BLACK PRIESTESS OF VARDA
By ERIK FENNEL
She was well-named—Sin, foul witch and raving
beauty, Beloved of Sasso, the Dark Power striving
to capture, with her help, a lovely little world.
Their only fear was a whispered legend—Elvedon,
the Savior.... But this crippled idiot blundering
through a shower of sparks into their time
and space—he could not be Elvedon!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The pen moved clumsily in Eldon Carmichael's right hand. He had beenleft-handed, and the note itself was not easy to write.
Dear Margaret, he scratched. I understand ...
When after a while the proper words still would not come he crossed theshadowed laboratory and took another long swig from the flat bottle inhis topcoat pocket. He understood—he remembered his first one-eyedlook in a mirror after the bandages were removed—but still he feltresentful and deeply sorry for himself.
He went back and tried to continue the letter but his thoughts veerederratically. The injury had been psychological as well as physical,involving loss of ability to face up to unpleasant facts, but still hecould not force aside those memories.
There had been only a glimpse as the wrench slipped from VictorSchenley's hand and fell between the sprocket and drive chain of thebig new compressor in the Institute's basement. He wondered. That lookon Schenley's darkly saturnine face could have been merely imagination.Or horror. But there was something about the man.... Still Eldondiscounted his suspicions as the unworthy inventions of a disturbedmind.
Only the quick reflexes that had once made him a better than averagehalfback had saved him from instant death as the jagged end of theheavy sprocket chain lashed out with the speed of an enraged cobra. Andoften during the pain-wracked weeks that followed he had almost wishedhe had been a little slower.
The ring sparkled tauntingly under his desk lamp. Margaret had returnedit by mail, and though the wording of her note had been restrained itstone had been final.
He picked up the pen again and moved the stub of his left arm,amputated just above the elbow, to hold the paper in place. But he hadforgotten again how light and unmanageable the stump was. The paperskidded and the pen left a long black streak and a blot.
Eldon made a choked sound that was partly a shout of anger and partly awhimper of frustration. He crumpled the note, hurled the pen clumsilytoward the far wall, and buried his disfigured face in the curve of hissingle arm. His body shook with sobs of self-pity.
There was only an inch or so left in the bottle. He finished it in asingle gulp and for a moment stood hesitantly. Then he switched onthe brilliant overhead lights. Liquor could not banish his tormentingthoughts, but perhaps work might. His letter to Margaret would have towait.
His equipment was just as he had left it that night so many months agowhen Victor Schenley had called him to see the new compressor. Thesetup was almost complete for another experiment with the resonanceof bound charges. Bound charges were queer things, he reflected, aneglected field of investigation. They were classed as electricalphenomena more for convenience than accuracy. Eldon's completedexperiments indicated they might be—something else. They disobeyedtoo many of the generally accepted e