The Negro stood through it all, back against the door, holding it open, silently waiting for the outcome that had to be the death of one or both men. The stunning waves of traumatic hypnosis held Brent and Taylor in a dazzling, relentless hold which would not loosen until the Negro opened his eyes.
The barren little cell permitted no escape. No headway. No room in which to maneuver to advantage. Like the suicidal duels of ancient times, both combatants were committed to a battle from which neither could possibly emerge unscathed or unmarked. Blood would tell.
It was falling now, spurting from cuts and slices and minor wounds which only served to make Brent and Taylor go at each other all the stronger with their lunging, stabbing thrusts. The Negro maintained his position.
And the outcome drew nearer.
Inevitable, like something preordained.
The fight was now at its sharpest pitch.
There was about it that ferocity that lent it an animal quality. Except that it was easier to kill with a knife than to rend and tear a man to bloody fragments.
Brent moved like a ferret, hacking out at the bigger man.
He made a score. Blood spurted from Taylor’s side as the knife bit in and pulled out again.
Taylor roared from deep in his chest, bounded forward, and Brent found himself face to face with finality. Now the death dance began, with the two of them reeling around the narrow white cell, knives going for each other’s bared throats; then hand to hand, each holding onto the enemy knife aimed now at his own heart.
And then there was an interruption.
Nova materialized in the door behind the Negro.
She saw Taylor, saw the fight. The shock and the joy combined in one mammoth surge of emotion that needed some outlet, some vent through which to escape. Some avenue along which to meet the world.
The miracle occurred.
Nova’s neck muscles arched, her lips parted and she spoke.
The name.
The magic word.
“Tay-lor . . .”
The word was tinny, faint, a faraway sound but as crystal-clear in quality as the first word spoken by a schooled deaf child. As can happen with a mute who is not necessarily deaf, the girl had managed the very first word of her life.
And Taylor heard her.
And Brent heard her.
And, fatally for him, the Negro also heard her. He made the mistake of opening his eyes.
Brent sobbed, the magical change sweeping over his brain.
“His eyes are open.”
Taylor staggered back, equally freed of the mental lock. Brent jumped forward, knife upraised, and plunged the point of the blade into the Negro’s heart. The white-robed figure threshed against the door, then lurched forward into the cell. Brent watched, panting. The knife protruded from the reddening folds of the white robe. The Negro plucked at it ineffectually, his hands pawing feebly. Away from the door, his weight free of it, the barrier swung shut with a slam. There was no handle on the inner side of the cell. Brent was too late to catch the door before it closed. There was the click of an automatic lock.
Eyes glazed, the Negro blurted, “Unto God . . . I reveal . . .” His bloodstained hands tore at the rubberized mask of his features, “my Inmost S-s-s-se . . .”
He fell flat on his face before he could complete the gesture. Taylor, bathed in sweat, crouched over his prostrate body, his eyes almost insane. Brent suddenly retched; a ratchety cough of pain. Taylor went to him, seeing the widening stain of blood from a place in Brent’s shoulder where his own knife had drawn blood. Nova had come forward to assist him, both of them trying to stanch the flow of red from Brent’s wound. It was an awesome slice across the deltoid. Taylor quickly cut strips from the dead Negro’s white robe to fashion a crude but serviceable bandage. Brent winced painfully. Taylor worked fast, conscious of Nova hovering at his side. The girl was smiling despite everything.
“You talked,” Taylor said simply, kissing her gently. “And we’re alive.”
She looked up at him, pleased at his evident pleasure. Then he kissed her again. A prolonged kiss. Brent smiled, but in the sudden silence he could hear a soft but steady rush of sound. Like—air! Coming from—Brent’s eyes searched the room rapidly—there was a six-inch impenetrably grilled vent in the wall behind Taylor, just above his head. Taylor broke from the kiss.
“It’s no use,” he told Brent, quick to the direction of his gaze. “I’ve tried. We’re near a main air-conditioning vent.”
“It’s cold,” Brent said.
Taylor eyed the inert body of the Negro with distaste.
“Just as well.” His nose wrinkled. “We may have to wait, and I’m allergic to the stink of death. Now, talk some more, Brent. And make it quick.”
Brent fingered his bandage, fighting the pain.
“They have an atom bomb.”
Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “Operational?”
“Yes. And they intend to use it.”
“What type is it?”
“That’s just it—I don’t know. It belongs to a series I’ve never seen before. Maybe because I don’t have top clearance as yet.” This last was almost rueful.
“I do,” Taylor said grimly.
“Or did,” Brent tried a small joke. Gallows humor. “Two thousand years ago.”
Taylor wasn’t listening.
“Did you see a series number?”
“Yes—on one of the fins. Except there were no numbers. Just two Greek letters. Alpha, omega”
Taylor’s face tightened into a mask of inner pain. “May God help us,” he said in a low voice.
Brent started. “What is it? What does it mean?”
“Doomsday Bomb,” Taylor said. “Cobalt casing. The last we ever made. Only one. One was enough. The idea was to threaten the enemy by the very fact that it existed. A bomb so powerful it could destroy—not just a city—not just a nation—no, not just every living cell on earth, every insect, every blade of grass—but set nuclear fire to the wind, to the air itself. Scorch the whole planet into a cinder! Like the end of a burnt match. The ultimate bomb—” His voice trailed off into a whisper.
Nova, always responsive to his moods, huddled closer to him.
Brent had forgotten all about the throbbing discomfort of his damaged shoulder.
The baffled guard who had allowed Nova to elude him was still searching for her. Without any success. He had not entered the catacomb complex but had returned to the Corridor of Busts to make a fresh start on his hunt. He was startled to see someone in the renowned corridor. Somebody wise and all-powerful.
Mendez in his purple robes was kneeling before the stoic bust of MENDEZ I. He was silent and immobile. As if his entire being was as one with his legendary ancestor.
Mendez seemed to commune with the inanimate bust.
The guard withdrew very carefully, anxious not to make a whisper of sound. He stole up the long corridor like a wraith.
The posture of the leader disturbed the guard.
Was something wrong that Mendez had to take this time to pray on the eve of a great conflict?
But the guard removed the thought from his already worried mind. There was still the girl to find . . .
Angrily, impatiently, the guard moved down the corridor past the closed doors of the Inquisition Room.
Nothing stirred.
Not even the kneeling figure of Mendez behind him, beyond the turn of the passageway.
12.
DR. ZAIUS
The Grand Army of the Apes had achieved the frontier zone of the designated area. Now, as the hot sun beat down in a cobalt-blue sky, General Ursus initiated the opening steps of the invasion. Beyond the burning rim of the horizon, the skyline of buried New York steepled eerily. Silhouetted and somber. From his horse, with Zaius at his side, Ursus’ medals shone in the sunlight. He raised a glittering sword.