WERWILE OF THE CRYSTAL CRYPT
By GARDNER F. FOX
His black science threatened the whole cosmos.
Against him frail Princess Nuala thrust her ancient
knowledge—but he sneeringly smashed that. And
space-toughened Clark Travis stood by helplessly.
Of what use here was a pair of ready fists?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He should have known better. He admitted that, now. Listening to thespacemen in Trixon and Cleg would have saved his skin. They told himthat Flormaseron was a hellhole where Creation had run mad. The onlything was, even they hadn't known how bad it was. Clark Travis workedthe walnut stud of his stil disintegrator hopefully, but when itsputtered he gave it up.
The arklings were coming for him. Through the opening in the stonetraceries of the ancient doorway, he saw the red aura that floatedover them as they came up the stone ramp. Clark turned and ran alongthe sloping floor, down into the black, labyrinthine windings of theancient city. His spacebooted feet made soft, slapping sounds. Hisbeamlight cast a white brilliant glow ahead of him. He ran past severalintersecting corridors before he skidded around a corner into one.
Clark Travis lost himself in the ruins. He went down into the bowels ofthis city that was in its glory before the Earth had been more than aspinning ball of fire in space. He saw odd animals carved in the walls,queerly human things at work on ships and weapons, tall men and lovelywomen etched in bas-relief in the marble.
The deeper down he went, the more he was putting himself in thearklings' power. They were familiar with this rotting pile of masonry,where the tunnels were dark strips out of Hades. Their red aura lightedthe winding passageways. Clark only had his beamlight for the blackness.
He snapped off the power, stood waiting. His breath came softly. Thetunnels were black, as black as space itself; as black as MartinKent's eyes had been when he first told him about Flormaseron and thesleeping goddess of the crystal crypt.
"She isn't a goddess, of course," Kent had said, seriously. "She'sthe last remnant of the first race that ever came into existence. Theproduct of a million generations of culture and scientific knowledge.When the disaster struck at her people, the chief scientists encasedher in a block of crystal and hid her somewhere on Flormaseron. She'sstill there—and still alive.
"Think of it, Clark! A woman with the knowledge of such a race. Beforethey enclosed her, they thought-fed her brain with knowledge, and soarranged the crystal that during all the years of her interment, shewould learn! A brain like that—why it would revolutionize our ownculture. The Earth'd go millions of years ahead in science, if we couldonly find her—and bring her back to life!"
Travis had said, "If she's entombed on a hellhole like Flormaseron,how'd you ever hear of her?"
Martin Kent took Travis by the arm, led him out the door of his officeand into the museum corridor. Here in Solar Museum, Mars Division, Kentwas absolute ruler. Behind him he had the billions of credits thatEarth and Mars and Venus poured into their cultural endeavors. Fromall over the solar system Solar brought stuffed animals, crumblingbricks from ancient cities, rusted weapons that experts studied andreconstructed in glittering stil.
They walked past a panor