Flash Gordon Page 3

  Astronomers arrived at different conclusions on Mount Palomar near San Diego, below Arecibo, Puerto Rico, in the Andes of Chile, and on Kitt Peak in Arizona. The remaining astronomers withheld conclusions until all the data was recorded, a process a few hoped would last indefinitely. It was just as well, for even the most ingenious conclusions were rejected when the rays struck and sent a silent explosion of moon rock into the vacuum. With two exceptions, no one dared to think; the phenomenon was simply too horrifying to contemplate and too awesome to inspire anything but a mental numbness.

  The first exception was Pete Whittaker, who lived in an exclusive suburb of Miami. An open can of beer nestled between his legs, Pete sat in his backyard and peered through his latest toy—a twenty-thousand-dollar telescope. When he saw the brilliant red and green flash an instant before it struck the moon, he jumped up, spilling his beer all over himself, and exclaimed, “Oh my God! It’s an invasion! We’re being invaded!” Visions of Wells’s Martians and the Japanese Mysterians flooded into his brain, and he fell backward, in a dead faint.

  The other exception took this unexpected turn of events much more calmly, though he did have his impetuous moments. This exception was one Dr. Hans Zarkov.

  2

  Flaming Death

  FLASH spent his vacation by himself in a friend’s cabin thirty miles from a small Maine town. He visited the town twice a week to buy groceries and to take flying lessons at a country airport. The remainder of his time he spent out of contact with humanity (though he did receive two letters from Phyllis Franklin). He lifted weights. He chopped firewood. He performed isometric exercises. He meditated for at least an hour every morning, sitting in the Zen or lotus position in the middle of the living room, near the red coals in the fireplace. The cabin was equipped with modern conveniences, except for radio and television. Flash spent his considerable spare time reading. His flying instructor saved newspapers for him. His other material included the encyclopedia, James’s Varieties of Religious Experience, Wilson’s The Outsider and Order of Assassins, works by Jack London and Gunter Grass, and several science-fiction books (including Rif and The Prince of Sleep). Occasionally he played tapes by Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Hank Williams, Jr., and Johnny Cash, and he appreciated the silence of the falling snow and the whiteness resting on the ground and bare branches and the pine needles. Sometimes he imagined all the universe had succumbed to the soft quiet, and he experienced an incomparable peace. Alone, Flash purged himself of the last vestiges of grief for those who had left him (though the emptiness created by their passing could never be filled). Alone, he occupied himself enough to stay in shape and keep from becoming bored. Alone, he did not experience loneliness, for he had discovered spiritual nuances within himself, he had discovered the connection between his life and all other living things. He drank the sensation of each moment until it seemed infinite, yet the time alloted for his vacation passed more quickly than he would have wished.

  However, toward the end of his self-imposed isolation, Flash smiled to himself when he realized that a part of him was restless and yearned for the activity of civilization, and training camp. He gave in to this urge when he discovered the only flight from the country airport the day before the start of training camp was scheduled to depart at six-thirty in the morning.

  Flash’s spiritual awareness did not permit him to relish waking up at five. He always slept as late as possible. He spent the last night of his vacation in the Dark Harbor Inn.

  Since the inn provided the sole restaurant in the community, Flash’s only culinary choice that evening was deciding how he wanted his hamburger cooked. As he gave his order, chatting amicably with the waitress about the Super Bowl, he suddenly felt a tenseness in the atmosphere, a tenseness the other occupants of the room did not seem to notice. A tightness gripped his chest; the peace and tranquillity he had attained in the cabin deserted him, leaving him stranded, his spirit adrift in the cosmos. His existence had somehow become meaningless. He examined these sensations for ten minutes. As the waitress walked toward him, carrying a tray upon which rested his hamburger, tomatoes, and scoop of cottage cheese, he happened to see a young lady enter the restaurant, and he understood why his conception of himself had undergone such a radical alteration.

  He was experiencing one of those rare periods of premonition when an individual realizes that soon his life will be swept up by turbulent forces, that he will have no control of his future, that the alteration of his life will be irrevocable, blessedly irrevocable.

  The turbulent forces were personified in the shape of this young lady.

  She wore a sleek red dress with a wide black belt, and Flash realized she would be exhibiting a boyish yet feminine figure if it were not for her stylish white jacket. Her shoulder-length hair, freshly permed if Flash’s eye was still good, seemed black until the light struck it in a certain way, exposing its true auburn color. She had white skin that captured his imagination, eyes aggressive and demanding despite her demure carriage, and full red lips which, he was sure, did not require that bright shade of lipstick. She stood at the cash register, doubtlessly asking the clerk if she should choose her seat or be escorted. She smiled sincerely as she thanked the clerk. Holding her white pocketbook in her hand, she swung her right arm in a wide arc, keeping her unburdened left hand in her jacket pocket as she walked to a table which was, unfortunately, at a corner opposite that of Flash.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Gordon?” asked his waitress.

  “What? Oh, yes, of course it is.”

  The waitress smiled stiffly, as if she did not believe him and he had hurt her feelings. How could he explain? What excuse should he make?

  “Is there any problem, Mr. Gordon?” asked the thin host in a bass voice.

  Flash smiled woodenly. “Not at all. Everything’s fine. I just, uh, spaced out, that’s all.” He nodded at the waitress, but gestured for the host to come closer. The thin man approached, after a fashion; though he did not step up to the table, he did lean over until he practically reached a seventy-five-degree angle, thus demonstrating to those few watching and those fewer who cared that he was engaging in a most private conversation with an important guest. “Who is that beautiful young lady sitting over there? No, not her, the one in the white jacket who looks like a model.” With my luck, she’ll be one of those nude models for those cheap English newspapers.

  “I believe her name is Dale Arden, sir. She is a travel agent.”

  “Thanks.”

  Flash ate only half his hamburger; he nibbled at his tomatoes and he could not bear to look at his cottage cheese. He drank six cups of coffee. He tried not to be obvious about it (but he failed miserably) as he studied her and attempted to read hidden meanings in every nuance of her fluid movements. He was dazzled as much with the image of her as the reality, and she conjured in his mind visions of a woman who, though she perhaps knew her way around, was saving a special part of her heart for an ideal mate who would be her true love. Flash’s fantasies about her embarrassed him, though he feared he would be the only person who would ever know them; he had not felt so suddenly attracted to a woman (and with so little reason) since he graduated from high school. His heart pounded, his every movement seemed like a figment of his imagination, each thought was a message from a past he could not recall. His head swirled, his fingers trembled as he reached for his coffee. There was no doubt about it.

  Flash Gordon had been struck by the thunderbolt.

  In his hotel room, Flash switched on the television to watch the shifting colors and to hear its steady, shrill drone. He had no idea what program was on. She would not leave his thoughts; he imagined himself carrying on trivial yet meaningful conversations with her; he envisioned her playing an important part in every facet of his life; she embraced him, kissed him, pressed her boyishly feminine figure close against the hard muscles of his broad chest . . .

  Dale Arden. All-American Girl. He lay on the bed with his hands beneath his head; he stare
d at the ceiling, already bored of the mindless activity on the tube. He probably would never see her again, though she would occupy his thoughts until she almost became an obsession. No one at the training camp would know the emotions and the utter sense of defeat weighing down upon him. Soon, perhaps as quickly as two days, perhaps as long as two weeks, he would forget her; he would come to his senses or see Phyllis on the weekends or he would transfer his desire to another woman. But that woman would never affect him as deeply as this Dale Arden, he thought, closing his eyes and drifting to sleep despite the drone of the television. Twenty years from now, when he thought of this Dale, if he remembered her, she would merely be the regret of a middle-aged man, a possibility that had never materialized, an ideal shattered by grim realities.

  Finally he slept, his heart smothered by a frigid blackness and his mind filled with anxieties for his future. When he woke, nearly thirty minutes later than he had planned, he found he had tossed and turned the entire night, kicking the blankets onto the floor. Cursing because he had hoped for a large breakfast to see him through the day (he avoided food served on airplanes and at airports), he took a quick shower and dressed in white jeans and his “Flash” T-shirt. He loaded his two suitcases into the station wagon he had rented for the duration of his vacation. Since he had settled his hotel bill the night before and had made arrangements to leave the rented car at the airport, his oversleeping had merely inconvenienced him; it would not cause him to miss his flight.

  He drove fast over the winding roads bordered by shrubbery and trees. He turned on the radio and listened to a rock song, a hymn of a lover to his woman, informing her that just a little of her love was enough. Her love was so incredible, her body was so edible, she gave him an overdose of love. Flash identified heavily with the singer, though he had never experienced the woman he loved. He was afraid that if he ever saw her again, he would not possess the courage to speak to her. Ah, she’s probably married with three kids and two lovers on the sly, he thought, rolling down the window in the hopes that the cool, brisk air would help him concentrate more on his driving.

  The fresh air did not help. He arrived at the airport sooner than he had expected because he had driven there automatically, his mind transported to realms of passion and sensation by the rock music.

  Usually when he was up and about early in the morning, he looked to the clouds and felt his spirit soar into the blue depths. However, today he failed to notice the bright red streaks occasionally sweeping across the sky before burning out or falling from sight. One streak stabbed through a flock of birds migrating from the south, scattering them in all directions, setting a single unfortunate bird aflame.

  Flash pulled into the parking spaces before the landing strip. The airport was so small that the strip was not fenced off; there were no problems with crowd control. The main task of the two-engine plane sitting on the strip was to deliver the mail now being loaded into the storage compartments. Realizing there was really no point in entering the plane until all the mail was loaded, Flash read a newspaper he had left beside him on the seat. It was a week old, but his mind was wandering anyway. The thought of beginning training camp actually filled him with dread. Maybe I’ll retire after this year. Become an actor before my nose gets broken.

  He was actually becoming immersed in an article he had not previously noticed, something about the economic index’s correlation to reality, when pellets suddenly struck the station wagon, making a dull sound on the windshields and a rattling noise on the hood and roof.

  It’s hailing, he thought with some surprise, since, save for a white cloud on the horizon, the sky was clear. A chill ran through him, but it did not originate at his spine; the temperature had actually dropped for five seconds. Hearing a hissing, he looked out the window and saw a small, red-hot cinder fizzling in a puddle. He looked straight ahead, then at the pellet again. It was now black, charred, and cool.

  Naw. Must be my imagination.

  He lifted up the paper, but before he could read a word, a chauffeured van pulled up on the left of the station wagon. On the side of the van was inscribed DARK HARBOR INN; below the inscription, was a replica of the Frazetta painting of an undersea monster towering above a skindiver. I saw that movie, thought Flash absently, remembering The Creature from the Black Lagoon.

  Then Flash recognized the silhouette through the tinted glass of the passenger’s window. He would recognize the shape of that freshly permed hair anywhere. His heart threatened to crack his sternum, the blood vessels between his skin and skull expanded practically to the point of bursting; he wondered if he could count on them; he felt a glow of hope and the fear of rejection and disappointment; he threw the newspaper down on the black mat on the passenger’s side; he scrambled to pick up his luggage and open the door simultaneously; he controlled himself with an effort.

  Okay, Flash, it’s time to be suave and debonair.

  The driver opened the door for Dale; when she stepped out, she glanced at Flash for a moment.

  Did she notice me? Looking in the rearview mirror, he straightened his short blond hair with his hands before getting out of the wagon. Pretending to be oblivious to the world, he walked around the front and pulled his baggage from the passenger side. Though his lips were puckered, his mouth was dry and so he did not try to whistle. It was just as well, because he could not carry a tune for longer than ten seconds. Flash had been smitten by unreality. He was as shy and as anxious as a virgin youth. Walking five yards behind her, pretending (only for his own benefit) to be totally uninterested in her, he memorized the swaying of her hips, imagining the skin of her thighs and backside ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of her steps. He imagined other sights, as well as odors. She still wore the white jacket and the red dress, but the clothing seemed fresh, as if it had just been taken from the closet.

  The chauffeur carried her suitcases to the passengers’ area; Flash wished he could have done so himself, though he would have looked silly struggling with the bulk of her luggage and his. When Dale thanked and tipped the chauffeur, Flash felt a surge of jealousy for no good reason. He concentrated on strapping his suitcase in the compartment above his seat. The chauffeur left. Flash sat down, fastening his seat belt and crossing his legs. He felt somewhat relieved, thankful there were no other passengers, though his awkwardness at being alone with her caused a constriction in his throat that threatened to choke him.

  Clearing his throat, he looked at her and smiled.

  She nodded, finally acknowledging his existence, and returned his smile.

  Flash wondered what had happened to the worldly professional quarterback who, once he determined he could have a meaningful, spiritual, no-strings-attached relationship with a woman whose mind he admired, proceeded with assurance, wit, and style? Or had that Flash Gordon ever existed? Was that merely a role to be assumed when the circumstances warranted it? Flash grimaced, only to smile again. He was beginning to feel like a fool. When Dale spoke (with a voice that intensified his fantasies), he was totally unprepared.

  “Where did you get that stupid T-shirt?” she asked.

  If I tell her it was a gift from an admirer, she’ll get the wrong idea. “Well, uh, it’s like this, you see . . .”

  “Are you from California? You talk like you are.”

  Flash was stunned. Woman of his dreams or not, he wasn’t going to take any of this smart talk. “See here, young lady . . .” He paused; his mind was momentarily blank. “You must be a New York girl.”

  Dale was surprised. “How did you know?”

  “Your manners.”

  Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Dale placed a tiny fist on her hip and pointed at Flash with her right forefinger. Her reply, though it might have been memorable, was destined never to be; for at that moment, the pilot and copilot stepped into the plane. Dale turned away from Flash, totally ignoring him, and smiled sweetly at them.

  The pilot tipped his hat at the passengers. The copilot said, “Morning, miss. A pleasure to have you, M
r. Gordon. I’ve been a fan of yours ever since you broke the passing record for the Sugar Bowl.” He reached out and shook Flash’s hand. “As a sophomore yet. Amazing!”

  “It was nothing. Only a game,” said Flash, feeling pleasure not at the copilot’s compliments but at the curiosity plainly apparent in Dale’s quizzical expression.

  “But what a game!” exclaimed the copilot, releasing Flash’s hand and straightening. After giving them the flight instructions and safety procedures, he said, “We should be taking off in a few minutes, so remain seated until then. And have a good flight.”

  “I’m sure we will,” said Flash as the copilot disappeared behind the blue curtains, into the cockpit.

  The couple sat in awkward silence; Flash felt the animosity flowing from the young woman. Resting her chin on her fist, she stared out the square window, at the hills beyond the airport. Once she leaned forward, raising her shoulders, looking in all directions as much as the porthole permitted; but her unvoiced questions were unanswerable, or else her eyes had played tricks on her, for she slumped back and reassumed her lifeless pose.

  The engines were switched on.

  “Ahh, listen to those eggbeaters whirl,” said Flash, trying to make conversation.

  Dale contorted her face in such a way that he could not tell if she was confused or horrified. “What?”

  “The propellers. Propellers are sometimes called egg-beaters.”

  “By whom?”

  “It’s a slang term that originated during World War Two.”

  “Wonderful,” said Dale, nodding blankly, as if she could not understand why anyone believed this information was important enough to impart to her.