“Another illusion, like the dragons of space!” the fat shaman screamed, from the further wall where he had cowered to avoid the battle. “A trick of the mind—nothing more!”
But now the first fringe of the Rover fleet was almost upon the gigantic green figure. All within the control room stood motionless as the hurtling ships drove into the moon-sized illusion of one of Her outstretched hands—
Stars of atomic light flared within that vast palm, as seven ships exploded. Expanding clouds of incandescent gas lighted the void for an instant before dispersing.
That is no illusion!” Drask roared. “Gorm! command the fleet to break formation and avoid the thing—fire lasers at will!”
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Lurn broke from his grip and fled to Calastor. His strong arm protectingly encircled her waist.
Now the huge, scattered crescent of mile-long nomad ships broke into circling squads. Intense thread of white, eye-searing fire scorched space as laser after laser focused upon the body of the stupendous Woman.
A serene smile hovered on the lips of the Green Goddess. One giant hand floated out, crashing through a cloud of the Rover-vessels. Dazzling star-like explosions lit the moving hand as ship after ship disrupted upon contact.
Her mighty arm swung slowly through the heart of the Barbarian fleet, shattering a score of ships into flaming vapor. Between one heartbeat and the next, ten thousand Barbarians died in instantaneous novas of intolerable light.
Raging, sick fear gnawing at his heart, Drask strode to the control console.
“Evasive action, fools!”
“Master!” Tonguth rumbled. “The beams have no effect on Her!— Look!”
His sagging face the color of lead, Abdekiel’s cold voice soared above the panic-stricken hubbub.
“The form is solid. Your beams are being reflected—the gods alone know how!”
Calastor shot a swift glance at the arched vision screen above them. It was true! As the narrow beams slashed into the monstrous green limbs of the Woman, they exploded back upon themselves in eye-searing gouts of pyrotechnic fury. Inconceivable as it seemed, the million-mile-long body was solid flesh!
“Forward! Destroy Her!” Drask raged, white-lipped. But the fleet, nearly one-third of the ships utterly destroyed, was collapsing, swirling in chaotic disorder.
Gorm turned a frightened face to his Master. “They refuse to obey!”
“Look!” Tonguth clawed at Drask’s arm, drawing his attention to the screen. “They are running—back towards the Rift!”
It was true. Calastor felt a flush of triumph. His arm tightened about Lurn’s slim waist. In total revolt against the Warlord, their spirit broken, their morale wrecked, the scattered remnants of the once-mighty fleet were fleeing at top velocity back out of the Orion stars.
The Nucleus-world was safe!
The old Magister turned to the other Sages.
“Return to the Wolfhound and harry the broken fleet safely out into the free space of the Rift. Do not permit them to take refuge at Xulthoom, or Argion, or any other world. The Future Empire will not be fully secure until the last Barbarian has returned to the Rim.”
Bowing to the command of their senior, the six Adepts faded into thin air.
Now a wordless howl from one of the Chieftains summoned their attention to the giant form in the vision screen.
“She is—disintegrating!”
It was an uncanny sight: the million-mile-body of the Green Goddess drifted among the stars, slowly melting away even as they watched. Her purpose accomplished, Her great form was returning to the primal atoms of space from which the incomparable force of Her will had formed the titanic simulacrum. Portions of the limbs and torso had already evaporated. Before their startled gaze, more of Her body sloughed away into melting vapor.
Now only the enormous, classic face remained, ringed about with a vast, slowly-vanishing cloud of jade-green vapor. The inhumanly beautiful, inhumanly severe features smiled at them—then collapsed into roiling mists.
“Though all else fails me, I still have—revenge!” Drask grated with a metallic laugh. The ugly snout of his jeweled laser was aimed at Calastor and Lurn.
Swiftly thrusting Lurn behind him, Calastor swung into action—but suddenly an impenetrable, prisoning sphere of force snapped into being around him!
He was not alone. Similar globes flashed into existence about Drask, Abdekiel, Tonguth and the old Magister. Eyes flashing with astonishment, Calastor stretched out his hands to touch the orb of transparent energy that enclosed him.
Strange—and strange! Although his hands could not push through the glassy curve of impalpable force, neither could they touch the orb’s surface. It was (—his reeling mind struggled for a suitable comparison—) like stretching out your hands to the full reach of your arms: although nothing impedes your touch, you still cannot reach any further.
Then he turned, discovering that Lurn was also imprisoned with him in the mystery-sphere.
“Wh-what is it?” she whimpered.
“I don’t know. I—”
He, Lurn, and the sphere vanished.
As the astounded, shaken Barbarians stood numbly looking on, the five orbs of force snapped out of existence—taking with them the Warlord, the Chieftain, the shaman, and the Magister, as well as Lurn and Calastor.
Where they had stood but an instant before … was nothing.
12.
TO THE GREEN STAR
ONE SPLIT SECOND before the force-globe winked out of material existence, Calastor’s superbly developed mind sensed the oncoming transition. It was a subtle thing—a gathering electric tension in the air, as if the sensory tendrils of his mentality brushed against an event rushing upon them out of the impenetrable mystery of Future Time.
His arms closed protectively about the girl as the ship seemed to vanish from about them. And, even in the suspense and terror of this flashing moment, he was very aware of the warmth of her cheek against his face, of the soft vibrant curve of her strong young body braced against his own, of the heady, intoxicating perfume of her ashen-silver hair in his nostrils, and the muffled thunder of her pulse, rising to match his own.
When the sphere flickered into being about the Warlord, he exploded in a spasm of rage. Lashing out with clubbed fists against his immaterial prison, he encountered—unyielding nothingness. Then, leveling the drawn laser gun still clasped in one fist, he fired full against the curve of glass-like force. The dazzling pencil of energy met the insubstantial surface of the glistening bubble of force—and shattered back in a stinging shower of foot-long sparks that seared the flesh of Drask’s hands, arms and thighs setting his fur cloak to smoldering in a dozen places. With a curse of pain, he dropped the dead pistol, slapping at his furs. The pistol struck the curve of the force-bubble, and slid down it to tangle his feet.
The reaction of the others formed variations on Drask’s—with the single exception of the wise old Magister of Parlion. He alone of them all knew what was happening. He, singly, retained his unruffled serenity of mind, the urbane calm of his demeanor unbroken even when the ship and space itself seemed to flash out of existence around his sphere. The others gave way to their emotions—Tonguth blubbering in the clasp of superstitious terror, kicking and fighting against the unyielding, impalpable walls of their globular prisons; the shaman, helplessly frozen in a terror of utter despair, recognizing the presence of a magical power a billion years beyond his own grasp of the art, shrinking into a quivering huddle on the floor of his orb, face hidden in his fat, waxen-pale hands. He moaned and sobbed in the last extremity of panic, awaiting his inevitable doom.