CHAPTER V

Nemesis from the Tiny

Perry and Lyssa found what they were searching for at last, after climbing a long, spiral stairs. The chamber was round, and was above the dome of the temple, just beneath the representation of the space ship and the golden statue of that ancient leader. The disk-shaped door was fastened by a great hasp that was disengaged easily.

Wheels, meters, switches, charts. Never before had Perry Wilcox seen such a staggering array. His heart sank. Could he ever master such a complex arrangement in time to do any good--to stop the robots and that vast, senseless conflict above? He tugged at one wheel. It turned a very little, and a meter needle nearby jumped, showing that the apparatus was still effective. But there the wheel stuck. It was locked by a slight film of corrosion. Though things in this control room were marvelously preserved, considering their titanic age, they had not been protected by a time-defying vacuum.

Perry's face went sober and tired. "Even if these are the right controls," he said, "it would take me a week and a lot of oil and brain work to loosen 'em up and figure 'em out so I could turn off hell up above."

Then his gaze centered on a mirror nearby. It was part of a periscope arrangement which evidently communicated with the surface, its upper end cleared of encumbering earth by the robots.

In the mirror was visible the slope of a hill, bright in after noon sunshine. A solid array of army tanks were creeping up it laboriously. Behind them, guns blazed. But down upon those attackers was pouring a hail of death--of sharper, more violent explosions--that wiped out two and three of the tanks at a time. Beyond, the plain was being filled with a miasmic fog of death--corrosive gas. Still, the tanks came on, each with its load of brave young men. Wave on wave, to destruction.

Perry stood watching for several moments. Viewed from the distance, the tanks looked hardly bigger than they would have, had he been normal size. His position was sort of a joke. He was standing where a general from another planet should have stood while directing his guardian robot army. But he was helpless.

"Kerwin is still at it," Perry remarked at last, his voice so matter-of-fact that it was startling.

He was thinking bitterly of many things. Of the way plans were made, hopefully, till they became faith. And then the disillusion of miscarried results--of fact. Like this buried utopia. Its creators had worked for its realization. They had achieved it, but they had vanished. Like himself, and like Rod Murgatroyd. Rod, blinded, but talking with hollow magnificence, of a strange heritage. Path of Progress. The inspiration of a more ancient science to spur mankind on. Oh, it sounded good, but it was all--screwy!

Wilcox blew up at last. "With Kerwin in control, Rod's probably already dead--lynched by a mob!" he said. "And here we are, down here, a couple of helpless peewees! I suppose we could go back to normal size--back the same way we came here. There are controls there in the entrance chamber. But what good would that do? We'd still be peewees!"

But Troubles was of a somewhat different attitude. "Maybe inch-high peewees like us have advantages at that," she said significantly. "Look, fella."

She was pointing to a slender, graceful object that rested in a metal frame over their heads. It was very like an airplane, with short, stubby wings. But instead of propellers it had rocket nozzles. Wheels on its bottom, clung to a helical guide rail that spiraled upward inside a great, vertical tube that must find its way to the surface somewhere. Apparently the tube was the inside of the staff held by the golden colossus above. And the staff penetrated the cavern's roof.

"Naturally, being as advanced in science as they were, those old people would keep something to get about with, wouldn't they?" Troubles questioned, as she climbed up the ladder to the craft's cabin entrance.

* * * * *

Opening the door was a difficult thing; but Perry bounded up the rungs and was helping her. He was ready to take his chances too, in spite of his talk.

The door opened under the hammering pressure of his calloused palm. There was space inside for two or three people to lie prone. The controls were not unfamiliar. There was a joystick, and a second lever which must take the place of rudder pedals.

Perry was wiggling, the control. They were stiff but not immovable. With an eye of a practiced airman, he noted what they did to the tail and wing fins. So far, so good. He turned a small valve on the dash. There was a creaky, rhythmic sputter from behind. Evidently there was still fuel in the tanks. In response to the brief rocket thrust, the craft rolled a little way up the spiral guide rail. Then back to norm as Perry returned the throttle to its original position.

"So what?" he said with a shrug. "Nothing funny about finding this crate here. It's made of the same kind of evidently almost uncorrodable metals as the instruments here in the control room. So it should last forever. And the old-timers must have longed for the great outdoors sometimes. That's logical enough. But there isn't the sign of a weapon--nothing we could use to attack a giant. And Kerwin is a giant, now, in relation to us!"

"How about bluff?" Troubles questioned, dimples of exasperation showing at the corners of her mouth. "Come on, bonehead. Quit stalling! Haven't you got any imagination at all?"

Wilcox grinned at her, startled and admiring. Her attitude gave him a lifting sense of adventure. "Okay!" he drawled. "Funny, though--I used to think you were a friend of Kerwin's. Of course, you could be trying to pull a fast one yet, I suppose!"

"And I could knock that pug schnozzle of yours flatter than it is, for that crack!" Troubles returned. "Come on! Let's see action--if you're good enough to get any out of this thing!"

Perry opened the throttle. A little at first, then more and more. Speed was built up. It became a dizzy whirl. Around and around that spiral track, up and up....

* * * * *

Lyman Kerwin sat in his office, topping the great Kerwin Building at Chicago. Glass surrounded him--thick, green-tinted, bullet-proof glass. Above him, beyond the metal-ribbed sky-panes of his eyrie, the star blinked. Lyman Kerwin was studying the notes of the speech he was going to deliver in five minutes.

Thoughts went racing through his fevered brain. Thoughts of satisfaction and triumph. Here he was like a god, far up above the rabble. What did it matter if a lot of them hated him, and mistrusted his motives? They were afraid of what it was out there, not so many hundreds of miles to the north-west. He'd see that they remained frightened, as long as it was necessary.

They didn't know what he knew--what the poor fool, Professor Vince, had found out--that the enemy were only machines, awesome in their powers, but incapable of organized thought. Someday, when Vince had learned more for him, and when there'd been enough fighting to give him full control of the country, those robots would doubtless provide him with a means of keeping his power in hand, even of extending it.

Lyman Kerwin arose from his chair and strode to the paneled cabinet in the corner. He entered the cabinet and snapped on the brilliant lights on either side of him. Facing him was a radio microphone and a pair of lensed, television eyes. He had only to close a switch to make himself visible and audible to the waiting world.

Above him was a mirror. Kerwin admired himself in it. He knew he wasn't handsome--in any ordinary way, at least. It would be better, of course, if he were young. But he looked like a master. He looked clever. Yes, he _was_ clever! A genius! And his new, black uniform was slick, becoming the role he must play. There was a badge on the coat lapel. U.S. in black blocked letters, against a red background. And at the center, in a gold star that was like a small, bright halo of glory, his own initials in black--L.K. The badge was his own idea, and the jeweler had wrought skillfully.

It was almost time for the speech, now. Kerwin turned about to get his notes. He stopped in chagrin. The papers on his desk were burning merrily! How they had become ignited, he couldn't imagine, since he hadn't been smoking. It was unnerving. The first wave of fright went through his cowardly soul as he bounded forward to brush the burning papers to the floor, and stamp out the flames.

He hadn't seen the tiny, two-inch thing, like a miniature plane in shape and function, that had come down through the ventilator above. While his back was turned, it had darted toward the papers. Its atomic rocket blasts, blue and almost invisible, yet terrifically hot, had touched the litter on the desk. Now the minute intruder clung, inactive, by means of anchoring claws, to the wallward side of an urn of flowers atop a bookcase.

Kerwin shrugged his hunched, sloping shoulders. "I don't need the notes," he thought, trying to reassure himself--trying to drive the nameless, uncanny fear out of his heart.

He walked to the television cabinet and snapped the switches. It was time to broadcast.

"My friends," he began. "Today we have started the big push against the Murgatroyd-Wilcox Horror. It may be that hundreds of thousands of men must die in the battle to hold this terrible enemy in check. But this cannot be helped. I have tried to do my part. I appreciate the great honor that has been bestowed upon me in making me Director of Defense. But for efficiency, I cannot go on in this manner. There is too much bickering among people who are not sincerely fighting for the welfare of humanity. I must have the means to command, and if necessary, silence these individuals. I must have full control of all the nation's resources. In this emergency, not a moment must be wasted in friction--in lack of cooperation. I have--"

Kerwin's small eyes were beginning to shine, but he stopped abruptly.

* * * * *

Very near to him, he heard a tiny voice speaking. Its tones were like the tinkling of minute flakes of glass. It was an impossible voice, and yet a vaguely familiar one. Though it seemed close--almost at his shoulder--still it seemed, too, to be shouted from a great distance:

"Interesting speech, Kerwin! Well planned! You've reached the crucial point in your scheme, huh? All right! Go on! Don't hesitate!"

But Lyman Kerwin's words had broken off. He half turned. Then he remembered his audience--millions of people observing his every move by means of television. He didn't dare show any fear or disconcertion, now! The rabble must believe in him. But a cold dew of terror was breaking out on his bald pate and skinny cheeks.

"I have--I think--proved my worth," he continued, stammering into the microphone. "I must not be hampered by--by the President of the United States, and by--Congress. I--" Kerwin's voice was becoming a thin squeak.

"What's the matter, Kerwin?" came taunting words in those thready, elfin, confident tones. "Got stage fright or something? Don't act like that! Pull yourself together! People will start laughing at you, first thing you know!"

"I--" the crooked financier gurgled, struggling to go on with his oratory from where he had left off; but nervousness seemed to have strangled him.

And the unseen, pixy speaker went on: "Come now, Kerwin!" he was chided. "This won't do at all! You're a big man, you know! You've sent thousands of youth to their deaths already--just for your own glory. You can't let everybody know you've got a yella streak a yard wide.... No, stop! Don't go turning off those switches! It happens we could kill you in a split second. On the second thought, maybe it's just as well folks see what goes on here. You wouldn't want anybody to be misled, would you? There, that's better! Don't shiver so much. Don't turn. Just stay where you are....

"That's probably a real good microphone you've got there, Kerwin. It'll probably pick up even my voice, so everybody can hear it. I'm not exactly just the voice of your conscience, you see. Nor am I so easily ignored. By now many men know what you're up to, Kerwin. They know about those robots--that they're only mechanical things intended for defense. They've learned this fact in the front lines. But you've been clever enough to keep them there, where they'd be killed quickly. But we know more about this so-called 'Murgatroyd-Wilcox Horror' than you or your scientists do, Kerwin. Because we've been--and so to speak still are--_on the inside_!

"There's just one thing for me to say to the world, Kerwin. There isn't time, right at this moment, for complete explanations. But I think many people will anticipate my suggestion--that the army be withdrawn to a distance of half a mile from its present entrenchments. I do not think it will be attacked there. If we are given ten days to work--Miss Lyssa Arthurs, late of the _Brenton Herald_, and myself, Perry Wilcox--I think the trouble will be cleared up."

The little voice took on a sharper edge, as it addressed itself more directly to the financier: "You can turn around now, Kerwin. I guess it's the end, huh? They've seen you, they've got your number. They've heard me talk. Maybe they're wondering what it's all about. Maybe they're scared and uncertain. But one thing's sure--you're through. You're a yellow fake, Kerwin...."

* * * * *

Slowly the financier pivoted on rubbery legs. His now bulging eyes saw nothing but the great room, which was to have been the focus of his empire.

Quivering with a horror that was part nameless and partly born of the knowledge that he was an exposed enemy of society who could never escape, Kerwin backed along the wall. He reached a window, and tugged at its fastenings for air.

He gave a start as a low hiss sounded near him. Looking back, he saw a little dartlike thing, spitting blue flame, and swinging close. It had an ugly, alien look. He ducked it, screaming. With wild clawings in which no reason remained, except to escape that devilish, hissing unknown, he climbed to the window sill. There he toppled briefly, babbling:

"I didn't mean it! No! Don't!..."

A moment later he pitched, with a wail of terror, toward the street far below.

This time he hadn't heard two faint tinkly voices, shouting a belated warning. Perry and Troubles hadn't meant to frighten him to this extreme.

The plane flew back, alighting before the microphone, and in the path of those television lenses. Two little doll-like beings descended from the craft. For ten minutes Perry Wilcox talked, telling what had happened; and the world saw and heard. Then he and his companion returned to the plane. With a hiss it flew toward the ventilator in the ceiling. And the city below, hummed in wonder.

* * * * *

There were some doubts, of course; but the big push was stopped. A week later, the army, watching from its new, rearward trenches, saw a sudden cessation of motion on the citadel they faced. Most of the gleaming Titans there, stood still in their tracks, as though frozen in the morning sunshine.

Perry Wilcox and Lyssa Arthurs were pulled, inert, from the vat of green liquid by attendant robots left active for the purpose. They had submitted to the reversal of the process of decreased size, and now they were normal again. After an hour they awoke. They passed through the exit tunnel, and out into the open air. They climbed down the silent slopes beyond the ramparts.

They reached the ragged, battered river flats, strewn with wreckage and dotted with silent metal giants. Then someone hailed them. A tank, piloted by a soldier, pulled close. Its turret opened, and a head was thrust out. Perry saw a new Windsor tie, new checkered shirt, a thin face, a bit blistered, and red hair, singed short--only, there was a bandage over the eyes.

"Rod!" Perry gasped. "I thought--"

Old Roderick Murgatroyd laughed. "I know," he chuckled. "You thought Kerwin's roustabouts lynched me. But when they stormed the hospital, I wasn't there! Fooled 'em. Sneaked off. Then some newshounds cornered me. But never mind that! See! I've got my newsreel rig!" He was clutching the small camera strapped around his neck as he continued plaintively: "I want to take some pictures, Perry. Darn, I can't wait for my eyes to get better! Show me what's good. Path of Progress has made its greatest hit. We've got to carry on, Perry...."

Wilcox' face was suddenly pained. But he kept his voice brisk. "Sure we've got to carry on, Rod!" he enthused. "Hurry up and get out of that tin wagon! There's at least a hundred battle automatons standing here around us!"

"Hang the automatons," said the old scientist, jumping down lithely with the guidance of Perry's hand. "I want a picture of you, first!"

"That means Troubles too, then," Perry shot back. "I think you'll be buying wedding presents before very long!"

"Jupiter! That's swell! Now, let's see.... Just where are you?"

"Right here, Rod!" Lyssa said briskly, a small, unnoticeable catch in her gay tone. "Standing close together. Shoot!"

They let him take his time, fumbling eagerly but clumsily with his camera. And from his enthusiasm they drew many thoughts. He was a little like the leader of those people from interstellar space, who had built themselves a lovely, forbidden paradise in the small--a paradise that native Earth men would never colonize, though there might soon be found many uses even for the ionic science that had made it possible. Exploration of places that full-size men could never reach. A miniature secret service, perhaps.

The golden statue on the crest of the Pantheon, down there. Old Rod belonged to that same class--an idealist. Nor could Perry Wilcox scoff now, for he was one himself.

In the silence, Rod Murgatroyd's camera mechanism worked. In the background, above the scarred slope, smoke arose silently from the vent of a subterranean factory.

This was old Rod's moment of triumph. So Perry and Troubles could not tell him that his eyes were gone.