Star Winds

Matello was reflective. “Not a great deal to go on for one young man on his own in a strange land,” he mused. He had been firm but courteous toward the youth, not wishing to terrify him unduly. He was aware, anyway, that Rachad had already seen the torture equipment in the interrogation room. And indeed, the boy had volunteered his information with alacrity, though disappointingly it did not amount to anything more than the snippet already provided by Captain Zhorga.

“To know that the book exists at all is already a great deal,” Rachad said defensively, “let alone in what city it is hidden.”

“And with that,” Matello sighed, “you came all the way from Earth.”

“With respect, my lord, you came much farther with even less. Even a small chance of obtaining so precious a secret is worth taking.”

Matello shot him a sarcastic glance. Rachad continued: “My master advised me to pose as a seeker or even an adept, and to inveigle myself among the alchemists and secret societies he thought would exist here.”

“Hah! I wish he could be here to answer for his advice.” Matello rattled the map he was holding. It showed Kars as it had been in former days, before war and decay had overtaken it. At one time the city must have been a thriving, colorful place, but now it presented mostly piles of tumbled masonry, shells of buildings, broken towers and jutting pillars. True, it was even now not entirely abandoned. Among the decrepit piles of sand-colored stone were signs of movement, and on the edges of the sprawling ruins ploughed fields extended.

And the main street plan could still be made out, at least as regards the wider avenues. Rachad craned his neck trying to see Matello’s map. He had already learned to recognize the squiggly symbol that marked the temples, of which Kars, it seemed, had been crammed full. Rapidly, almost despairingly, his eye raced over the parchment—and then stopped. There it was, clearly written in the graceful Martian script! The Temple of Hermes Trismegistus!

Rachad’s heart beat faster. He looked out over the dead city, trying to locate what he had seen on the map. Could that be it over there—that half-tumbled building with sloping walls, that might once have resembled an athanor?

Yes, he decided. That was it.

With a grunt Baron Matello took up a pen, dipped it in a little bottle of ink, and divided the map into sections. “We’ll start here,” he said, subdividing one section still further into a number of blocks. Beckoning his officers to gather round, he allotted one squad to each block. “Tear everything apart,” he ordered. “Pay special attention to temples—these ancient Martians seem to have gone mad on religion.”

The officers shouted commands. Nearly five hundred men trotted downhill, and the inhabitants in their path, living in shacks and makeshift dwellings, fled at their approach.

The work was quickly organized. Block by block, street by street, uniformed men swarmed over the ruins, showing a preference for those that seemed to have been public buildings. Soon the air was filled with dust and resounded to the crack of hammers and the crash of falling masonry.

Rachad, wearing not the baron’s uniform but his own tunic and breeks, attached himself to Zhorga’s squad at first. But after an hour’s work he contrived to slip away, glancing behind him constantly to make sure his departure was not noticed, and set off across Kars, orienting himself by recollecting Matello’s map.

It was like a journey through a dream landscape. The city’s buff and orange stone was weathered, so that the ruins had a mild and rounded rather than a shattered appearance. He clambered over fallen columns and ascended heaps of rubble, but for the most part walked along what had been magnificent thoroughfares, many of them almost clear of detritus.

He became aware, too, that eyes were watching him from the surrounding ruins, though he caught only glimpses of the watchers as they darted from sight. He felt little fear of being molested; it was obvious that the people hereabouts feared the visitors from the stars.

At one place he came to a street used as a market or bartering place and lined with booths and stalls offering food, cooking utensils, coarse and ill-cut garments, ornaments, and so on. But both vendors and customers had departed.

At last he came to the building he had picked out as the Temple of Hermes Trismegistus. Set apart from the surrounding structures, it was still impressive even though derelict. The space around it was now partly filled with tumbled stone and masses of a creeper-like weed sporting innumerable scarlet flowers. Rachad paused before an almost intact portico. Over the entrance a large relief carving blazed forth, depicting the Worm Ouroborous, its body arced in the familiar perfect circle, its tail in its mouth. Reliefs also adorned the square flanking columns—on the left a caduceus, the health-giving Hermetic staff entwined by two snakes, on the right a two-headed Hermetic androgyne.