Burned—Jason, Son of Jason—a living sacrifice! The rites of the Phoenicians! The thought staggered me, revolted, as it lifted to mind the picture of Moloch—the brazen god into whose insensate arms children and babes and maidens were cast—and I recalled that, as well as Moloch, that savage divinity had been known as Bel, and marveled at the similarity of names. A tremor of horror shook me. And yet by a strange association of thought, as it seemed to me then, another thought was born. Bel—Moloch—flame. On impulse I named the thing to Croft, and waited, until:
"Zitu—God," he said, and then, "Man—it may be the answer, if there is nothing else. Now, I've got to let Zud and Jadgor and Lakkon know what has happened. And I've got to get a message off to Robur. He's Naia's cousin, as I've told you, and I love him like a brother. Will you go with me on my missions, or will you return to your body, as I must to mine?"
"If you don't mind," I decided, "I'd like to know all that happens, and I'll linger around until dawn."
He nodded. "I'll be glad to feel you with me, and as soon as I reach Himyra I'll manage to visit you again. Look into the thing you suggested, won't you?"
"Go on. Get about your business," I told him. "I'll have the information for you the next time we meet, if I can find a certain man."
The body beside which he had been sitting raised itself on the couch and swung its feet around. It rose. "You've got to find him, man," Jason's physical voice told me without making the least break in the conversation, as he began to dress. "You know, Murray, I can perceive you dimly even so, and I can get your thought waves, of course—just as Naia was able to do the same thing the night of Jason's birth—so if you have any more suggestions to offer in what occurs inside the next few hours, make them of course. I'm not exactly myself. My spirit is still hot within me, where presently I think now it is going to grow deadly cold."
He jerked the fastenings of his leg-casings into position and clasped the belt of a short sword about him. "Now, I'm going before Zud first."
He turned to a door that slid back before his touch into a recess in the massive wall. I followed him into a corridor, constructed top and floor and sides of huge blocks and slabs of stone, lighted at intervals by a lamp whose rays served to no more than partly dispel the night-shrouding gloom. Age—age—the age of the pyramids of Egypt. The thing impressed me. Countless generations had passed since mortal hands had set those walls in position, where Jason's sandals now clanked along the passage. And then he paused before another door, lifted his sword, and rapped with its hilt for admittance. From somewhere a night breeze sighed along the hall and stirred the plumes of azure on his helmet.
"Who calls on Zud?" a voice came muffled through the door.
"Jason, Mouthpiece of Zitu, man of Zitu," Croft replied.