getting myself into trouble. Clete didn’t know what it was you had supposedly done. You got anything else in you? Or do you know?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Come-Along.”

“So! Well, that makes things easier. Get up out of that bed, Cutey.”

Her order countermanded the one the guard had given him. He arose and looked at her.

Minythyia said, “You look awful with that stuff in you. We’ve got to get out of here. Follow me.”

He followed her, noting that there were two doors to the room. He assumed that through one his guards had passed into the hospital corridor. In fact, he could indistinctly hear their voices.

He followed her through the other door. There was another hospital room, this one empty, on the other side. She hurried through this, he immediately behind. She grasped the knob of the door on the far side of the room and opened it. The room beyond was occupied by an elderly person, in bed.

Minythyia said apologetically, “Sorry to bother you again. That nardy door is still locked and this is the only way to get through.”

The patient in the bed murmered something indistinctly.

They passed through the door beyond of that room too and Ronny Bronston found himself, still following the Amazon warrior, in a corridor. It came to him for the first time that his rescuer, if that was her role, was for the first time he had seen her, not garbed in her usual regular uniform. In fact, her dress differed little from his own. A flowing, tunic-like affair that presented her admittedly curvaceous body to much better effect than had the military outfit which tended to suppress breast and hips.

They hurried along the deserted corridor which opened in turn to still another. It was larger and Minythyia slowed her pace, as must needs he as well since her order had been to follow me.

They passed various persons, undoubtedly hospital personnel and a few who were obviously either patients or visitors. Ronny and his rescuer passed unnoticed.

The left the building through a side entrance and again increased their pace. Minythyia hustled down a stone walk to a sports model hovercar parked in a forbidden zone, going by the signs imbedded in the street.

She vaulted over the side into the driver’s seat, snapping, “Get in! Artimis! Hurry!”

He climbed in on the passenger’s side, hardly in time to avoid being thrown aside by the vehicle’s surge forward. They were down an alley, out onto a monstrously large curving driveway, then out into a broad boulevard to be absorbed by the traffic.

Ronny noted that she was driving manually and realized why. Had she switched to the less dangerous auto, the traffic computers handling the car would have been able to pinpoint her. He didn’t know exactly what was happening, but if it was known, or came out, that Minythyia was his kidnapper from authority, then the hunt would be on in earnest.

She shot a grin over at him. “Clete didn’t know what sort of romp you tried to pull off. Only that you were marched away for questioning. Something really criminal?”

“No,” he said.

She chuckled abruptly. “It occurs to me that I’ll never have another chance like this. Listen, boy, do you think I’m attractive?”

“Yes.”

“Back on Earth. Would you have gone for someone like me?”

“Yes.

She laughed, a trifle wryly. “Would you…would you have wanted to…marry me?”

“No.”

“Ummmm. That puts me in my place.” She laughed again. “And how do you like our fair city?”

“I like it.”

They were hurrying down a main artery. Traffic was heavy, though not as badly so as many another capital city Ronny had been in in his time. As he had noted when seeking out Zeke and the Sons of Liberty, the public buildings, squares, fountains and monuments were unrivaled.

Minythyia seemed to be on something like a talking jag, brought about possibly by nervousness. Perhaps it was just coming home to her just how serious a matter her romp was.

She said, “See that building there? Apartment for bachelor girls. That’s where your pal Patricia O’Gara has been put up.” She chuckled. “She’s had to go back to school. She thought she knew all about Amazonia, but she didn’t.”

She pulled off onto a side street and cut speed somewhat through necessity. The little sporthover responded to her faintest touch on the joystick like a dream of delicacy.

She swung it hard to the right again and dropped her brake lever.

“Here we are!” she chuckled. “Come on, boy.”

She vaulted from the car, bustled around to his side as though to open the door for him, but by the time she had arrived he was standing on the walk. She led the way toward a large, heavy wooden door, beautifully carved. It opened before her and they hurried through.

“We’re on the third floor,” she said. “No elevator. Elevators are masculine. Exercise is good for you. Come on, Cutey.”

They ascended the marble stairs.

At the top, she utilized a key and they passed into a moderately large apartment. Ronny looked around. It was surprisingly well done, the taste excellent. For once, the decorative motif had nothing to do with Amazons or Greeks. The murals and paintings were based on nature studies. The main room, in which they stood, was large and comfortably done with chairs, coffee tables and couches. There was what must be a small bar at one end of the room. It looked to Ronny Bronston considerably more like a bachelor’s apartment than the one that had been assigned to him in the sanctuary.

He stood in the middle of the room, waiting further instructions. Without instructions, he knew, he was free to act on his own, however, he had little doubt but that Minythyia was going to keep him well in hand so long as the Come-Along and Scop controlled him.

She approached him now, grinning mockingly. “So,” she said. “At long last. I don’t know what there is about you, Cutey, possibly the romantic aspects of you being from over-space.”

Her smile turned more mocking still and she put her right hand on his shoulder.

“I thee take,” she said softly.