Sheer disaster if he fell here.
When he found time to look again, the four were lost in the shadow of the jungle-edges.
His old skill came back swiftly.
He found his old elation again in the sweeping, soaring flight; there was a lifting joy even in the difficulty of managing his tricky craft, even in defying the black thorn-jungle.
Keeping within the rising currents above the jungle’s edge, he worked steadily up-river, toward black and mighty walls—grown vague, now, hi the thickening red gloom, the Purple Dream no longer visible.
At first he had been doubtful of the frail machine, but he soared with increasing confidence, presently fearing only that the wind should change, or the Medusae discover him.
Then unexpected danger came.
Up from the black forest came gliding another creature, like the one which had supplied his wings.
It circled him; it climbed above him; it dived at him again and again, sting and talons ready, until he knew that it meant to attack.
He shouted at it and vainly waved his arms.
At first it seemed alarmed, but then it dived again, nearer than before.
He unbound the black spear with cold-stiffened fingers, and set it before him.
The thing dived a last time, slender sting curved, yellow talons set.
It came straight at him.
He met it squarely, spear aimed at its single black eye.
The point went home.
But the rushing body struck his fragile craft with a force that made its flimsy structure creak.
Flung off balance, John Star slipped toward the jungle, after the body of his attacker.
Equilibrium recovered, just clear of the thorns, he rose again.
But the fiber-bound frame had been weakened and warped by the impact.
It snapped and groaned alarmingly as he soared, its flight more startling and unstable than ever.
But at last he reached the stronger, gusty current that rose against the walls of the black city.
Up he was carried, up, fearful that each moment would see his bright wings folding, his body spinning back to the yellow river.
So he came at last level with the tower.
He made out the Purple Dream, a tiny spindle of silver, lying on the huge black platform hi the vast shadow of the spider-ship that guarded her.
The nightmare city stretched away beyond; the machines on the high platforms were an army of black giants, crouching in the red twilight.
Over the landing stage he swept, and down.
The gust carried him too fast, almost he was swept over the wall and into the city; the glider cracked and fluttered.
His body was slowed and shuddering with the probing cold, numb and unrespon-sive.
But his feet touched black metal in the shadow of the Purple Dream.
He slipped free of the binding thongs, and discarded the bright wings.
He ran silently toward the air-lock, thorn dagger in hand, alert for the unknown obstacles ahead.
26 Traitor’s Turn
The air-lock, to his relief, was open, the accommodation ladder down to the metal platform.
He was up the steps in an instant, across the lowered valve, and upon the long, narrow deck inside, beneath the curve of the hull, where he came face to face with Adam Ulnar.
At their parting, months before, on the bottom of the yellow sea, Adam Ulnar had seemed a beaten man, shattered, crushed with the discovery that he and his cause had been betrayed by the Medusae, broken with the knowledge that he had unwittingly betrayed mankind.
He was different now.
Always tall, impressive of figure, he was once more erect, confident, coolly resolute.
Freshly shaven, long white hair combed and shining, neatly groomed in Legion uniform, he met John Star with a hearty smile of surprised welcome on his handsome face.
“Why—why, John!
You surprised me.
Though I had hoped———”
He started forward, extending a well-kept hand hi greeting.
And John Star leaped to meet him, menacing his throat with drawn thorn dagger.
“Keep still!” he whispered harshly.
“Not a sound!”
He felt the contrast between them.
A strange figure he presented, he knew; grimy, exposure-blackened, haggard from fatigue, half naked. With shaggy head and many months’ growth of beard he must look more beast than man.
An uncouth animal, facing a polished, confident, powerful man.
“Adam Ulnar,” he breathed again, fiercely,