“He may be able to produce hallucinations,” Bill hazarded. “He may be able to make one believe something exists when it really doesn’t. In that case, the people would naturally believe them to be creatures which came at his beck and call.”
“But the old man knew,” objected Harl. “He knew that it was all mere suggestion. If all the people knew this the rule of Golan-Kirt would end abruptly. They would no longer believe in his omnipotence. Without this belief, suggestion, by which he rules, would be impossible.”
“The old man,” asserted Bill, “gained his knowledge in some mysterious manner and paid for its divulgence with his life. Still the old fellow didn’t know all of it. He believed this entity came out of the Cosmos.”
Harl shook his head, thoughtfully.
“It may have come out of the Cosmos. Remember, we are at least five million years in the future. I expect to find some great intelligence. It is physical, for the old man claimed to have seen it, and that should make our job easier.”
“The old man said he was not immortal,” commented Bill. “Therefore, he is vulnerable and our guns may do the work. Another thing—we are not to believe a single thing we feel, hear, or see. He seems to rule wholly by suggestion. He will try to kill us by suggestion, just as he killed the old fellow.”
Harl nodded.
“It’s a matter of will power,” he said. “A matter of brain and bluff. Apparently the will power of these people has degenerated and Golan-Kirt finds it easy to control their minds. They are born, live, and die under his influence. It has almost become hereditary to accept his power. We have the advantage of coming out of an age when men were obliged to use their brains. Perhaps the human mind degenerated because, as science increased the ease of life, there was little need to use it. Some fine minds may still remain, but apparently they are few. We are doubters, schemers, bluffers. Golan-Kirt will find us tougher than these future-men.”
CHAPTER III
The Struggle of the Ages
Bill produced cigarettes and the two lighted up. Slowly they walked across the vast arena, guns hanging in their right hands. People were filing into the place and the tiers were filling.
A roar came out of the tiers of seats before them. They recognized it. It was the cry of the gathering crowd, the cry for blood, the expression of a desire to see battle.
Harl grinned.
“Regular football crowd,” he commented.
More and more poured into the arena, but it was apparent that the inhabitants of the ruined city could fill only a very small section of the thousands upon thousands of seats.
The two seemed lost in the mighty space. Above them, almost at the zenith, hung the vast red sun. They seemed to move in a twilight-filled desert rimmed in by enormous white cliffs.
“Denver must have been a large city at the time this place was built,” commented Bill. “Think of the number of people it would hold. Wonder what it was used for?”
“Probably we’ll never know,” said Harl.
They had gained the approximate center of the arena.
Harl halted.
“Do you know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. It seems to me we must have a fairly good chance against Golan-Kirt. For the last fifteen minutes every thought of ours has been in open defiance of him, but he has not attempted our annihilation. Although it is possible he may only be biding his time. I am beginning to believe he can’t read our minds as he could the mind of the old man. He killed him the moment he uttered a word of treason.”
Bill nodded.
As if in answer to what Harl had said, a great weight seemed to press in upon them. Bill felt a deadly illness creeping over him. His knees sagged and his brain whirled. Spots danced before his eyes and a horrible pain gripped his stomach.
He took a step forward and stumbled. A hand clutched his shoulder and fiercely shook him. The shake momentarily cleared his brain. Through the clearing mist which seemed to hang before his eyes, he saw the face of his friend, a face white and lined.
The lips in the face moved.
“Buck up, old man. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re feeling fine.”
Something seemed to snap inside his head. This was suggestion—the suggestion of Golan-Kirt. He had to fight it. That was it—fight it.
He planted his feet firmly in the sand, straightened his shoulders with an effort, and smiled.
“Hell, no,” he said, “there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m feeling fine.”
Harl slapped him on the back.
“That’s the spirit,” he roared. “It almost floored me for a minute. We’ve got to fight it, boy. We’ve got to fight it.”
Bill laughed, harshly. His head was clear now and he could feel the strength flowing back into his body. They had won the first round!
“But where is this Golan-Kirt?” he burst out.
“Invisible,” snarled Harl, “but I have a theory that he can’t put in his best licks in such a state. We’ll force him to show himself and then we’ll give him the works.”
The frenzied roar of the crowd came to their ears. Those on the bleachers had seen and appreciated the little drama out in the middle of the arena. They were crying for more.
Suddenly a spiteful rattle broke out behind the two.
They started. That sound was familiar. It was the rat-a-tat of a machine gun. With no ceremony they fell flat, pressing their bodies close against the ground, seeking to burrow into the sand.
Little puffs of sand spurted up all about them. Bill felt a searing pain in his arm. One of the bullets had found him. This was the end. There was no obstruction to shield them in the vast level expanse from the gun that chuckled and chattered at their rear. Another searing pain caught him in the leg. Another hit.
Then he laughed—a wild laugh. There was no machine gun, no bullets. It was all suggestion. A trick to make them believe they were being killed—a trick, which, if carried far enough, would kill them.
He struggled to his knees, hauling Harl up beside him. His leg and arm still pained, but he paid them no attention. There was nothing wrong with them, he told himself fiercely, absolutely nothing wrong.
“It’s suggestion again,” he shouted at Harl, “There isn’t any machine gun.”
Harl nodded. They regained their feet and turned. There, only a couple of hundred yards away, a khaki-clad figure crouched behind a gun that chattered wickedly, a red flame licking the muzzle.
“That isn’t a machine gun,” said Bill, speaking slowly.
“Of course, it’s not a machine gun,” Harl spoke as if by rote.
They walked slowly toward the flaming gun. Although bullets apparently whistled all about them, none struck them. The pain in Bill’s arm and leg no longer existed.
Suddenly the gun disappeared, and with it the khaki-clad figure. One moment they were there, the next they were not.
“I thought it would do just that,” said Bill.
“The old boy is still going strong, though,” replied Harl. “Here is some more of his suggestion.”
Harl pointed to one of the arching gateways. Through it marched file upon file of soldiers, clad in khaki, metal helmets on their heads, guns across their shoulders. An officer uttered a sharp command and the troops began to deploy over the field.
A shrill blast of a bugle drew the attention of the two time-travelers from the soldiers and through another gateway they beheld the advance of what appeared to be a cohort of Roman legionnaires. Shields flashed dully in the sun and the rattle of arms could be distinctly heard.
“Do you know what I believe?” asked Harl.