SILENTLY WE FOLLOWED him down a narrow metal corridor.
“This way—” I saw our captor now as a bulky six-foot fellow clad incongruously in a crudely plaited robe of dried vegetable fibre, draped upon him like a Roman toga. He stood aside at an oval doorway; and Jim and I went into a small triangular room. Starlight filtered into it from a side bull’s-eye.
Clad still in her brief garment, Venta sat on a square pad on the floor. As we entered she flung me a look, and then stared straight ahead.
“So? This is the fellow who thought he would steal my little Venta? Come in, Frane. Stand over there; I want to look you over.”
Karl Curtmann. He was seated in a small, straight-backed armchair. He was a smallish, slim fellow, not over forty perhaps. A vivid blue toga encased him; sandals were on his feet. At our entrance he raised one of his bare ornamented arms with a gesture.
The costume was queerly incongruous to a modern Earthman; but upon Curtmann there was an immense dignity, a sense of the consciousness of his own greatness. More than mere conceit, it seemed to radiate from him. On his heavy, square-jawed face there was a look of amused contempt as he regarded me.
“My little Venta has asked me not to kill you,” he added. His voice was soft and suave. English was his native language, taught him exclusively by Government decree. But the inherited timbre was guttural. “That is fortunate, is it not?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Very. I thank her.”
His eyes twinkled; his immaculate hands with jeweled fingers, brushed his crisp blond hair. “You can also thank me. I am permitting you to join our life. You know now, of course, that I am Master of Venus? It is their good fortune. Always I shall protect them from any harm, and teach them the life that is good for them.”
He was utterly sincere. His eyes were gleaming with his fervour. Man of Destiny. He believed it with the faith of a child. And now his gaze went to Venta.
“Her people—” He was still talking to me, though he stared at her. “Some of them still are misguided. Old Prytan, her grandfather, is a very wicked old man, Frane. He has fled to the Forest City. He defies my rule. I shall have to punish that Forest City.”
Suddenly his face contorted; his arm shook as he pounded his fist on his chair. “I shall not tolerate it. They are all to die. Nor in the city of Shan itself will I have rebellion. I am a man of peace—there shall be no strife. And each year, from Earth, more of my men will come to mate with the Venus women. The new race. The new Empire of Curtmann. Is it not a wonderful future, Venta? I shall make you Empress.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Race of the Gods,” he said. “And I—Karl Curtmann—”
He checked himself. There was a little sound of beating wings here in the dim starlit room. I turned as through the door a tiny shape came like a fluttering bird through the air. A footlong bronze man-shape. One of the Midge! Again my mind leaped back to that little figure in the Adirondac forest. It had had wings, though then I had not noticed them.
This one came and poised on the arm of Curtmann’s chair. “What is it, Rahn?” he said.
The Midge’s voice was tiny, but clear. “The flight-master has asked that you come now to check his calculations of our course.” The English words, taught to this Midge, were quaintly intoned. The voice was gentle, humble.
Curtmann stood up. “All right. I shall go.” He waved an arm at the burly Frantz who was standing silently to one side. “Our captives can remain here, Frantz.”
He turned, smiled gently at Venta, and strode from the room.
- - - -