One by one, the other great apes in his camp returned, each boasting of his fearless exploits, and the stories, although wildly exaggerated, were uniformly favorable. Yes, the others of the forest would cooperate, Yes, they would help seek Tarzan and his mate; yes, they would walk warily, seeking but avoiding the new "G.o.d= whatever he or it might be, the beast that smelled of death and decay. Finally, Pintat, youngest of all the great apes - and possibly the most fearless, having known little danger - rode up to the very edge of the clearing high on the neck of mighty Tantor, the elephant. There was a general scramble to get out from underfoot as Tantor trumpeted his greetings, and it was some moments before Nendat could bring order out of the chaos.

Finally, he had his tribe a.s.sembled, a grinning, chattering Pintat clinging closely to Tantor's mighty brow.

"We go as a group," he instructed. There is no other way. If we meet the new, strange creature, we attack as a group." He beat upon his chest, emanating a confidence he did not really feel. "No one, nothing, can stand against our might. We go. Now. This minute." He strutted about in the dust, much to the admiration of his mate and the young of the tribe.

With a fine last cry of open-mouthed defiance to both the new and old G.o.ds of the forest, capering awkwardly, Nendat, king of the great apes, led his small but formidable band off into the trackless paths of the jungle. They headed in the general direction of Opar - and the Silver Globe.

Mighty Tantor, the elephant, carrying the youngest and most fearless of the apes upon his back, lifted his trunk in a salute and trumpeted mightily. Who is to say whether the cry of Tantor was of admiration or derision? Nendat looked back over his shoulder with a certain amount of speculation along these very lines, but chose to believe that Tantor was impressed and awed. There were many miles to go to reach their rather indefinite destination, and Nendat found that he had his work cut out for him, trying to keep the tribe in some semblance of a disciplined advance.

Some stopped here and there to sample a tropical fruit. Others sought under mouldering bark for a succulent grub, still others wearied of the trip or, indeed, forgot what was afoot and had to be prodded along the trail, complaining. Still, it was a triumphal march, joined, here and there, under a cloud of mutual distrust, brother savage denizens of the jungle. A white hunter could have bagged his limit of the larger game within minutes of coming upon the increasing mainstream of this unlikely exodus - although he'd never have lived to get away!

Never before had the forest seen such strange comrades-at-arms, and it was unlikely that the sight would ever be witnessed again!

Chapter VII.

"The Death of an Immortal"

GLAMO gave little or no thought to Tarzan. The tail-less white man presented no particular problem; he could not escape. Either the Atlanteans would discover him and bring him down by sheer force of numbers, or else he might stumble upon a Follower, and that would be that. However it happened, Tarzan had no future to speak of, Glamo thought with a small, contemptuous Smile. The cold Laws of Probability, governing every action of the true Venusian, counted Tarzan as a negative factor and a minor annoyance, scarcely worth noting, and Glamo logically closed his mind to any thoughts of the savage figure.

Meanwhile, the ape-man had regained consciousness. Weakened by his head wound, he nevertheless, with animal cunning, sought sanctuary out of the sacrificial chamber, and entered a corridor leading off the scene of his near death. Had it not been for his condition, he would have known at once where the pa.s.sage led. Instead, he followed it cautiously and slowly, encouraged, finally, by the glow of daylight ahead. He emerged carefully, into the ruined city of Opar. Ruined minarets still shone of gold, but the city itself was obviously dead. Puzzled, Tarzan tried to sort out his thoughts. Had he been here before? It seemed certain that he had, yet he was unable to identify any of the buildings. The absence of any population puzzled him, as well.

He roamed through what could only be called the rubble of the city streets, ever aware, increasingly, of a strange glow that drew him closer to he knew not what. It was the Silver Globe. When he finally saw it, he didn't I believe his eyes. How tall was it? What he could see, and he suspected he was only seeing a small part, loomed above him enormously. It was mammoth, majestic, awe-inspiring. Certainly the jungle had never seen anything like it before. It sat on a sort of plain, just behind the I city, but it didn't just sit there, it dominated the landscape.

The ape-man crouched behind a concealing rock, watching with hawk-like eyes. Was there something moving over there, on the side of the Silver Globe? Yes. Yes! A door was opening. He tensed, crouching, ready for he knew not what.

Tarzan stared in wonderment as a creature emerged from what was obviously an air-tight compartment. Seconds before, there'd been no apparent crevice; yet, suddenly, a door had opened where no door had a right to be!

From it emerged a horrible, slimy, eight-legged creature, carrying a she of the tribe of Tarzan. The Lord of the Jungle took only a second to compare his white skin with hers, then charged, giving a horrible challenge of the bull apes! In his dazed state, Tarzan did not recognize his mate, he looked only at the creature. It was something he'd never seen before. Octopoid, with eyes in the tip of each limb, and what seemed to be poisonous fangs embedded just below the eyes in each tentacle!

Drawing his knife, the ape-man charged the horrendous creature, striving to chop off the ends of the mighty tentacles. The Follower held Jane high above its humped, carapaced body as Tarzan darted in for the kill Glamo saw none of this. Indeed, he'd have probably convulsed with laughter had he seen Tarzan charging the immortal, the unkillable, for in more than two thousand years of Venusian history, no Follower had been slain. How to slay such a creature, with no central brain? Each tentacle a segment of intelligence! Each tentacle held vision and a fang that could' render the victim either unconscious or dead, depending upon the amount of venom released into the bloodstream!

Nevertheless, Tarzan charged, knife out. Swiftly he I severed a poised tentacle, which writhed after its severance. Jane still was held in the air. Tarzan struck again and again, and then two of the mighty arms grasped him, and he felt the agony of the sucking arms as they closed about him tightly.

Roaring his rage, the ape-man sliced and severed again, ridding himself of first one, then the other mighty, seeking arm. Blisters rose upon his body, but he paid them no heed, lost in a jungle savagery that would brook no obstacles. It was kill or be killed, and Tarzan was killing!

The tentacle holding Jane on high wavered, then sank to the earth. Tarzan continued to slice with his knife. He had finally worked out the rather peculiar physical limitations of this creature.

He was struck, not once, but several times, by the poisonous fangs of the Follower, but so great was his rage that he could scarcely feel instead, he fought to the death, and finally left the eight-limbed monster a quivering ma.s.s of muscle and poison. He placed his foot upon the still-moving carca.s.s, and gave the victory cry of the bull-ape. It echoed through the silver-lined pa.s.sageways.

Glamo, half-hearing, frowned. All was not going well. He thought shrewdly, called Marda, also known as "La." She answered at once, fearful of his wrath.

"Yes?"

"The White Savage has escaped my clutches, as well as yours. He has just destroyed a Follower, which is impossible. Can you bring him here, to me?"

It was more of an order than a question.

"Yes. He lacks memory. His mate?"

Glamo laughed, curtly. "Unconscious, and she will remain so for a trip of the sun about this shriveled glow. You will bring him to me?"

"Yes. When do we leave? For home? "

"Soon."

"Only-soon."

Glamo idly regarded a fingernail. "You don't really expect me to leave such a mess behind, do you? It's part of your doing. Help clean it up. I'll expect the white ape soon. As soon as you can deliver him. It shouldn't be much of a problem, with your seductive body."

"I'll bring him."

Glamo sighed. "Of course you will. There's a choice?" He turned to admit the scurrying little green creatures who called themselves the survivors of Atlantis. They brought Jane Clayton to his chambers. He nodded his approval to them as they deposited her tender body before him, waiting impa.s.sively until they had fled, then turned his fierce, cold eyes upon her, feasting on her, loveliness. A shame that such creatures had tiny lifespans, but there it ,was. With interest but no pity, he noted the sucker-marks on her smooth thighs, her back, her bosom. He allowed his brow to furrow in disapproval, Perhaps the Follower was better off dead. Certainly the creature had overdone what was needful.

Tarzan, exhausted from his head wound, and from his triumphant battle with the Follower, fell almost weary unto death upon the flagstones of the Oparian street, still smelling the awful stench and effluvium given off by the mortally wounded Follower He was aware of chattering little gnarled men picking him up and carrying him somewhere, but just where he didn't know, nor did he care, so great was his weariness.

How long he was unconscious, he did not know, nor greatly care. When he opened his eyes with an effort, he was in some sort of room, comfortably lying on a pile of soft furs. Leaning over him was a beautiful woman whom he did not recognize in his weakness and confusion.

"Tarzan! she exclaimed, and then, in the vernacular of the great apes which constant a.s.sociation with the anthropoids had rendered the common language of the Oparians: "You have come back to me! La has ignored the mandates of her religion, waiting, always waiting for Tarzan - for her Tarzan. She has taken no mate, for in all the world there was but one with whom La would mate. And now you have come back! Tell me, O Tarzan, that it is for me you have returned!"

The Englishman answered in a language identical with hers.

"Tarzan," he repeated, musingly. "Tarzan. The name sounds familiar."

"It is your name - you are Tarzan," cried La.

"I am Tarzan?" The ape-man shrugged. "Well, it is a good name. I know no other so I will keep it; but I do not know you. I did not come hither for you. Why I came, I do not know at all; neither do I know from whence I came. Can you tell me?"

La shook her head. "I never knew," she replied.

Tarzan, without apparently realizing it, spoke the same question, but this time not in the language of the great apes. This time, in French, seemingly without realizing the transition.

"I don't understand," La replied.

Tarzan grunted. "Why," he said, again in the language of the great apes, "why would you have killed me there on the altar? Are you hungry?"

La cried out in disgust.

"Then why should you have desired to kill me!"

La raised a slender arm, pointing toward the sun.

Tarzan looked puzzled. After all, he was again an ape, and apes do not understand such things as souls, sacrifices, flaming G.o.ds. He gathered himself to his feet. "I go now." He reflected a moment. "This is no place for a Mangani. Yes, I leave."

The woman rushed forward and seized the ape-man's hands in hers.

"Do not leave me!" she cried. "Stay, and you shall be high priest. La loves you. All Opar shall be yours. Slaves shall wait upon you. Stay, Tarzan of the Apes, and let love reward you!"

The ape-man pushed the kneeling woman aside. "Tarzan does not desire you," he said, simply. He looked at her more in sorrow than in scorn.

Panting - her face convulsed with rage - La sprang to her feet.

''Stay you shall," she screamed. "La will have you! If she cannot have you alive, she will have you dead," and raising her face to the sun she gave voice to the same hideous shriek that Tarzan gave often.

In answer to her cries came a babel of voices from the surrounding chambers and corridors.

"Come, guardian priests!" she cried. "The infidels have profaned the holiest of holies. Come! Strike terror to their hearts; defend La and her altar; wash clean the temple with the blood of the polluters! "

Tarzan understood each word, and stepped quickly to her side, seizing her in his strong arms. Quickly, he disarmed her of the obsidian sacrificial knife, although she fought with the mad savagery of a demon.

From each doorway poured a horde of the monstrous little men of Opar, armed with bludgeons and knives and fortified in their courage by fanatical hate and frenzy. Tarzan stood eying the foe in proud disdain. Slowly, he advanced toward the exit he had chosen to utilize in making his way from the temple. A burly priest barred his way. Behind the first was a score of others. Tarzan swung his heavy spear, club-like, down upon the skull of the priest. The green man collapsed, his skull crushed.

Again and again the weapon fell as Tarzan made his way slowly toward the doorway. La, having regained the sacrificial knife, followed Tarzan's retreat, yet not willing to advance, upon his snarling fangs and flashing steel blade. For a time she wondered how the priests could so bravely battle with the ape-man, yet hesitate to rush in upon him, he who was relatively so weak. Had they done so, reasoned La, he must have fallen at the first charge. What was it? Did some superst.i.tion, unknown even to La, surround that flashing blade? Were there deaths - and deaths? Strange. No Oparian rushed that knife, yet they willingly sacrificed themselves against the spear!

Outside the temple court, Tarzan grinned savagely, brandishing the weapon given him by his father, and which had drunk much blood. Like leaves before a gale, the Oparians scattered in all directions, and Tarzan found a clear pa.s.sage through the temple corridors and chambers.

La's - or if you' prefer, Marda's - silent screams reached the attention of Glamo in the Silver Globe, but he could do nothing about Tarzan just yet. Tarzan was now pa.s.sing through the rooms, common to Opar, which held the seven "magic" pillars of gold. No Follower could track him there, for the Followers could not touch gold without the most savage pain, and often, death. Glamo turned on his private viewer in the Globe, watching in stoney-eyed silence as the ape-man, unscathed and unaware, raced on silent feet down the corridors of gold. This was, indeed, a fascinating specimen, and Glamo determined to take it back to Venus. It had (so far as he could determine) little or no true intelligence, but a will to survive and overcome that was practically incredulous! He clicked off his viewing-screen, mentally reviewed the maps of the place, then hurriedly sent out a call for the twelve Followers still alive and operative.

As for Marda, he sank back and mused. If she could not attract, to distraction, a simple savage - little better than an ape - with her charms, he'd have to make a report on her when he returned that would be tantamount to a death sentence! Perhaps it would be kinder to leave her here, to her fate. And besides, he thought slyly, that way there be no witness against him. Was it possible that the ape-man could escape his, Glamo's, web? Not really. No living being could escape the network of hunting that could be laid down by a dozen Followers. No. But he might be able to communicate with Glamo's superiors upon that ones return to Venus. So be it. Glamo switched on all screens, stepped up the power, imprinted the order "Kill!" on all the Followers. He smiled in grim satisfaction as the beasts cringed, mentally.

Chapter VIII.

"The Beasts of Tarzan"

JEDAK, of the great apes, alone was not in the caravan of beasts marching upon Opar. Indeed, his name carried with it a certain magic to those primates able to relate one event to another. Had not Jedak disappeared at about the same time as the appearance of the Silver Globe and the new scent, of death and decay, upon the air? It was true. It was well-known that Jedak was not to be trusted, that he challenged Tarzan whenever that white-skinned son of the tribe founded by the old she, Kala, long since dead, appeared in the village.

Jedak might have gone over to one of the other tribes of apes, or might even have founded his own tribe. He was not to be trusted, and Nendat was secretly glad that Jedak had gone away, whatever his fate. Jedak, however, was not roaming the Congo. Jedak was a prisoner, roaring his indignation against the silvery walls of his cage aboard the Silver Globe, a prime specimen for the collection of Glamo, the Venusian. On that planet, he would be placed into the public view for the admiration or shudders of the young Venusians who might or might not offer him succulent stalks of r=ril, purchased with their admission tickets. Of this he knew nothing, of course, and cared less. His somewhat limited mind wanted one thing - freedom. Freedom to again roam his jungle, with all its dangers, freedom to seek a she of mating age, to raid the bean and mealie plantations of the unsuspecting Waziri tribes. Jedak howled in rage, beat with enormous muscles upon the silver walls of the cage land, finally, opened a crack in the door. He sat back, sucking his bruised fingers, then cunningly inserted one under the silvery-grey edge, seeking to force it more open. He rumbled in his chest, even issued a low-pitched challenge, then pried with all his brute force.

It moved!

Only a little, but enough to encourage him. With a single-minded purpose, unmatched before in his brutish life, he explored the widening crack, applying sheer animal strength to it. The blood thrummed and throbbed in his temples as he pulled and pried. With a final surge of power, the bolt gave way with a "crack," and he emerged quickly, into a long, dimly lit corridor. His deep-set eyes turned both ways with an animal cunning, but there was no choice. Neither end of the corridor looked more promising than the other. With a snuffle, he turned to his right and made his way, sensing, testing the air. What was that? Something approaching? Quickly, he found a niche in the corridor, drew back into the shadows, waiting.

It was only a green thing, a priest of Opar. Almost contemptuously, Jedak reached forth and throttled it. The gnarled body fell to the floor as he released it, and I he almost gave the victory cry of the bull ape, then thought better of it. With a sly cunning unlike the others of his tribe, he dragged the priest back into the shadowy niche, then went on his way, sniffing the air with his sensitive nostrils. Somewhere there was one who had to be killed. He forgot his imprisonment, became the executioner rather than the victim. He knew not for whom or what he looked, but only that he sought revenge. No other member of that tribe of forest wanderers had ever felt this particular emotion. Revenge was unknown. Was Jedak, for all his surliness, perhaps a step further along the path of civilization?

Back in the sealed tunnel, which was both the entrance to the treasure troves of Opar and a secret entrance to that almost mythical city, populated by the lost tribes of Atlantis, the Follower, one of a number, lay in the dark, barely twitching, baffled by the sealed entrance on one end and the bottomless void at the other, the chasm which Tarzan had leaped but which was beyond the physical powers of the Follower. Lacking live food - for a Follower must drain the life-stuff from its prey - it had shrunk to almost vestigial size. It could live like this for a thousand years or more, but unhappily. Constantly, almost without conscious volition, the Follower lifted a tentacle, seeking out rays of light, or a scent of a living being. During the period of its incarceration in the tomb-like tunnel, it had chanced upon one hapless mammal, an unwary and low-flying bat. A tentacle had snared the flying animal from the air, and the body of the Follower had lain upon it, absorbing the life-force from it, after its fashion. But it was a weak thing at best, and the Follower, hungry as it was, had flung the bat from itself almost contemptuously after the unsatisfactory feeding. What else could live in this Stygian gloom? From somewhere, it was dimly aware of noise, m.u.f.fled by the thick walls of the tunnel. The Follower was instantly alert, shuffling its eight-legged body into a small, unmoving ma.s.s behind the outcropping of rock. It waited patiently. Sometime, a few minutes or a few years or a few hundred years from now (the Follower was not accurate in estimating time, for time was not of the essence) something living would be coming down the tunnel. Something living. Breathing, perhaps.

Food!

A ripple of a thrill ran down its suckered tentacles, as savored--years in advance? its forthcoming repast!

The Waziri, including Basuli, had turned back from their fruitless expedition over the top of the cliffs that shadowed and protected from discovery the ruins of Opar. No trail of Tarzan had been apparent, and the Waziri warriors, not too far removed from their fellow-inhabitants of the jungle, depended largely upon spoor, not rumor. There were no toemarks in the sand, no bent bushes, no faint odor of the ape-man. Hence, he had not pa.s.sed this way. With a certain amount of dismay, the blacks turned and retraced their steps. The ma.s.s of rubble in front of the entrance to the tunnel leading to the mine dismayed them, yet Tarzan almost certainly was sealed in that spot. More than once did Basuli cast a threatening gaze at the lead footed warrior who had disgraced his tribe and his people by unwarily starting the landslide that had sealed off the tunnel entrance, and thereby, almost certainly, Tarzan. Nor was that unhappy warrior unaware of the look that foreboded no good. Full well he knew that, had the Lord of the Jungle come to any harm through his carelessness, he would not live to see the red dawn. Now he stepped high and fastidiously. Basuli grunted. The chieftain might have taken positive and even lethal action even then, he was aware of something else in the air.

First, it was the sounds of his tribesmen running. This he could hear as instinctively as he breathed, for there was no doubt of it. Other sounds, m.u.f.fled by distance, there were, but for the moment Basuli paid them no heed. One thing at a time. What could have brought back even a small band of his warriors? He hastened his strides, racing to the edge of the cliff overlooking the entrance to the tunnel, saw a small band of Waziri, led by the incomparable N'Gogo, Basuli's second-in-command. For a moment, the savage tribesman's anger flared, then quickly subsided as he realized that of all his followers, N'Gogo would be the last to go against his orders unless the circ.u.mstances warranted. This, then, meant a grave peril, and, hence, long and thoughtful consultation between the pair, preferably out of earshot of the others.

Accordingly, he waved a spear topped by a lion's tail at his sub-chieftain, saw an answering spear raised, twice, thrice. He motioned to the pair accompanying him to wait, then descended the cliff with as much dignity as the circ.u.mstances permitted. N'Gogo advanced stiffly, unaccompanied, and no higher compliment could each have paid to the other, for when two warriors met unaccompanied by underlings or weapons, it implied confidence, one in the other.

"Good hunting and fruitful kills," Basuli greeted his lieutenant gravely and according to etiquette.

"To you, Lord," N'Gogo replied, dutifully, also according to custom.

They squatted, ignoring the other warriors a.s.sembled at their backs. Basuli was happy to see his subchieftain, but would have gladly died before admitting it. "You return against my orders," he quietly accused.

N'Gogo waited a proper waited a proper respectful time before deigning to answer. "Yes, mighty chief. It came to me that the she of mighty Tarzan was missing from the plantation. This news came by a runner, who is doubtless untrustworthy and unreliable. Still, what was I to do? A He spread his hands appealingly. He broke a twig in his hands, tossed it on the sand between them. "So can I take his life. Let you or Tarzan speak the word" He glanced over his shoulder at the unlucky bearer of the news, who in turn looked in all possible other directions. "And Tarzan?" asked N'Gogo, politely. "He is here? Shall it be his decision?"

It was Basuli's turn to think of a suitable answer, no easy matter. He and his men had tried to track the white ape, but had met with absolutely no success. Basuli scratched at an imaginary flea, thought out what his answer might be. The distant noise saved him that much effort. He squinted into the distance, at a cloud of dust rising on the desert air, then spat between his prehensile toes, choosing his words carefully.

"The Arabs," he said without special emphasis. "They are raiding for slaves again?" He spat once more, indicating that this was no more than a polite inquiry.

N'Gogo, wondering exactly what his chieftain was really discussing, looked for permission, then also spat. "Your knowledge of these matters is greater than mine could ever hope to be," he said politely. "It may be that the Bedouins have risen again to raid our people. I think not, but it may well be. The gold of Tarzan is well-guarded, however. And," he pointed out, Aour compound, and our maidens, these are secure."

"As the G.o.ds will," offered Basuli, still not taking his eyes off the cloud in the desert that indicated the approach of a vast group. N'Gogo raised his eyes piously at the remark.

"Indeed," he contributed to the conversation.

"Umm," Basuli continued. "Indeed. Still, someone comes. Many, many people. Or - beasts. Turn, quietly so as not to startle our warriors, and tell me what you see." N'Gogo looked rather ostentatiously at the sky, back to his feet, rose, stretched, yawned to show a vast indifference, then cautiously turned his head. He glanced at the oncoming horde for no more than a few seconds, then resumed his place squatting in the sand before his chieftain, who looked at him with hooded eyes.

"So? "asked Basuli.

N'Gogo gulped. "Apes, I think. Great apes. And Simba. And Tantor, the elephant. Horta, the boar. Buto, the rhinoceros. An ocean of them."

Basuli squinted over the other's shoulder. "Buto? I saw noa ah, yes. There he is. Many. Many. So." He paused, scowling. "One must think."

N'Gogo showed his immaturity. "We should hide among the rocks and bushes, chieftain. Why should we sacrifice good men?"

Basuli scowled. ''Quiet, There is a purpose in this thing. Have you ever seen such a group? I think not. Therefore, there is a purpose which has not yet been revealed to us. I will go to meet this, migration. I will speak to the apes. I have the language which Tarzan has taught me. You will look to our warriors, but - " and this was emphatic, "there will be no hiding, no outward sign of fear." He smiled, adding, "Although I could not slay the warrior who felt it. I feel it."

N'Gogo sprang to his feet, all admiration and adulation. "They shall not move until your order, chieftain," he promised, holding his clenched fist over his heart to indicate that his own life verified his promise.

Basuli stood up, his gleaming ebon skin shining proudly in the fading light. He hunched his shoulders, relieving a muscle cramp which was the direct result of the fear he felt but dared not show. "Yes," he said, unnecessarily, and clambered down the face of the cliff, advancing to meet the oncoming horde.

The rest of his troop squatted uneasily, held in place as if transfixed by the hawk-like stare of N'Gogo.

In turn, he looked with adulation unmixed with envy at the back of Basuli as that worthy advanced across the veldt.

In truth, thought N'Gogo, it was not always desirable to be the chief. He felt his loins quiver and his skin tingle as the horde of advancing beasts enveloped, surrounded Basuli's stalwart, erect and unafraid figure.

N'Gogo looked at the ma.s.s of flesh before him, estimating how many apes, lions, boars, elephants, rhinos there were. He could count with very little effort to five, which placed him a desirable notch or two above the great apes, who could count only to three. He estimated that there were many times five. Many, many times. He grunted. The whole thing was somewhat incomprehensible. "He who moves without my permission," he warned the warriors, "dies at my hand." Privately, looking over the ma.s.s of savage animals which surrounded and threatened to completely overwhelm his chief, he thought his statement was perhaps optimistic.