CHAPTER II
Orders of Golan-Kirt
They passed between monstrous ruins. The men talked among themselves, but, although the tongue was English, it was so intermixed with unfamiliar words and spoken with such an accent that the two could understand very little of it.
They reached what appeared to be a street. It led between rows of ruins and now other humans appeared, among them women and children. All stared at the captives and jabbered excitedly.
“Where are you taking us?” Bill asked a man who walked by his side.
The man ran his fingers through his beard and spat in the sand.
“To the arena,” he said slowly that the twentieth century man might understand the words.
“What for?” Bill also spoke slowly and concisely.
“The games,” said the man, shortly, as if displeased at being questioned.
“What are the games?” asked Harl.
“You’ll find out soon enough. They are held at high sun today,” growled the other. The reply brought a burst of brutal laughter from the rest.
“They will find out when they face the minions of Golan-Kirt,” chortled a voice.
“The minions of Golan-Kirt!” exclaimed Harl.
“Hold your tongue,” snarled the man with the protruding tooth, “or we will tear it from your mouth.”
The two time-travelers asked no more questions.
They plodded on. Although the sand beneath their feet was packed, it was heavy going and their legs ached. Fortunately the future-men did not hustle their pace, seeming to be content to take their time.
A good sized crowd of children had gathered and accompanied the procession, staring at the twentieth century men, shrieking shrill gibberish at them. A few of them, crowding too close or yelling too loudly, gained the displeasure of the guards and were slapped to one side.
For fifteen minutes they toiled up a sandy slope. Now they gained the top and in a depression below them they saw the arena. It was a great building, open to the air, which had apparently escaped the general destruction visited upon the rest of the city. Here and there repairs had been made, evident by the decidedly inferior type of workmanship.
The building was circular in shape, and about a half-mile in diameter. It was built of a pure white stone, like the rest of the ruined city.
The two twentieth century men gasped at its size.
They had little time, however, to gaze upon the building, for their captors urged them on. They walked slowly down the slope and, directed by the future-men, made their way through one of the great arching gateways and into the arena proper.
On all sides rose tier upon tier of seats, designed to hold thousands of spectators. On the opposite side of the arena was a series of steel cages, set under the seats.
The future-men urged them forward.
“They’re going to lock us up, evidently,” said Bill.
He of the protruding tooth laughed, as if enjoying a huge joke.
“It will not be for long,” he said.
As they approached the cages, they saw that a number of them were occupied. Men clung to the bars, peering out at the group crossing the sandy arena. Others sat listlessly, regarding their approach with little or no interest. Many of them, the twentieth century men noticed, bore the marks of prolonged incarceration.
They halted before one of the cells. One of the future-men stepped to the door of the cage and unlocked it with a large key. As the door grated back on rusty hinges, the others seized the two, unbound their hands and roughly hurled them inside the prison. The door clanged to with a hollow, ringing sound and the key grated in the lock.
They struggled up out of the dirt and refuse which covered the floor of the cell and squatted on their heels to watch the future-men make their way across the arena and through the archway by which they had come.
“I guess we’re in for it,” said Bill.
Harl produced a pack of cigarettes.
“Light up,” he said gruffly.
They lit up. Smoke from tobacco grown in 1935 floated out of their cell over the ruins of the city of Denver, upon which shone a dying sun.
They smoked their cigarettes, crushed them in the sand. Harl rose and began a minute examination of their prison. Bill joined him. They went over it inch by inch, but it was impregnable. Except for the iron gate, it was constructed of heavy masonry. An examination of the iron gate gave no hope. Again they squatted on their heels.
Harl glanced at his wrist watch.
“Six hours since we landed,” he said, “and from the appearance of the shadows, it’s still morning. The sun was well up in the sky, too, when we arrived.”
“The days are longer than those back in 1935,” explained Bill, “The earth turns slower. The days here may be twenty-four hours or longer.”
“Listen,” hissed Harl.
To their ears came the sound of voices. They listened intently. Mingled with the voices was the harsh grating of steel. The voices seemed to come from their right. They grew in volume.
“If we only had our guns,” moaned Harl.
The clamor of voices was close and seemed to be almost beside them.
“It’s the other prisoners,” gasped Bill. “They must be feeding them or something.”
His surmise was correct.
Before their cell appeared an old man. He was stooped and a long white beard hung over his skinny chest. His long hair curled majestically over his shoulders. In one hand he carried a jug of about a gallon capacity and a huge loaf of bread.
But it was neither the bread nor the jug which caught the attention of Harl and Bill. In his loin cloth, beside a massive ring of keys, were thrust their two .45’s.
He set down the jug and the loaf and fumbled with the keys. Selecting one he unlocked and slid back a panel near the bottom of the great door. Carefully he set the jug and the loaf inside the cell.
The two men inside exchanged a glance. The same thought had occurred to each. When the old man came near the door, it would be a simple matter to grasp him. With the guns there was a chance of blazing a way to the ship.
The oldster, however, was pulling the weapons from his loin cloth.
Their breath held in wonder, the time-travelers saw him lay them beside the jug and the loaf.
“The command of Golan-Kirt,” he muttered in explanation. “He has arrived to witness the games. He commanded that the weapons be returned. They will make the games more interesting.”
“More interesting,” chuckled Harl, rocking slowly on the balls of his feet.
These future men, who seemed to possess absolutely no weapons, apparently did not appreciate the deadliness of the .45’s.
“Golan-Kirt?” questioned Bill, speaking softly.
The old man seemed to see them for the first time.
“Yes,” he said. “Know you not of Golan-Kirt? He-Who-Came-Out-of-the-Cosmos?”
“No,” said Bill.
“Then truly can I believe what has come to my ears of you?” said the old man.
“What have you heard?”
“That you came out of time,” replied the oldster, “in a great machine.”
“That is true,” said Harl. “We came out of the twentieth century.”
The old man slowly shook his head.
“I know naught of the twentieth century.”
“How could you?” asked Harl. “It must have ended close to a million years ago.”
The other shook his head again.
“Years?” he asked. “What are years?”