The drone of the great pressure-ray generators dropped in key as the cruiser swung in around an Earth-sized planet that was one of a dozen worlds circling this monster star.
And this was Throon. This world of green continents and silver seas spinning in opalescent white sunshine was the heart and brain of the Empire that stretched half across the galaxy.
“We'll dock at Throon City, of course,” Hull Burrel was saying. “Commander Corbulo, has stereoed me to bring you to Arn Abbas at once.”
Again, Gordon tensed. “I will be glad to see my father,” he ventured.
His father? A man he had never seen, a ruler who governed the titan expanse of suns and worlds behind him, and who was parent of the man in whose physical body Gordon now lived?
Again, Zarth Arn's remembered warning steadied Gordon. Tell no one the truth-no one! Brazen through this incredible imposture somehow, and get back to Earth for the re-exchange as soon as he could – The silvery seas and green continents of Throon rushed up toward the Caris as the warship made planet-fall with massive disregard of preliminary deceleration.
Gordon caught his breath as he looked down. From the edge of a silver ocean rose a lofty range of mountains that flashed and glittered as though of glass. They were of glass, he saw a moment later, a towering range formed by extrusion of vast masses of molten silicates from the planet.
And perched on a plateau of these Glass Mountains high above the sea was a fairy, unreal city. Its graceful domes and towers were like bubbles of colored glass themselves. Pinnacles and terraces took the light of Canopus and flashed it back in a glory of quivering effulgence. Throon City, this-the core and capital of the Empire.
The big cruiser sank toward a huge spaceport just north of the fairy city. In its sunken docks and quays brooded scores, hundreds, of the Empire's star roving warships. Massive, thousand-foot long battleships, heavy cruisers, fast destroyers and slim phantom-cruisers and ponderous, tub-shaped monitors with huge guns-all these craft wore the shining comet-emblem of the Mid-Galactic Empire.
Gordon stepped out of the Caris with Hull Burrel and the respectful officers, into sunlight so weirdly white and beautiful that not even the urgency of his situation prevented him looking about in increased wonder.
The brooding bulks of the great battleships loomed up in the docks all around him, their batteries of grim atom-guns silhouetted against the sky. In the distance rose the incredible, shimmering domes and spires of the city.
Hull Burrel's puzzled voice jerked Gordon from his petrification, recalling him to the necessities of the present.
“The car is waiting for us in the tubeway, highness,” reminded the Antarian captain.
“Of course,” Gordon said hastily, forcing himself to move.
He had to watch the trend of Hull Burrel's direction, so as not to go astray. They made their way between the looming ships, past great mobile cranes, respectfully saluting officers, uniformed men standing at rigid attention.
Every minute John Gordon felt more strongly the hopelessness of what he had set out to do. How could he maintain his impersonation, when everything here was so stunningly new and strange? “Disaster for both of us if you tell!” That warning of Zarth Arn-the real Zarth Arn-rang through his mind again with a chilling, steadying effect.
“Bull it through!” he told himself. “They can't dream that you're not the prince, no matter what mistakes you make. Watch every moment-”
They reached the opening of a lighted stair that led down beneath the tarmac of the spaceport. Below were round metal tunnels branching off into the darkness. A cylindrical metal car waited.
No sooner had Gordon and Hull Burrel taken their places in its pneumatic-slung chairs, than the car started moving with great speed. Its velocity was so great that to Gordon it seemed barely five minutes before they stopped.
They stepped out into a similar lighted, underground vestibule. But here uniformed guards with slim, rifle like atom-guns were on duty. They saluted with the weapons to Gordon.
A young officer, saluting likewise, informed Gordon, “Throon rejoices at your return, highness.”
“There's no time now for civilities,” Hull Burrel broke in impatiently.
Gordon walked with the Antarian captain to an open doorway beyond which lay a corridor with alabaster walls.
The floor of the corridor began to move smoothly as they stepped onto it, almost startling Gordon into an exclamation. As it bore them forward and up long, winding ramps, Gordon numbly comprehended that they were already in the lower levels of Arn Abbas' palace.
The very nerve-center of the vast star-empire whose rule swayed suns and worlds across thousands of light-years. He couldn't yet fully grasp and realize it or the coming ordeal.
The moving walk swept them into an antechamber in which another file of guards saluted and stood apart from high bronze doors. Hull Burrel stood back as Gordon went through into the room beyond.
It was a small room wholly without magnificence. Around its walls were many telestereo instruments, and there was a curious low desk with a panel of grids and screens on its face.
Behind the desk a man sat in a metal chair, with two other men standing beside him. All three looked at Gordon as he approached. His heart hammered violently.
The man in the chair was a giant, dominating figure in dull-gold garments. His massive, powerful face, bleak gray eyes and thick black hair graying at the temples gave a leonine impression.
Gordon recognized him as Arn Abbas, ruler of the Empire, Zarth's father. No, his father! He had to keep thinking of it that way.
The younger of the two standing men was like Arn Abbas himself, thirty years younger-tall and stalwart but with more friendliness in his face. That would be Jhal Arn, his elder brother, he guessed.
And the third man, grizzled, stocky, square-faced, wearing the uniform of the Empire navy but with golden bars of rank thick on his sleeve-this must be Chan Corbulo, the Commander of the space fleet.
Gordon, his throat tight with tension, stopped in front of the seated man. He nerved himself against those bleak eyes, knowing that he had to speak.
“Father-” he began tightly. Instantly, he was interrupted.
Arn Abbas, glaring at him, uttered an exclamation of wrath.
“Don't call me father! You're not my son!”
Chapter V. Weird Masquerade
GORDON felt a staggering shock.
Could Arn Abbas suspect the weird impersonation he was carrying on?
But the next words of the giant ruler a little reassured Gordon, even though they were furious in tone.
“No son of mine would go straying off to the edge of the Empire to play scientific hermit for months, when I need him here. Your cursed science studies have made you utterly forget your duty.”
Gordon breathed a little more easily. “Duty, father?” he repeated.
“Duty to me and to the Empire!” roared Arn Abbas. “You know that I need you here. You know the game that's being played across the galaxy, and what it means to all our starworlds.”
His big fist pounded his knee. “And see what burying yourself there on Earth nearly brought about. Shorr Kan nearly scooped you up. You know what that would mean?”
“Yes, I know,” Gordon nodded. “If Shorr Kan had got hold of me, he could use me as a hostage against you.”
Next moment, he realized that he had blundered. Arn Abbas glared at him, and Jhal Arn and Corbulo looked surprised.
“What in the name of all the stardevils are you talking about?” demanded the emperor. “You should know as well as I why Shorr Kan wanted his hands on you. To get the secret of the Disruptor, of course!”