A. Bertram Chandler by The Alternate Martians

Author:The Alternate Martians
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-08-23T22:52:40+00:00

XXI

WITH THE first faint Bickerings of returning consciousness Wilkinson realized dimly that the gas had not been a lethal one. He inhaled deeply of the pure, cool air, untainted either by the anesthetic vapor or by the mephitic reek of the prison pen. He began to feel better, less weak—and, at the same time, was beginning to become aware of his discomforts. The many cuts and scratches upon his body were painful, and he tried to bring his left hand up and around so that he could massage the cut on the right side of his chest. But he could not move. Straps were holding him down. He could wriggle a little against the resilient surface beneath him, but that was all.

He heard somebody say, "He's coming around, and so is the woman. Have the others brought in, and we shall soon see if they recognize each other." "Very good, sir," was the reply.

There was a hard light beating against Wilkinson's eyelids. He opened them cautiously, and was almost blinded by the blue-white glare from the unshaded globe hanging from the ceiling. But he was able to move his head, and did so, turning it to one side. Vanessa came into his field of view. She was strapped, on her back, to a low couch, the metallic bands deeply indenting her golden skin. Her breasts rose as she inhaled deeply, and then her eyes opened. She stared at her husband.

"Chris I Where are we?" she asked.

"You have been brought to my office," announced the voice that had issued the orders. Then, to somebody unseen, "Mr. Parkinson, would you please adjust the couches? I wish to introduce myself to my . . . ah . . . guests."

-A man, naked save for the sword belt about his waist, stooped beside Vanessa's couch. It folded in the middle, the upper part of it snapping to the vertical with a sharp click. She cried out in pain as one of the straps cut into her flesh. And then it was Wilkinson's rum. He found himself being stared at by the coldest pair of eyes that he had ever seen, steely gray under heavy black brows. And then he took in the rest of the details—the bald head, the plump face, the beaky nose, the petulant mouth. Only the upper part of the man's torso was visible above the side desk, which was covered by what looked like pale leather. What could be seen of the body was fat, but not flabby.

"I am Hamilton Montgomery," said the man behind the desk. "My rank is that of Chief Slave. It is as good a title as any—although the noun, I admit, is somewhat meaningless. And now . . ." The voice hardened. "Your name."

"Wilkinson."

A fist crashed into the side of Wilkinson's face, and the man who had adjusted the couches growled, "Call Mr. Montgomery 'sir'."

"You are a little overzealous, Mr. Parkinson," reproved Montgomery gently. "The lesson in etiquette could have been deferred. However . . .

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