"Edmond Hamilton - The Monster-God of Mamurth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Edmond)

The Monster-God of Mamurth
by Edmond Hamilton

This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.

http://www.blackmask.com


Out of the desert night he came to us, stumbling into our little circle of firelight and collapsing at once.
Mitchell and I sprang to our feet with startled exclamations, for men who travel alone and on foot are a
strange sight in the deserts of North Africa.


For the first few minutes that we worked over him I thought he would die at once, but gradually we
brought him back to consciousness. While Mitchell held a cup of water to his cracked lips I looked him
over and saw that he was too far gone to live much longer. His clothes were in rags, and his hands and
knees literally flayed, from crawling over the sands, I judged. So when he motioned feebly for more
water, I gave it to him, knowing that in any case his time was short. Soon he could talk, in a dead,
croaking voice.


I'm alone, he told us, in answer to our first question; no more out there to look for. What are you
twotraders? I thought so. No I'm an archeologist. A digger-up of the past. His voice broke for a
moment. It's not always good to dig up dead secrets. There are ionic things the past should be allowed
to hide.

He caught the look that passed between Mitchell and me.


No, I'm not mad, he said. You will hear, I'll tell you the whole tiling. But listen to me, you two, and in
his earnestness he raised himself to a sitting position, keep out of Igidi Desert. Remember that I told you
that. I had a warning, too, but I disregarded it. And I went into hellinto hell! But there, I will tell you from
the beginning.


My namethat doesn't matter now. I left Mogador more than a year ago, and came through the foot-hills
of the Atlas ranges striking out into the desert in hopes of finding some of the Carthaginian mills the
North African deserts are known to hold.


I spent months in the search, traveling among the squalid Arab villages, now near an oasis and now far
into the black, untracked desert. And as I went farther into that savage country, I found more and more
of the ruins I sought, crumbled remnants of temples and fortresses, relics, almost destroyed, of the age
when Carthage meant empire and ruled all of North Africa from her walled city. And then, on the side of
a massive block of stone, I found that which tumed me toward Igidi.


It was an inscription in the garbled Phenician of the traders of Carthage, short enough so that I
remembered it and can repeat it word for word. It read, literally, as follows: