CHAPTER VII
Gods of the Jungle
Red's hyperbole achieved at least one result. That of creating an immediate scramble for the ladder. Within a very few minutes all the party, including even the muttering Sheng-ti, had joined him on the platform before the circular openings he had mentioned. Of these there were approximately a dozen, spaced at irregular intervals around the chamber in which they now found themselves. Ramey, standing beside the girl Sheila, stared down upon a sight to stagger the wildest imagination.
He looked from an elevated vantage post out across a tremendous hall of Angkor Vat. But there was a subtle difference between this room and those which Dr. Aiken had shown him hours—or was it centuries—ago? At first Ramey could not name that change. Then, with a start, he realized what it was.
Everything looked newer, cleaner, brighter. The pillars supporting the high, vaulted roof were more sharply incised, the carving more clearly cut, undulled by the leveling file of age. Furthermore, not just a few, but all the murals, the carvings, the multifold bits of statuary were painted, not in dull, faded hues, but in gaudy color, freshly radiant!
These things were evidence enough that a change had been wrought in their lives. But if anyone needed more, the court below stirred with living proof. "Three billion" was a typical Barrett estimate, but there were, Ramey saw swiftly, easily three, perhaps four hundred people gathered in the altar room.
And what people! From every lurking corner of earth they must have sprung. Ramey gasped to identify representatives of every race, creed and color known to man. For the most part they were Asiatics, saffron of skin, oblique-eyed. But here stood a little group of gigantic Nubians, ebony-hued and strong, draped in jewel-encrusted girdles of samite; over there gathered a band two-score strong of golden-haired, pale-fleshed warriors, fur-garbed and armed with gleaming halberds; elsewhere, anxiously whispering amongst themselves, huddled a knot of dark-haired, hawk-nosed captains with rich beards that curled to their breasts!
Dr. Aiken whispered hoarsely, "Then—then it is true! We have traversed Time! Come back to the period of Angkor's glory. For, see? Syd, those bearded men—"
"Assyrians," acknowledged Syd O'Brien, "or I'm stark, staring mad. But—but that means, Doctor, Angkor is centuries older than we thought. Their era was around 2500 B.C."
Red Barrett gulped, "You mean that there bellywash you was talking a little while ago is true? We actually have come back through Time? I don't believe it!"
"I know just how you feel," assented Lake O'Brien. "I hate to admit it myself. It makes me feel like a candidate for the padded-cell brigade. But you've got eyes, Barrett. There's the proof before you. How else can you explain it?"
"I can't," snorted Barrett stubbornly, "and I ain't going to try to. This is a dream, that's what. A dream or a hally-soosynation. For all I know, maybe I got conked in the fight, and I'm delirial. Yeah—that's what it is! I'm off my button and seeing things. I don't believe none of this. You hear me—?" He swung suddenly to the peephole, raised his voice in a roar. "I don't believe in you! Get it? You guys are spooks, dreams, nightmares! Go 'way! And—Oh, my golly! Ramey!"
HIS words ended in an agonized howl. For his shout had brought an unexpected result. Real or unreal, the "hallucinations" thronging the hall below had an auditory sense. At Red's bellow, all murmurs, all motion, suddenly stopped—and every eye turned upward toward the source of those cries. Now something like a shudder coursed through the assemblage. Voices rose shrilly, a dozen figures raced bleating from the room ... and to the last man, those left behind fell to their knees in attitudes of abject worship!
Ramey turned in confusion to the girl beside him.
"Now what?" he demanded helplessly.
"I think I know!" said Sheila. "This chamber we're in is the interior of one of their idols. These peepholes must be the eyes in the image. Or perhaps they are just concealed in the carving. Look underneath this opening. See that funnel-shaped pipe? That's a speaking-tube, magnifying the voice. No wonder they're excited. When Red shouted, it must have seemed their god was bellowing orders to them."
"That's it!" agreed Lake. "That was a fairly common trick of ancient priesthoods. Hollow gods from which they could spy on their followers, deliver oracular utterances. Hand me that torch, Syd. I'm going down again and look for a doorway out of this image. There must be one."
He ducked below. As he did so, there came a second concerted moan from the throng. This time Ramey guessed the reason. The flickering of the torch across the viewholes must have seemed to the watchers like the glint of life winking in their idol's eyes.
Then there rose a commotion from the far end of the hall, the babble of excited voices, and Ramey understood where had gone those who had fled the temple. To fetch someone in authority. For now there sounded the dry scrape of marching feet, the clank of metal upon metal, and into the altar room tramped a company of—
"Holy potatoes!" exclaimed Red awefully. "Giants!"
For giants indeed the newcomers were. An armed band of men, the shortest of whom towered a full head and shoulders above any other man in the hall. Ramey was six foot two. Red and the O'Brien brothers each also topped the six foot mark. But Ramey knew that all of them would appear as striplings if ranged beside this file of yeomanry. Six nine seemed a fair guess as to their average height, and he who marched at their head, a raven-haired, amber-skinned mountain of a man in the rich trappings of rank, assuredly topped the seven foot mark!
A mutter passed through the crowd as he entered, and Ramey, whose eye was trained to note the psychological reactions of men, thought he could detect in the attitude of those gathered a poorly veiled hostility, a resentment and will to rebellion held in check only by fear.
Then the newcomer spoke, his voice harsh, imperious, demanding. The natives answered, pointing fearfully at the idol housing Ramey and his companions. The giant captain's brow darkened, his eyes flashed scornful fire, and once more he raised his voice. Ramey turned to Dr. Aiken eagerly.
"What's he saying, Doc? Can you—?"
"No. It's no language I know. It sounds slightly like Sanskrit, but the syllablation and intonation are oddly different."
And then, surprisingly, Sheng-ti spoke beside them.
"Aie, doom!" he moaned softly. "Lo, the day of our judgment is at hand. For the gods walk again and speak their ancient tongues!"
Sheila gripped the old priest's arm tightly.
"Sheng-ti—you understand? Translate for us!"
"They speak of mysteries too holy for humble ears," groaned the priest. "They tell the Mighty One the idol has spoken. He laughs and says it is untrue. But they insist. Now he mocks them, calls them fearful fools."
Red Barrett snorted.
"Oh! A wise guy, huh? A know-it-all? Well, watch me take him down a peg!" And again his lips found the tube. His voice rolled in a hollow roar. "Tally-ho, smart-aleck! Brooklyn-dodgers ... officeofproductionmanagement ... gadzooks.... How do you like them apples?" He fell away from the opening, chuckling, as the giant's blanched face whirled toward the idol. "Guess that'll hold His Nibs for a while! What's he saying now, Sheng-ti?"
The bonze listened intently as again the saffron-hued commander spoke. But Red's gag had backfired. For—
"The Great One admits," relayed Sheng-ti, "that the idol did speak. Now he is affrighted lest the god may have been offended. He would make atonement. Lo, he bids his warriors seize a virgin, and bear her to the altar."
At their leader's command, two of the giant yoemen had thrust forward into the throng, striking with the flat of their swords any who would hinder them. Now they tore from the arms of an aged man a young, white-skinned girl, and bore her, struggling and screaming, to the dais beneath Ramey.
And:
"Ramey!" cried Sheila in sudden horror. "We've got to stop them! They're going to sacrifice her—to us!"
Red Barrett gasped, "Omi-gawd!" in a stricken voice, and spun to Ramey. "Why can't I learn to keep my big feeder shut? What—what'll we do, Ramey?"
The solution came from below, where Lake O'Brien's voice suddenly raised in a shout. "Found it, gang! I knew there'd be a door somewhere. Well, you Jonahs—any of you want out of this whale's belly?"
Ramey cried, "Come on, Red!" and flung himself down the ladder. Then, as the trio stood before the portal Lake had discovered, a sudden idea struck him. "Wait a minute! This is our chance to make an imprint on the natives!" He craned his neck, shouted to those still above. "Sheila, tell Sheng-ti to forbid the sacrifice! Tell him to say that the children of the god come forth to claim their victim."
The priest's words boomed above them, prefacing their entrance into this strange world. And—it was a great success. As the door swung open, and Ramey and his fellows burst forward onto a raised dais, it was to find all action abruptly frozen. The slave girl, her simple toga-like garment torn and disarranged, her wealth of red-chestnut hair, loosed by the violence of her efforts to escape, cascading to her waist, stood motionless in the grasp of two stricken fighting-men. Elsewhere a silence born of terror gripped the room. An awed paralysis which was shattered by the terrified screams of a hundred throats as the adventurers appeared.
It was, Ramey could not help thinking with a sort of detached amusement, a most dramatic entrance. A super-extra, whipper-dipper of an entrance. Like all men with a sense of humor, he had an instinct for showmanship. Striding forward he realized with a little shock that throughout the excitement of the past half hour he had continued to clench in his left hand the object over which he had stumbled in the time-traveling cabinet. What it was, he did not know. But it might mean something to his audience. So as he stepped forward he lifted it proudly, melodramatically, above his head.
The reaction was swifter and more astonishing than he had hoped for. A concerted gasp swept through the crowd. The two giant guards released their captive and tumbled to their knees, and a great cry shook the temple. Ramey's eyebrows lifted; he tossed a swift query over his shoulder. "I struck pay dirt that time! What are they saying, Sheila?"
And apparently from the lips of the idol—for Ramey saw now that it was a gigantic, hideously leering statue in which they had hidden—came the answer.
"They're hailing you as a god, Ramey! And they are crying out in fear because that thing you're carrying is the Bow of—of Rudra!"
Now the slave girl, whimpering prayerful entreaties, slipped from the two who held her and threw herself at Ramey Winters' feet. It was swell stuff. Very godlike, flattering stuff. But also very embarrassing. Ramey touched the girl's shoulder, disturbed to find that she was trembling violently, gently lifted her and turned to Barrett.
"Take care of her, Red. Maybe these overstuffed guys will try to make another pass at her."
Red grinned from ear to ear. "Who, me? Oh, boy—did I say no? Come here, sugar!" He took the girl into the shelter of his arm. She didn't seem to mind it a bit.
Then from the back of the hall moved the majestically dark-visaged one who had commanded the sacrifice. He walked erect and proud, as befitted a noble, but his eyes were cautiously humble. Though he towered a full head above Winters, his attitude was respectful. To the edge of the dais he approached, stopped there and addressed the quartet. This time Sheila forwarded Sheng-ti's translation without prompting.
"He is Ravana, Ramey. Lord of Lanka, and appointed Overseer of—of something. Sheng-ti doesn't understand all he says. He bows before you and begs acceptance of the sacrifice he offered."
Ramey said grimly, "Tell him that for two cents I'd yank off his leg and stuff it down his throat. I don't like this sacrifice stuff." He motioned to Lake and Red. "Let's get back into the idol. We've saved the redhead, here. Now we'd better save ourselves. Hop back into the time-machine and go back where we came from—"
From above came the voice of Dr. Aiken, alarmed and piteously eager.
"Oh, no, Winters! Not yet! Not quite yet! We can return to our own time later. But this is the opportunity of a lifetime! We can't leave until we've learned more about this magnificent culture ... this period! Besides—in our own era, the Japs are still hunting for us. We must allow several hours to pass before we return."
Ramey sought his companions' eyes. Lake grinned and nodded. Red tightened his arm about the shoulders of his new and welcome responsibility. "Okay with me, chum. I'm just beginning to enjoy this Cooks' Tour." Ramey surrendered reluctantly.
"All right, then. Come on down. But before you do, better tell this guy to take us to the Kingfish around here."
Words rolled from the idol's motionless lips, and the giant chieftain nodded obeisance. And a few minutes later, the remainder of the time-traveling group spilled from their refuge within the statue.
It Was all strange terrain to Ramey, the way through which the amber-skinned Ravana led them, but their course was apparently familiar enough to Dr. Aiken and his assistants.
Across an open court, up a long staircase, and into the most central of the ziggurats which comprised Angkor Vat. Lake O'Brien said excitedly, "By golly, Sheila, your guess was right! You said this building was the Big Shot's council hall—remember? And Syd and I thought—Well, I'll be jiggered!" His voice choked to a hollow whisper. "Golly, look! The—the carvings come to life! Apes! Warrior apes!"
For standing before the door of the chamber they approached, garbed in the trappings of men, casqued and helmed sandaled and bucklered, gripping their bronze-tipped spears in altogether humanoid fashion, stood two huge apes who snapped their arms to attention as the group neared!
But even this marvel paled into insignificance in a moment. For now the great, carven doors of the council chamber swung open, exposing a throne-room of inconceivable grandeur. Ramey's first staggered gaze described trappings of fabulous wealth. Gold and ivory, teak and silver, ebony and the sparking luster of priceless gems. These things he saw and noted subconsciously. But at the moment they roused no wonder in him for there was—something else! A presence in the room that utterly robbed him of his breath.
A man, seated on the golden throne. A man of Ramey's own height. An older man, gray of hair and lined of visage, now leaning forward curiously to greet them. A grave, quiet, kindly man, in all respects like the millions of humans living on the earth of Ramey's era. But for one thing. The flesh of this ruler was—hyacinthine blue!