LITMIR.BIZ

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lip were poised thousands of concave disks, vernal green, enormous. They were like a border of gigantic, upthrust shields; and within each, emblazoned like a shield’s device, was a blinding flower of flame — the reflected, dilated face of the sun. Below this diadem hung, pendent, clusters of other disks, swarmed like the globular hiving of the constellation Hercules’ captured stars. And each of these prisoned the image of our sun.

      A hundred feet below us was the crater floor.

      Up from it thrust a mountainous forest of the pallidly radiant cones; bristling; prodigious. Tier upon tier, thicket upon thicket, phalanx upon phalanx they climbed. Up and up, pyramidically, they flung their spiked hosts.

      They drew together two thousand feet above us, clustering close about the foot of a single huge spire which thrust itself skyward above them. The crest of this spire was truncated. From its shorn tip radiated scores of long and slender spokes holding in place a thousand feet wide wheel of wan green disks whose concave surfaces, unlike those smooth ones girding the crater, were curiously faceted.

      This amazing structure rested upon a myriad-footed base of crystal, even as had that other cornute fantasy beside which we had met the great Disk. But it was in size to that as — as Leviathan to a minnow. From it streamed the same baffling suggestion of invincible force transmuted into matter; energy coalesced into the tangible; power made concentrate in the vestments of substance.

      Half-way between crater lip and floor began the hordes of the Metal People.

      In colossal animate cheveau-de-frise of hundred-foot girders they thrust themselves out from the curving walls — walls, I knew, as alive as they!

      From these Brobdignagian beams they swung in ropes and clusters — spheres and cubes studded as thickly with the pyramids as ever Titan’s mace with spikes. Group after bizarre group they dropped; pendulous. Coppices of slender columns of thistled globes sprang up to meet the festooned joists.

      Between the girders they draped themselves in long, stellated garlands; grouped themselves in innumerable, kaleidoscopic patterns.

      They clicked into place around the golden turret in which we crouched.

      In fantastic arrases they swayed in front of us — now hiding by, now revealing through their quicksilver interweavings the mounts of the Cones.

      And steadily those flowing in below added to their multitudes; gliding up cable and pillar; building out still further the living girders, stringing themselves upon living festoon and living garland, weaving in among them, changing their shapes, rewriting their symbols.

      They swung and threaded swiftly, in shifting arabesque, in Gothic traceries, in lace-like fantasies; utterly bizarre, unutterably beautiful — crystalline, geometric always.

      Abruptly their movement ceased — so abruptly that the stoppage of all the ordered turmoil had the quality of appalling silence.

      An unimaginable tapestry bedight with incredible broidery, the Metal People draped the vast cup.

      Pillared it as though it were a temple.

      Garnished it with their bodies as though it were a shrine.

      Across the floor toward the Cones glided a palely lustrous sphere. In shape only a globe like all its kind, yet it was invested with power; it radiated power as a star does light; was clothed in unseen garments of supernal force. In its wake drifted two great pyramids; after them ten spheres but little smaller than the Shape which led.

      “The Metal Emperor!” breathed Drake.

      On they swept until they reached the base of the Cones. They paused at the edge of the crystal tabling. They turned.

      There was a flashing as of a meteor bursting. The globe had opened into that splendor of jewel fires before which had floated Norhala and Ruth.

      I saw again the luminous ovals of sapphire, studding its golden zone, the mystic rose of pulsing, petal flame, the still core of incandescent ruby that was the heart of that rose.

      Strangely I felt my own heart veer toward this — Thing; bowing before its beauty and its strength; almost worshiping!

      A shock of revulsion went through me. I shot a quick, half frightened glance at Drake. He was crouching dangerously close to the lip of the ledge, hands clasped and knuckles white with the intensity of his grip, eyes rapt, staring — upon the verge of worship even as I had been.

      “Drake!” I thrust my elbow into his side brutally. “None of that! Remember you’re human! Guard yourself, man — guard yourself!”

      “What?” he muttered; then, abruptly: “How did you know?”

      “I felt it myself,” I answered: “For God’s sake, Dick — hold fast to yourself! Remember Ruth!”

      He shook his head violently — as though to be rid of some clinging, cloying thing.

      “I’ll not forget again,” he said.

      He huddled down once more close to the edge of the shelf; peering over. No one of the Metal People had moved; the silence, the stillness, was unbroken.

      Now the flanking pyramids shot forth into twin stars, blazing with violet luminescences. And one by one after them the ten lesser spheres expanded into flaming orbs; beautiful they were, but far less glorious than that Disk of whom they were the counselors? — ministers? — what?

      Still there was no movement among all the arrased, girdered, pillared hosts.

      There came a little wailing; far away it was and far. Nearer it drew. Was that a tremor that passed through the crowded crater? A quick pulse of — eagerness?

      “Hungry!” whispered Drake. “They’re HUNGRY!”

      Closer was the wailing; again that faint tremor quivered over the place. And now I caught it — a quick and avid pulsing.

      “Hungry,” whispered Drake again. “Like a lot of lions with the keeper coming along with meat.”

      The wailing was below us. I felt, not a quiver this time, but an unmistakable shock pass through the Horde. It throbbed — and passed.

      Into the field of our vision, up to the flaming Disk rushed an immense cube.

      Thrice the height of a tall man — as I think I have noted before — when it unfolded its radiance was that shape of mingled beauty and power I call the Metal Emperor.

      Yet this Thing eclipsed it. Black, uncompromising, in some indefinable way BRUTAL, its square bulk blotted out the Disk’s effulgence; shrouded it. And a shadow seemed to fall upon the crater. The violet fires of the flanking stars pulsed out — watchfully, threateningly.

      For only an instant the darkening block loomed against the Disk; blackened it.

      There came another meteor burst of light. Where the cube had been was now a tremendous, fiery cross — a cross inverted.

      Its upper arm arose to twice the length either of its horizontals or the square that was its foot. In its opening it must have turned, for its — FACE— was toward us and away from the Cones, its body hid the Disk, and almost all the surfaces of the two watchful Stars.

      Eighty feet at least in height, this cruciform shape stood. It flamed and flickered with angry, smoky crimsons and scarlets; with sullen orange glowings and glitterings of sulphurous yellows. Within its fires were none of those leaping, multicolored glories that were the Metal Emperor’s; no trace of the pulsing, mystic rose; no shadow of jubilant sapphire; no purple royal; no tender, merciful greens nor gracious opalescences. Nothing even of the blasting violet of the Stars.

      All angry, smoky reds and ochres the cross blazed forth — and in its lurid glowings was something sinister, something real, something cruel, something — nearer to earth, closer to man.

      “The Keeper of the Cones and the Metal Emperor!” muttered Drake. “I begin to get it — yes — I begin to get — Ventnor!”

      Once more the pulse,

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