Tarzan and the Ant Men · Chapter 11 (2/2)

For just an instant she turned her back upon him, putting her hands to her face and to her hair, and then she faced him again and the ape-man saw before him a hideous and wrinkled hag upon whose crooked features no man would look a second time.

“God!” ejaculated Tarzan.

Slowly the girl’s face relaxed, assuming its normal lines of beauty, and with quick, deft touches she arranged her disheveled hair. An expression that was almost a smile haunted her lips.

“My mother taught me this,” she said, “so that when they came and looked upon me they would not want me.”

“But would it not be better to be mated with one of them and live a life of comfort above ground than to eke out a terrible existence below ground?” he demanded. “The warriors of Veltopismakus are, doubtless, but little different from those of your own country.”

She shook her head. “It cannot be, for me,” she said. “My father is of far Mandalamakus. My mother was stolen from him but a couple of moons before I was born in this horrid chamber, far from the air and sunlight that my mother never tired of telling me about.

“And your mother?” asked Tarzan. “Is she here?”

The girl shook her head sadly. “They came for her over twenty moons since and took her away. I do not know what became of her.”

“And these others, they never betray you?” he inquired.

“Never! Whatever slave betrayed another would be torn to pieces by his fellows. But come, you must be hungry,” and she offered him of the flesh she had been cooking.

Tarzan would have preferred his meat raw, but he did not wish to offend her and so he thanked her and ate that which she offered him, squatting on his haunches across the brazier from her.

“It is strange that Aoponato does not come,” she remarked, using the Minunian form of Eight Hundred Cubed, Plus Nineteen. “Never before has he been so late.”

A brawny slave, who had approached from behind her, had halted and was looking scowlingly at Tarzan.

“Perhaps this is he,” said Tarzan to the girl, indicating the man with a gesture.

Talaskar turned quickly, an almost happy light in her eyes, but when she saw who it was that stood behind her she rose quickly and stepped back, her expression altered to one of disgust.

“No,” she said, “it is not he.”

“You are cooking for him?” demanded the fellow, pointing at Tarzan. “But you would not cook for me,” he accused, not waiting for a reply to his question, the answer to which was all too obvious. “Who is he that you should cook for him? Is he better than I? You will cook for me, also.”

“There are plenty to cook for you, Caraftap,” replied Talaskar, “and I do not wish to. Go to some other woman. Until there are too many men we are permitted to choose those whom we shall cook for. I do not choose to cook for you.”

“If you know what is well for you, you will cook for me,” growled the man. “You will be my mate, too. I have a right to you, because I have asked you many times before these others came. Rather than let them have you I will tell the vental tomorrow the truth about you and he will take you away. Have you ever seen Kalfastoban?”

The girl shuddered.

“I will see that Kalfastoban gets you,” continued Caraftap. “They will not permit you to remain here when they find that you refuse to produce more slaves.”

“I should prefer Kalfastoban to you,” sneered the girl, “but neither one nor the other shall have me.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” he cried, and stepping forward, quickly, seized her by the arm before she could elude him. Dragging her toward him the man attempted to kiss her⁠—but he did not succeed. Steel fingers closed upon his shoulder, he was torn roughly from his prey and hurled ruthlessly a dozen paces, stumbling and falling to the floor. Between him and the girl stood the gray-eyed stranger with the shock of black hair.

Almost roaring in his rage, Caraftap scrambled to his feet and charged Tarzan⁠—charged as a mad bull charges, with lowered head and bloodshot eyes.

“For this you shall die,” he screamed.