As the tint dimmed, an opalescent display of fleeting shades and admixtures and permutations of color crawled across the surface of the expanding sphere, reminding Brant and Harbin of the wealth of hues sunlight strikes from the oily scum that floats on the surface of water in the gutters of streets.
Zuarra—and many others, too—gave voice to a gasp as the expanding sphere suddenly exploded in a gush of many-colored sparks that fountained into the air and fell back again in curving, graceful streamers. Hers had been a gasp of alarm, however, while the others had gasped at the beauty of the thing.
Like a cloud of fireflies, the shower of sparks collected, formed a whirlpool that slowly revolved, a wheeling vortex formed of minute points of pure light that looked like nothing more than models of the galaxy which Brant had seen back in Nebraska as a boy.
The belt of sparkling light began to revolve faster and faster, sucking up and absorbing all of the other light-shapes in the arena, the floating flowerlike forms, the shapeless blurs, and even the shy bubbles which still lurked or lingered among the rafters of the ceiling.
Now—rousing a concerted murmur of pleasure from the audience—the vortex came apart in long, meandering streamers composed of particles of light. These wove about the room, forming incredible arabesques of sinuous, interweaving complexities that would defy description. Bands of different colors flickered through the weaving spirals in a sequence that began with deepest crimson, then carmine, brick-red, warm pink and so on throughout the spectrum of the colors visible to the human eye, ending in the deepest of violets.
At which point the lights winked out and the show, it seemed, was ended. A thunder of delighted applause crashed like surf upon the head of the master of ceremonies, Hathera, who now could be seen as rather the artist who had orchestrated the display. He bowed deeply, beaming with smiles at the success of his exhibition.
The crowd rose, broke up in groups, and went into adjoining rooms to sample liqueurs from trays already laid out and awaiting them, to discuss among themselves excitedly the quality of the work they had seen.
“That was … niothyal” asked Brant in an awed whisper of Kirin.
“It was niothya,” the boy nodded solemnly.
25 The Serpent
They discussed the marvels they had seen later, once the festivities had concluded. The outlaws regarded the phenomenon from the viewpoint of their superstitions.
“It was sorcery—black sorcery—and naught else more!” growled Tuan with truculence and aversion. Will Harbin shook his white head.
“It was a lot more than that,” said the older man. “Telepathic communion? A shared illusion, projected into the minds of those in the audience? That fellow Hathera seemed to be in charge somehow, as if he was sharing telepathically his own imaginings. …”
“Yeah, but did we see what we thought we saw?” demanded Brant.
“Only a camera could give us the answer to that question, Jim,” said Harbin. “But I don’t think so, not at all. The illusions were projected into our minds, and the visual centers of the brain translated them as floating shapes of color.”
“Looked damned real,” muttered Brant.
“Remember how we all joined hands?” asked Will Harbin. “Each human body projects a very weak electrical field. And thought itself is electrical in nature, for the brain is, among other things, an electrochemical battery. No, joining hands linked our electrical fields into communion, like they used to do way back in the old days at seances. Hathera then drew upon the communion of minds to conduct a symphony of color-illusions. …”
They talked about the thing a bit more, but gave it up as just another baffling mystery, one of the many Mars concealed in her ancient heart.
Garden of Eden, or Fairyland? Brant wondered: maybe a little of both.
Later on that “night” as they slept, the Serpent at last reared its ugly head.
Brant was sleeping soundly, with Zuarra clasped naked in his arms, when rudely and suddenly roused. Tuan was looming over him, his expression ominous, his eyes cold and dangerous.
“What’s up?” growled Brant, coming awake all at once, like a startled jungle thing.
“Is it you, O Brant, have thieved the f’yagha weapons from me?” demanded the chieftain, fiercely.
“Which weapons?”
Tuan, in hissing tones, said that the brace of power guns were missing from his side when he awoke. Brant grinned wolfishly, baring strong white teeth.
“You mean the pistols you stole from me, back at the camp?” he inquired sardonically. But Tuan was in a vicious temper, and refused to let the sarcastic implications of Brant’s questions faze him in the slightest.
“The same,” he snarled. Brant shrugged, opening his arms.
“Look around. See for yourself. I don’t have them—didn’t take them—and there’s nowhere to hide them here.”
Without another word, Tuan and his men searched the cubicle, and found no sign of the missing weapons.
“Then who else could have taken them, O Brant, answer that question if you can.”
Brant considered. As far as he knew, the Sea People of Zhah still had no idea that the weapons the visitors had borne with them were weapons. Will Harbin would hardly have run the risk of stealing the guns back from Tuan without discussing it first with Brant. And Zuarra had slept all night at his side.
That left only Suoli, who was much too fearful and timid to have risked arousing the ire of the outlaw chief.
Suoli or … Agila?
Brant mentioned this to Tumi The other grunted turned, stalked stiff-legged from the cubicle.
“Let us go and see,” he snapped at Brant over his shoulder.
They went to the cubiclc where Agila and Suoli had become accustomed to sleeping, and found it empty. Wild rage flared in the hard eyes of Tuan.
“Tuan should have slain that snake when he had the chance,” he muttered to himself between clenched teeth. Brant was about to propose a search of the palace for the missing pair, when the sounds of a distant commotion came to their ears. Cries of consternation and alarm were clearly audible in this many-roomed palace where the very walls were but flimsy screens of woven rattan.
“Come on!” Brant said to Tuan, setting off at a run in the direction from which the startled voices had come.
They pelted along, with Brant and Tuan side by side, and the others hot on their heels, shoving their way through cubicles and suites, rousing bewildered sleepers by their sudden interruption.
Before more than a few minutes had passed, they burst into one of the apartments of Prince Azuri, and stopped short. For they had found the scene of the commotion, and had burst upon a tableau whose nature froze the blood in Brant’s veins and raised the hackles on his nape.
“You … damned . . .fool!” he groaned helplessly. For they were all truly helpless now, and the Serpent had entered into Eden at last. And, which was very much worse, they had brought the Serpent with them, however unknowingly… .
Sprawled out stark naked in a jumble of soft, small cushions Prince Azuri lay. Blood ran slowly from a ghastly wound on the side of his head. The travelers could not at once tell whether the young monarch of Zhah was dead or merely unconscious. Then they saw he was not breathing.
The young woman who had been his companion earlier at the Dream Festival now crouched pale and wide-eyed and shivering with fear in the far corner. She seemed merely frightened and shocked, but was unharmed as far as they could tell.