Part 2

She notched the lever more, and the canoe swayed slightly from the increasing speed, water slapping brightly against the wooden sides. Trent watched her graceful movements, saw the swell of her breasts, the long clean lines of her body.

"So the world is conquered," he mused, half aloud.

Anger came to Lura's fine features, and her hand dropped to the knife at her waist. "I do not like joking about the world," she said stiffly. "The world is not conquered, not while any of us free people live."

Kimball Trent shifted to a more comfortable position. "I meant no joke," he apologized, while thoughts ran with quicksilver speed in his mind. "I do not know," he added. "I fell but a few days ago and hurt my head. I cannot remember many things."

Contrition came to her voice. "The magician will bleed you," she said, "and the reader will heal your mind."

"_Magician--Reader?_"

Suspicion hardened the girl's voice again, and the knife came clear of the sheath. Her gaze locked with his, and her words came softly one upon the other.

"You know too little and too much," she said. "I think the Elder will talk with you."

Kimball Trent shrugged, relaxed, while the girl sent the canoe through the water. Events were transpiring a little too fast for him, and his mind could not assimilate the facts as fast as they were produced.

People still lived, that was obvious, even though the world had been conquered. But they were not the kind of people he had known. If this girl were representative of her people, then they knew nothing of weapons, that is, the type he had; and in all probability her reference to the magician and the reader meant that they had reverted almost to a primitive form of social life.

He saw no particular reason to trust the slim girl, even though his senses were stirred by her wild litheness. For seconds, he had almost blurted out the knowledge that was his, intending to tell her of the underground cavern. Then caution and common sense came to his mind, and he said nothing, watching her through slitted eyes.

She was conscious of his gaze, of that he was aware. But now suspicion lay in her eyes, and her hand was close to the slim knife at her side, as she guided the slim canoe through the blue water toward the nearing bank.

"Do not move, Barb," the girl said coldly, "else you shall feel my knife in your ribs."

Kimball Trent smiled to himself. "I shall not move," he said evenly. "I know my limitations."

* * * * *

The canoe grated against sand, and the girl threw the cover back. Trent blinked in the sunlight, then came to his feet, watched amusedly as the girl gestured with her knife for him to lead the way. Catching up his rifle, he slung it over his shoulder, then stepped from the canoe, watched as she camouflaged it again as a log.

"Through there," she ordered, pointed ahead.

They did not speak, for the time of speaking lay in the future. Behind them, a soulless monster was searching the brush with a blind patience that had conquered a world; and for all they knew he might have signalled more of his kind to come and aid him in his search.

He went ahead, not absolutely certain of where he was, climbing the sloping bank, going toward the edge of the trees ahead. He saw the rustle in the bushes, froze at half-step, hand going to the pistol at his hip.

"_Brok!_" Lura said softly. "Go back toward the water--slowly, and maybe it will not attack."

But Kimball Trent had his flame gun in his hand now and was going forward, placing each foot carefully, ready for instant action. And on the fourth step, he gasped, felt the blood freeze in his veins.

It came through the bush with the gliding grace of a cat. And it was feline, too, in a way, with the gaping mouth and fangs of a saber-tooth tiger. But there the resemblance ended. Six clawed legs carried it forward, and scales glittered like the skin of a diamondback rattlesnake. Pupilless eyes, like polished red marbles stared unwinkingly, and the hissing sound from the beast's throat was like the escaping of steam.

"Brok," Lura called again. "Do not move, Barb."

But Kimball Trent's hand was already coming up, leveling the flame gun. And even as the gun swung into position, the brok came hurtling forward in a fluid drive of ruthless destruction.

He came squarely into the raving cone of orange flame that gushed from the pistol, came smashing into it, and a scream of agony keened high at the bright blue sky. For nothing alive could withstand the awful violence of that ravening energy; only one creature, the Gharrian, had been able to live through its devouring power.

It died in midleap, and Kimball Trent stepped aside so that its hurtling body would not touch him. He turned the flame on the smouldering corpse, destroyed it with the full power of the gun. Then, grey faced, he looked at Lura.

"What manner of man are you?" she whispered. "You battle the Masters and their stalking broks; you use weapons the like of which I have never heard. Are you a God?"

Trent smiled, shaken a bit by the sincere simplicity of the girl's question, then shook his head.

"I am a man," he answered gently. "Now let us go and talk with the one you call 'the Elder.'"

Lura looked at the knife still gripped in her fingers, and a flush of color tided upward from her throat when her gaze went to the two guns carried by Trent. Wordlessly, she sheathed the blade.

She led the way now, going into the thickest part of the timber, gliding through the most tangled of the thickets with a careless familiar grace. Kimball Trent followed more clumsily, tripping despite his natural skill, scratching himself on sharp brambles. Minutes flicked away, grew into an hour, and he knew that he was approaching the city. They crossed roads now, cement blocks cracked by rain and winter ice, bright flowers and green grasses springing upward through the cracks.

Everywhere was bleak desolation. They passed holes in the ground that had once been basements. Walls still stood in other places, and further on, a great stone fence wound gracefully about what had been a private park.

Rubble came to the ground, the crushed remains of towering buildings blasted to bits by the Gharrians' concussors. Here and there, shards of indestructible plastic poked toward the sky to mark where vehicles had collapsed and dusted away in the course of centuries.

They came at last to a mighty stack of ruptured stone and plastics. Lura picked her way over the rubble, then dropped into a small hole, beckoning for Trent to follow. He came cautiously up the pile of stone, hand close to his gun, feeling his nerves crawl, now that he was close to his destination. This was not the situation he had planned five hundred--he grinned wryly--years ago.

Then he sat, dangled his feet into the hole, dropped through.

Lura steadied him, and he stood upright, his head almost even with the ceiling of stone blocks. Light came through the interstices, and he could see that the girl was urging him toward a blank wall of grey plastic fifty feet away.

He walked slowly, conscious of being watched, eyes tightening when he saw the girl give a tapping signal to the wall. Then a door pivoted open, and three men were covering him with needle-sharp spears.

"_Kill him_," Lura cried. "_He's a Gharrian spy!_"

III

Kimball Trent was already moving, swinging to one side, the flame gun fitting snugly into the palm of his hand. There was no laughter in his eyes now, nor no friendliness in his heart. He felt a sympathy for the girl; but the die had been cast, and he must play out the role.

"Don't make me kill you," he said briefly.

The leader of the trio laughed aloud, the sound rocking from wall to wall of the weird hole in the fallen masonry. He came lightly forward, blond hair gleaming, great muscles rippling over his superb body. He carried himself with the grace of a dancer, the spear held crosswise in his hands, ready for instant action at any angle.

"Ho!" he said. "The traitor is mine."

Flame roared from Kimball Trent's gun, and the iron shaft of the blond giant's spear melted and dripped in splattering white-hot globules where the energy touched.

Low cries of fear whirled from the other two men, and the blond stared stupidly at his useless spear, dropped it as the heat crept along the haft. He stared at Trent, and no fear was in his eyes; only a growing respect and hate.

"Traitor!" he snarled, came driving in.

Trent went spinning to one side, slipping in the way that all army men were trained, then chopped with a cool calculating skill at the base of the giant's neck with the pistol butt. The giant dropped inertly, and Kimball Trent faced Lura and the spearmen again.

"One!" he said grimly. "The next to attack me dies. Now take me to the Elder."

There was a shadow in the doorway that materialized into the figure of a man. "I am the Elder, Barb," he said. "Who are you?"

He was tall, the loose robe hanging straight from lean shoulders, his thin features stern as he gazed at the scene. His hands were empty, yet they gave a sense of power to him, for the fingers were long and tapering, the palms broad. He watched Trent quietly through eyes that gave the uncanny impression of seeing much and retaining all.

He stepped from the doorway, stood waiting quietly, pale eyes appraising the man from the past, features tightening in puzzled memory, as though he was trying to recall someone he had seen before.

"He is a spy, Elder," Lura cried. "He appeared from nowhere, _overcame a Master_, and slew a brok. He carries weapons such as only the Masters have--and he has a double name."

"My name is Trent, Kimball Trent," Trent said evenly. "I was searching for anyone alive--"

The blond giant stirred at his feet, moaned, then came groggily to his feet. He blinked dazed eyes, saw Trent, instantly fell to a half-crouch, hands knotting into blocky fists.

"Enough, Korm," the Elder snapped, and the giant relaxed.

The tension was easing now, dispersed by the calmness of the Elder. Quietly, Trent holstered his flame gun, then crossed his arms, stood quietly waiting for the old man to speak.

"I have seen you somewhere before," the Elder said, "and your double name is familiar in the depths of my mind." His voice changed subtly, grew desperately grim. "What do you here?" he finished.

"Let us talk somewhere else," Trent said. "I shall be glad to tell my story then."

The Elder nodded, turned and stepped through the door. Kimball Trent followed, the remaining four coming directly after. The blond giant touched a stud on the wall, and the door came softly closed, mantling all with sable darkness.

Light swelled in a pale nimbus from a wall lamp, and they began walking down a narrow tunnel. Sweat dripped from the walls, and the air was coldly damp. Their feet made rasping noises, and the sound of their breathing was abnormally loud. They did not speak, but Kimball Trent was aware of their coldly appraising looks, and the skin of his back crawled when he remembered the razor-sharp spears couched in capable hands.

The lights flickered out of being behind, new ones coming on, as they walked, leaving them in a perpetual cocoon of brilliance, making the darkness a velvet wall eternally pressing in. Close at hand light speared suddenly from a side tunnel, and the Elder led the way into it, halted at the side of a low mono-wheel car that rested on a single plastic track.

He waited until all had seated themselves in the car, then stepped into the front, touched a series of studs. Vibration came from a concealed motor, and the mono-wheel car slipped into whining speed almost instantly.

* * * * *

The walls whirred by, and the air was a solid blast against their faces. Kimball Trent turned slightly as the car sped along, watching the faces, nerves tightening at the suspicion and distrust that held all in thrall.

He gave his attention to the machine in which they rode, saw that it was a model but slightly better than the ones to which he had been accustomed. The plastic air-shield had been removed for some reason, otherwise the passengers could have carried on a conversation in normal tones.

The tunnel wound through the ground like the home of a worm, slipping through mazes of interlocking tracks, automatic relays making certain that the car was not shunted into the path of an approaching vehicle. But they met no other cars; there was a sense of death and desolation in the tunnels and depots.

The car began to slow, the walls firming at either side, and came at last to a stop at a single platform on which stood three men armed with knives and spears. They were dressed as were his captors, in loose robes, which they apparently wore against the chill of their underground retreat.

They saluted as the car came to a stop, stepped forward, weapons levelled, when they saw Trent.

"A prisoner, Elder," the first said respectfully.

The Elder shook his head. "A friend," he said gently.

Kimball Trent stepped to the platform, stretched his hand to help Lura, flushed when she ignored his hand and came from the vehicle without aid. The others ranged themselves at his back; and the tension was in the group again.

"This way," the Elder said. "We shall talk in my room."

"Elder, his weapons!" Korm said briefly.

Kimball Trent shrugged, lifted his guns free, handed them to the giant who took them with gingerly respect.

"Do not experiment with them," Trent advised.

Korm grinned wryly, laid them on the platform. "I want _nothing_ to do with them," he said grimly.

Then the Elder and Kimball Trent were going through the open door, the others remaining behind. They followed a short lighted tunnel carved through living rock, turned aside into a single room.

"I make you welcome," the Elder said.

Kimball Trent gazed curiously about, seeing the crudeness of the furnishings; the room was furnished like that of an ascetic, not like the home of the leader of some group. It had a spartan simplicity in the plastic furniture, the bare walls white and unmarked.

Kimball Trent chose a chair at the side of a table, waited until the Elder had seated himself and pushed what appeared to be some sort of signal button.

A young man, brown-haired and athletic, came through the door, nodded in greeting, stared curiously at Trent. He walked slowly to the table, bent his head in tribute.

"Valur, this is Kimball Trent, a newcomer," the Elder said. "We shall listen to his story." He turned to Trent. "Valur is the Reader; it is he who knows the past and who is the keeper of the books."

"I make you welcome," Valur said quietly, eyes wise beyond his years calmly studying the well-knit body of Trent.

"Your story?" the Elder prompted gently.

Kimball Trent began to speak. He told of his awakening, of his rescue of Lura, of his being brought to the tunnels. He saw the skepticism in the Elder's eyes, was conscious of the probing of his statements by Valur. He told nothing of the fortress that had stayed untenanted for five centuries, told only that he had been buried in a cave, and had come miraculously alive.

Finished, he relaxed against the chair back, waited for the questions. He could feel the perspiration on his forehead, for he sensed the mettle of the men, knew that he would not leave the underground alive if they believed him to be a spy of the Gharrians.

"What think you?" the Elder asked Valur.

Valur seated himself directly before Trent. "You claim to be a Kimball Trent?" he asked.

"Yes," Trent said.

"There was once a Kimball Trent who fought the Masters when first they came. He was the friend of a man called Doctor Boyliss, and one of the first leaders of the fight against the Masters."

"I'm the one," Kimball Trent said grimly.

"You will submit to a neuro test?"

"Gladly."

* * * * *

Valur strode to a side door, entered, returned with a small neurograph machine. He clamped cables to the arms, legs and head of Trent, adjusted dials, then began his questioning. For minutes he talked, both he and the Elder studying the dials. Slowly, amazement came to their faces, excitement flickering in their eyes. At last, they freed the cables, and Trent relaxed.

"Satisfied?" he asked.

"One more test," Valur said, left the room.

Kimball Trent smiled at the Elder. "My story must sound utterly insane," he said.

"It does," the Elder said noncommittally.

Then Valur was back, gently carrying a plasti-book, opening it as he came. He spread the book on the table, opening it to a group picture, indicating one man. He took a small box from a pocket in his robe, made prints of Trent's fingerprints.

"It is he," he said at last, pushing the book and prints aside.

There was silence then, the Elder and Valur studying the man before them with awe-filled eyes. Trent shifted uncomfortably.

"Now, suppose you tell me your story?" he asked.

The Elder nodded. "There are about three thousand of us Barbs beneath the city. Our ancestors fought the Masters, hiding like beasts beneath the ground, never finding the weapons that would rid the Earth of the Gharrians. We do nothing now but live and hope, sometimes making raids on the breeding stations, trying to free those who would escape." Weariness came to his voice. "The breeders lack spirit now, after centuries of slavery; usually they will not run, even when their devil-wires are broken."

"Devil-wires?" Trent asked.

Valur explained. "They slay at a touch, and when broken, they snap and spit yellow flames."

"Electricity?"

Valur shrugged. "I have read the word, but it means nothing to me."

Kimball Trent gestured at the lights. "Those lights and the mono-wheel car; they are both somewhat electrical in nature."

The Elder shook his head. "We know how none of the things work that we use. We find them, and sometimes they do certain things; when they cease to function, we forget them. None of us have the knowledge to maintain or repair them."

Kimball Trent nodded. He saw now many things that he had not understood before. He had seen primitive spears and a car that ran by _atomilect_ power, had seen one man who could read and others to whom reading was a mystery not to be fathomed by ordinary men. He had seen the intelligence that gleamed in his captors' eyes, and yet they had thought him a superman because he had slain one of the Gharrians' hunting broks with a flame gun.

"I can repair them," he said at last. "But first, I must know how you live, and the machines upon which you live."

The Elder came lithely to his feet. "We shall show you all," he said, faint hope flickering in his voice. "You will find conditions much changed from those you knew." He smiled. "Later, you shall tell us of your world."

He led the way into the tunnel, sent a guard for Trent's weapons. Kimball Trent fitted them onto his shoulder and hip again, then strode down the tunnel at the side of his two guides.

"You spoke of breeding stations," he said as they walked. "What did you mean?"

Muscles knotted in Valur's jaws. "They _are_ breeding stations," he said. "For almost five centuries the Gharrians have forced Earth to supply slaves for them. Great depots are made into slave camps, and the children born are carried in the crimson ships into space. We never see them again."

* * * * *

There was hate in Kimball Trent again, the surging twisting of emotions that had driven him in the days he had fought the monsters from infinity. It had lain dormant the last few days, stifled by his thoughts of the centuries he had slept, smothered by his fear that the world was dead and he alive. Now, knowing the way in which men lived on their planet, the hate came alive again, and he could feel the muscles of his body swelling against his harness.

"And nothing can be done?" he asked.

"Nothing!" Valur shook his head. "The Masters cannot be slain, and they hunt us like animals with their broks. We try now only to stay alive, praying for a miracle." His eyes swung to Trent. "It may be that _you_ are that miracle."

Kimball Trent flushed, feeling helpless and naked and impotent. "We fought," he said, "and our weapons were of no avail. The men who might have devised new weapons are all dead, and I do not have the knowledge for manufacturing along new lines of thought."

The Elder's voice was gentle. "We shall win," he said. "We shall win eventually, for men were never meant to crawl as animals." His voice changed. "We shall call you 'Trent'," he finished, "and say that you are a Barb from Connet, for my people will not believe the tale you tell. Or if they did believe, they might think you a superman, and that would not be good."

The light of an entrance ahead came into view as they rounded a corner in the tunnel. They could hear voices; and the odors of cooking came on the faint breeze. Trent shivered suddenly. This was not the way that he thought the world would be. Never in even his wildest dreams had he thought Earth could be conquered. Now it was so, and the future was a hopeless thing, Earthmen fighting with feather-weapons against the invulnerable armor of the Gharrians.

They stepped from the tunnel, and Lura joined them from where she stood with Korm and another man. Her gaze was level and inscrutable as she studied Trent's face.

"Did he lie?" she asked.

"He spoke the truth," the Elder said evenly.

Lura smiled then, and the warmth of her smile was like the soothing fingers of a Summer breeze stroking Trent's features.

"I am glad," she said simply. "One who faces a Master and his brok should be one of us." She beckoned to Korm. "You fought once; now meet as friends."

Korm grinned, held out his hand. "My sister told me of how you saved her; I am your friend." He tensed the muscles of his proud neck, winced instinctively. "Some time you must show me that fighting trick; never before have I been bested in battle."

"Any time," Kimball Trent said.

"Come," Valur said. "Light talk shall wait until later."

Kimball Trent turned to follow his guides, conscious of the slim girl at his side, wondering how any woman could be so fearlessly reliant and so feminine at the same time. He glanced at the blond giant, saw the knowing look that came to the grey eyes when they went from him to Lura, and hotness flooded upward from his throat.

He turned his attention to the Elder. "What first?" he asked. "My people," the Elder said simply.

Together, they began their tour.

IV

Three weeks had passed since Kimball Trent's arrival. At first, he had met doubt and suspicion from the inhabitants of the tunnels beneath the rubble of New York. His manner of speech was odd, as were his weapons, his clothing and his knowledge. But gradually, he had been accepted by the majority of those he had met through the Elder.

The dwellers of the underground caverns were a strange admixture of modern and primitive cultures. None but the Elder, the Reader and his acolytes could read or write. They knew nothing of the past except what the Reader gave to them from his books, or what the Singers gave to them in their songs of legend.

They had been cleaved into three classes: workers, warriors and growers, each with its distinct duties, each contributing to the welfare of the whole. The warriors were the hunters of wild game and the protectors of their homes; the workers kept everything used in as good repair as they were capable of doing, except upon the mechanical machines and contrivances of which they had no knowledge either inherited or acquired. The growers were the food gardeners and flock tenders, utilizing their skill in abandoned subway tubes where gardens grew fabulously beneath the radi-lights studding the walls, and where various food and milk animals and food fowls were kept in penned-in tunnels.