Chapter VI: Man of Destiny

Tarrano! He rose slowly to his feet, his gaze on us for an instant, then turning to Argo.

“So! You took them? Well done, Argo!”

His gesture dismissed his subordinate; Argo backed from the room. From a disc, an announcer was detailing dispatches. Tarrano frowned slightly. He advanced to us as we three stood together. I had heard Elza give a low, surprised cry as we entered. She stood with a hand upon my arm. I could feel her trembling, but her face now was impassive.

Georg whispered to me: “This Tarrano----”

But our captor’s voice checked him. “Come this way, please.” He signalled, and three men came forward. To them he issued short commands; they took their places at the instrument tables. Then he led us from the room through an arch, over a small trestle, into a tiny inner courtyard. A tropical garden, surrounded by blank circular walls of the building. A patch of blue sky showed above it. A garden secluded from prying eyes, with only a single spider bridge crossing overhead. Vivid flowers and foliage made it a bower. Brown bark paths laced it; a tiny fountain splashed in the center.

Tarrano sat on the rim of the fountain; he gestured to a white stone bench where we three sat in a row, Elza between us. It made me feel like a child.

“Your father is dead.” He was addressing Elza; and then Georg. “That is unfortunate. He was a good man. I’m sorry.”

His voice was soft and musical. He sat there on the fountain rim, an elbow on his crossed knees, chin resting in his hand, his eyes studying us. A small, slight figure of a man, no more than thirty-five. Simply dressed; white trousers of the tropics, with a strip of narrow black down the leg-fronts; a girdle of gold; ruffled white shirt, with sleeves that flared a trifle, and a neck-piece of black. From his belt dangled a few instruments and several personal weapons--beautifully wrought, small--almost miniatures--yet deadly-looking for all that.

He was bareheaded; black hair closely clipped. A face smooth-shaven. Thin, with a nose hawk-like, and black eyes and heavy brows. His mouth was thin-lipped, though smiling now, disclosing even, white teeth. Yet a cruel mouth, with the firm jaw of determination and power under it. The familiar gray Venus skin, but with that bronze cast of the people of the Central State.

At first glance, not an unusual or particularly commanding figure. Yet the man’s power of personality, the sheer dominant force of him, radiated like a tower code-beam. No one could be in his presence an instant without feeling it. A power that enwrapped you; made you feel like a child. Helpless. Anxious to placate a possible wrath that would be devastating; anxious--absurdly--for a smile. It was a radiation of genius, humbling every mediocre mortal it touched.

I felt it--felt all this from the moment I came into his presence. Felt like a child, sitting there on that bench. Vaguely frightened; sullen, with childish resentment at my superior. And over it all, my man’s mentality made me angry at myself for such emotions; angry at the consciousness of my own inferiority, forced upon me now more strongly than ever anything or any one had made me feel it before.

Tarrano was smiling gently. “ ... killed your father. I would not have had it so. Yet--perhaps it was necessary. The Lady Elza----”

I could feel Elza trembling again. Georg burst out: “What do you want of us? Who are you?”

Tarrano’s slim gray-brown hand came up.

“The Lady Elza remembers me----” He seemed waiting with his gentle smile for her to speak.

“They called you Taro then,” she said. Her voice was the small, scared, diffident voice of a child.

“Yes. Taro. A mere sub-officer of the Central State. But destined for bigger things than that, as you see. They did not like what they called my ambitious ways--and so they sent me to the Cold Country. That was soon after I had met you and your father, Lady Elza. You hardly remarked me then--I was so insignificant a personage. But you--I remembered you----”

Still there was in his voice and on his face nothing but kindness and a queer whimsical look of reminiscence. He broke off at the buzz of a disc that hung from his belt by a golden chain. He jerked it loose from its snap, and to his ear clasped a small receiver. Like a mask his gentleness dropped from him. His voice rasped:

“Yes?...” The receiver murmured into his ear. He said: “Connect him--I’ll listen to what he has to say.”

A moment; then on the tiny mirror fastened to his wrist with a strap, I saw a face appear--a face known throughout our Earth--the face of the War-Director of Great London. Tarrano listened impassively. When the voice ceased, he said without an instant’s hesitation: “No!”

A decision irrevocable; the power almost of a deity seemed behind its finality. “No! I--will--not--do--it!” Careful, slow enunciation as though to make sure an inferior mentality could not mistake his words. And with a click, Tarrano broke connection. The mirror went dark; he hung his little disc and ear-piece back on his belt. Again he was smiling at us gently, the incident forgotten already--dismissed from his mind until the need to consider it should again arise.

“I remember you, Lady Elza, very well.” A vague wistfulness came into his voice. “I wish to speak with you alone--now--for a moment.” He touched two of the metal buttons of his shirt-front together. A man appeared in the narrow tunnel-entrance to the garden. A small man, no more than four and a half feet tall; a trim, but powerfully made little figure, in the black and white linen uniform worn also by Tarrano. Yet more pretentiously dressed than his superior. A broad belt of dangling weapons; under it, a sash of red, encircling his waist and flowing down one side. Over his white ruffled shirt, a short sleeveless vest of black silk. A circular hat, with a vivid plume. A smooth-shaven face; black hair long to the base of the neck; a deep, red-brown complexion. A native of the Little People of Mars, here in the service of Tarrano. He stood stiff and respectful in the tunnel entrance.

Tarrano said crisply: “Wolfgar, take these two men to the fourth tower. Make them comfortable.”

I met Georg’s eyes. Leave Elza here alone with this man? Georg burst out: “My sister goes with me!”

“So?” Tarrano’s heavy brows went up inquiringly. A quizzical smile plucked at his lips. “You need have no fear. The Lady Elza----” He swung to her. “Not--afraid, are you?”

“I--no,” she stammered.

“She’ll come with us,” I declared; but the stoutness of my words could not hide my fear. Tarrano was still smiling; but as I took a protecting step toward Elza, his smile died.

“You--will go--with Wolfgar--both of you.” That same slow finality. His face was impassive; but under his frowning bushy brows, his eyes transfixed me. It was as though with his paralyzing ray he had rooted me to the spot. And Georg beside me. Yet he had not moved from his careless attitude of ease on the fountain-rim; the little conical golden weapon dangled untouched at his belt.