At one place he came to a street used as a market or bartering place and lined with booths and stalls offering food, cooking utensils, coarse and ill-cut garments, ornaments, and so on. But both vendors and customers had departed.
At last he came to the building he had picked out as the Temple of Hermes Trismegistus. Set apart from the surrounding structures, it was still impressive even though derelict. The space around it was now partly filled with tumbled stone and masses of a creeper-like weed sporting innumerable scarlet flowers. Rachad paused before an almost intact portico. Over the entrance a large relief carving blazed forth, depicting the Worm Ouroborous, its body arced in the familiar perfect circle, its tail in its mouth. Reliefs also adorned the square flanking columns—on the left a caduceus, the health-giving Hermetic staff entwined by two snakes, on the right a two-headed Hermetic androgyne.
He crossed the threshold and stepped through a vestibule. Beyond that was a square, darkened room. Finally he found himself standing under the sky again, in a spacious interior whose roof had collapsed to deluge the floor beneath with spilled bricks, pieces of rafter, and tiles of assorted pastel hues. Like all others in the temple, the walls sloped inward. There were several doors to the chamber, and through a gap in the opposite wall Rachad saw more chambers.
His attention was caught by a sarcophagus-like marble dais on which, all covered with brick dust, there stood crucibles, alembics, and a small furnace. The equipment was scanty for any real alchemical efforts, Rachad thought. He guessed its use to have been ceremonial and the dais to be an altar, for as a backdrop to it was a mural showing the alchemical marriage of the sun and the moon, in progress within a glowing flask.
He rapped his knuckles on the marble top. Could this be the book’s hiding place? The idea seemed logical. He tried to remove the top, but it resisted his efforts.
He set off to explore the remaining rooms, hoping to find something with which to break the dais open. He found nothing, and returned to the altar. It was then that he heard the tramp of booted feet. Into the temple burst Zhorga, closely followed by several of his squad.
They all halted on seeing Rachad. Zhorga’s eyes were bright and wild as they darted about the chamber, and he seemed immensely pleased with himself.
“So this is the place, eh?” he crowed. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from it for long!”
Crestfallen and surly, Rachad lowered his head. “You followed me,” he accused tonelessly.
“Damned right we did, and lucky for you, too. It stood to reason you knew more than you were letting on. The baron would have given you back to the inquisitor if I hadn’t persuaded him to let you lead us to it, and you know what that means.” He gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Well, have you found it yet?”
“No.”
“Any ideas?”
Rachad shrugged. “I was going to look in that altar.”
“Smash it,” Zhorga said brusquely to those behind him. Patchman went forward with a sledgehammer and swung at the plinth, cracking the marble after several heavy blows.
Zhorga placed a paw on Rachad’s shoulder and watched the work greedily. “This is good news for all of us,” he murmured. “The baron will swear us into his service if that book turns up. He’s promised me that much.”
Rachad felt suddenly dismayed, even bitter. Zhorga, long his hero, seemed to be changing his nature. “What happened to your independent spirit, Captain?” he said scathingly. “I never thought to see you selling yourself to a master—I wouldn’t have guessed you’d betray me, either!”
Zhorga’s reply was heated. “I’m giving Matello the book for all our sakes!” he hissed. “He’ll take us to Maralia, the star country he comes from—or would you rather spend the rest of your life on Mars?”
“You’ll still be a serf. How does it feel?”
“A soldier-at-arms! It’s an honorable profession—I’ve been one before. As for not being your own master, that’s how things are in the star worlds—so get used to it.” Zhorga dropped his arm from Rachad’s shoulder wearily. “I don’t know what you imagined you were playing at. You couldn’t possibly get the book back to Earth.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rachad said, brightening. “We could smuggle it aboard the Bucentaur. The baron might decide to visit Earth, and then we could sneak away with it. Gebeth could make gold. We’d be rich.”
“Forget it,” Zhorga snorted. “Anyway I’ve already sent a message back to the baron. This temple will be aswarm before long.”
Rachad’s face fell. “What’s going to happen to me?” he said nervously. “The baron knows I tried to trick him.”
“Don’t worry,” Zhorga said sourly. “He thinks you acted out of loyalty to Gebeth. That’s the complexion I’ve put on it—you understand? He appreciates loyalty. Also, he thinks you’re a genuine student of alchemy.
Rachad did not fail to notice the sarcasm in Zhorga’s voice. “You think differently, of course,” he sulked.
“Oh, it’s gold you’re after. I understand that well enough. But you’ll have to give up your dreams. Forswear everything and give your allegiance to the baron, unless you want to be left behind on Mars.”
Somewhat grumpily Zhorga left him and went to supervise the work. The alchemical apparatus crashed to the floor and the dais finally broke. Rachad rushed forward. The dais was indeed hollow; but empty.
“We’ll dig underneath,” Zhorga decided.
Rachad retreated. Shortly afterward Matello arrived, his whole retinue in train. The baron was in high spirits. He bustled about the temple, peering here and there, donating advice as to how the building was to be razed. Then he retired to watch from a safe distance, relaxing in a chair his servants provided.
Cursing Zhorga in his mind, Rachad skulked well out of the way. He had to admit that Zhorga had acted for the best as he saw it—but what would Rachad’s own position be if the book were never found? After all, there was no proof that it even existed. The inquisitor, however, might be unimpressed by his protestations to that effect.
He need not have worried. Although Matello would have persisted until every stone in the temple had been ground to a powder, in this event such thoroughness proved unnecessary. A fluted column, pulled down by means of a rope, smashed open as it struck the tessellated floor. Within a hollow space lined with alabaster a soldier found a heavy object wrapped in cloth of gold.
He took it at once to Matello, who unwound the glittering wrapping. He uncovered a massive tome with covers of solid lead nearly half an inch thick, engraved very skillfully with an iron stylus and then beautifully colored by rubbing powders or paints into the incisions.
Matello summoned Rachad and passed the book to him. “Is this what you sought?”
Gingerly Rachad accepted the book. It was so heavy that he nearly dropped it. On the front cover was an engraving of the philosophic tree, the signs of the elements hanging from its five branches. Below it was a somewhat less picturesque symbol that was cool and almost luminous in its simplicity: a blue square inscribed within a silver triangle, inscribed in turn within a golden circle.
Awkwardly he turned the book over. The back cover bore a single colored engraving which almost sent him reeling. A face glared out of the lead plate. An ancient, wild face that seemed to be alive. The skin was a dusty gold, veined with gray and silver. The hair exploded wildly in all directions to frame the face like a sunburst, and was gray mingled with rivulets of dull silver, a mixture of tones it shared with the beard. The eyes were a more brilliant, penetrating silver, lacking pupils but seeming ferociously, pitilessly aware.
Rachad made a quick guess that this was the symbol known as the lead man, who became first the quicksilver man, then the silver man, and finally was transformed into the gold man.