Sahara Greeks

By Clement Masloff

The scene is an eight-decked vertical city built by migrants from Ancient Greece ages ago. Hermes, a scientist at the desert Light Institute discovers a new color spectrum never seen before. This new light becomes the center of a new cult of Apollo and the farm laborers who flock into it. The rebel movement is opposed by Nessos, a photonic indus

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mulberry Books
• Release date: Nov 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781950850686

Clement Masloff

The author has been involved with science fiction and speculative literature since teaching himself to read in 1941-1942. He served in the Army as a linguist and translator in four Balkan Slavic languages. For several decades, he taught sociology in Ohio after graduating research in Russian social history. In his retirement years, he has been writing science fiction, a return to dreams of the early 1940s.

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Copyright © 2019 by Clement Masloff.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher and author, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This publication contains the opinions and ideas of its author. It is intended to provide helpful and informative material on the subjects addressed in the publication. The author and publisher specifically disclaim all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

ISBN: 978-1-950850-69-3 [Paperback Edition]

978-1-950850-68-6 [eBook Edition]

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Chapter I.

Echo had never thrown a discus before, while Hermes had never been hit by one in his life.

The accident would not have happened if Cadmus had not urged her to try a toss. Get into the spirit of this Attic Desert Festival, he had urged his private secretary. Try hurling the ancient discus that our Hellenic ancestors played with back in our homeland.

The round projectile caused no injury, merely falling upon the outside edge of the young man’s right sandal. Hermes was more startled than hurt. He turned around to see where the small missile had come from.

A middle-aged man in a pink silk suit and a young woman were rushing toward him. He was tall and slim, she was short and attractive, Hermes was able to notice. His foot stung a little from its collision with the flying object. The pain slowly lessened.

How are you? anxiously asked the thrower of the discus. I hope that I did not injure you. Her voice was sweet and melodious, even in this emergency situation. The lanky man beside her said nothing. The two stood a few span from the victim, studying him closely.

This is the first time I ever threw a discus, apologized the blond culprit. She wore shorts and a halter that highlighted her body lines.

Hermes leaned over and picked up the heavy object that had struck him. He examined it a second before offering it to the woman who had hurled it.

My name is Echo Syrinx, she said as she took the discus from him. I beg you to forgive me for what happened.

Hermes Tmolos, he said with a sudden smile. You are forgiven, of course.

The two exchanged gazes in silence while the tall companion of Echo introduced himself.

I am Cadmus Megaras, he announced. The least that we can do for you is to buy you something to drink. There is a taverna close here. Let us treat you to something. We can sit and talk a while as we rest up.

The three started off, Echo between the two men.

They found the drinking place densely crowded, but Cadmus noticed a small round table in the rear that had just been vacated.

Let’s take that one before someone else does, suggested Cadmus. I’ll order beer for all of us, if that’s alright.

As the trio sat down, a peel of loud laughter sounded from the front of the taverna. Hermes turned his head to see what that was about.

Sandfarmers! muttered Cadmus under his breath.

You are not one of the desert cultivators then, are you Mr. Tmolos? inquired Echo with a beaming grin.

Call me Hermes, please, he smiled at her. No, I am a physicist in the field of photonics.I live and work on a raw salt flat where nothing now grows. It is a very desolate spot on the desert. Life is very lonely out there.

Cadmus instantly became interested. You work for Lambda Lights, perhaps? he asked the stranger.

No, explained the stranger. The Apollo Institute is a completely independent research organization. We are not connected to any manufacturer. I myself am a chromatologist, but my work with color rays does not have immediate practical applications, not yet.

Echo then asked him a question of interest to her. What does a chromatologist focus on to study?

Hermes turned to her. The colors of the visible spectrum, Miss.

A waiter arrived with three mugs of beer. The trio started to drink.

Cadmus then started to identify himself and what he did.

I am a land developer in the suburbs of Gamara. That places me on the edge of the desert farming zone, where we are eating into it. My company has residential, commercial, and industrial projects on the drawing boards. There is no other way for the vertical city to grow. We have already raised up eight urban tiers and that is the limit into the sky. The days of building new decks is over. We are not in Europe or the Americas, but here in the central Sahara. The desert is going to become the next frontier of city growth, I predict. That is where our future as a society lies, out there on the barren sands.

As Hermes sighed, Echo abruptly changed the subject.

Are you enjoying the desert festival? she asked in a melodious tone.

The man she had struck with a discus grinned at her.

I haven’t seen much yet. This is my first time here for the celebration.

Cadmus took a printed program from his vest pocket.

There is a chariot race scheduled this afternoon, he informed the other two. After that, boxing and wrestling matches. Swimming, diving, and archery come later. Spear and javelin throwing is set for this evening. The land developer bit his tongue. The latter will include discus competition, I’m afraid.

Hermes burst out in a cascade of laughter. His two companions joined him, until all three were uncontrollably chortling.

Why don’t you join Echo and me at the chariot races? proposed Cadmus. We can make it a threesome.

Fine! replied the physicist.

They finished their drinks and left the taverna. In front of it, a crowd had gathered around a team of clowns and tumblers. Several performers with painted faces were busy carrying out pantomime skits. The audience standing around the group roared with mirth.

Drunken sandfarmers, whispered Cadmus with contempt.

Chapter II.

Night fell, and the games and races continued under brilliant light emitted from aerostats suspended high above the desert. Circle-dancers completed steps brought from ancient Greece by migrants. Folk musicians played instruments now found in European museums. A world that no longer existed in the homeland was being recalled in nostalgia here on the Sahara Desert.

Both city-dwellers and sandfarmers headed for the parking areas on the outskirts where kinitons waited to take them away. It was time for Hermes to part with his new acquaintances, the beautiful Echo and her employer.

I’d better leave now, he told them. It is a long drive out to the Apollo Institute where I live and work.

All at once, Cadmus smiled. A bright idea had occurred to him.

I am having a party at my apartment in Gamara this coming Saturday evening. You think you can be there with us? he asked the scientist.

It took less than an instant for Hermes to decide.

Yes, I’d be delighted to come, he replied with gusto.

Good. I live on the eighth tier, the south side. My apartment has a wonderful view of the farm fields in that direction for miles away. It is a magnificent sight to look at from above.

Echo then spoke. We will be expecting your presence, Hermes, she merrily beamed. It will be a pleasure to see you on the high deck of our city.

* * *

A wild desert wolf howled into the star-lit night enveloping the Apollo Light Institute. Small stucco houses resembling cubes surrounded the huge laboratory building at the center. As his passenger kiniton slowed, Hermes noticed that lights were burning in the section where he himself worked. He decided to investigate who was there long past midnight. What was going on in the lab? he asked himself. Who was busy there at this late hour?

The dry desert had turned cooler and comfortable for a few hours. What made the sand seem so much friendlier now than in the heat of day? It had to be more than the difference in temperature. As he walked to the lab, he was thankful for the temporary absence of burning, blazing Helios in the sky. Solar rays were gone for a time. Only with the dawn would the radiant eye once more return.

Hermes found the door unlocked. He hurried to his chromatology section. That door was also surprisingly unlocked.

As soon as he entered the large experiment chamber, a voice addressed him.

You are back, I see. Did you have a good time on your time off today?

The thick low voice belonged to Director Hebe Triton. In the three years she had headed the Institute her body had grown heavier, her face fuller. Hard work had toughened her. There was a self-confident authority in the way that she commanded her small kingdom out on the empty sands.

The festival was a pleasant interlude, replied Hermes. Tomorrow I will go back to work, though.

Hebe made a little grimace on her round, full face. That is what I came in here tonight to look for. Do you have any more data that I can report to our trustees?

So that is what she is searching for, Hermes told himself.

Nothing definite yet, he declared with regret. Only the same random readings that always surface in these types of studies.

The big woman’s brow began to wrinkle a little. She was worried and did not care to conceal that fact from him.

It will be difficult to justify our high expenses in the next budget, Hermes. There is great pressure to take away equipment time and use it for what appear to be more practical projects, things with more immediate applications.

All at once, the danger to his own plans became plainly evident to him.

But I must have access to the light pulser. It’s absolutely essential for my explorations beyond the visible color spectrum. Without the pulser, I’d have to abandon the study of ultraviolet and infrared radiation. Everything that I’ve done will have been to no purpose unless I can go on into extreme areas of invisible form of light.

He stared at her, his face and eyes pleading.

The Director turned her azure eyes away, avoiding the power of his fixed gaze. The gears of her orderly mind spun rapidly, almost out of control.

You must have some positive results I can show the trustees, she quietly told him again. Otherwise, there is nothing that any of us can do.

This is my life work, he desperately murmured. His voice grew dry. If I don’t win funding and use of the pulser, I might as well quit and go elsewhere. I would have to start my research all over again.

Hebe sensed a blunt threat in his last words. She began to move swiftly toward the door. Then she stopped, turned about, and spoke to him with a hint of desperation.

I will see what I can do. But it would help if you had some concrete results with promise in them, Hermes.

The Director quickly disappeared.

Chapter III.

Saturday, the day of the party on multitiered Gamara, was uncommonly hot.

The kiniton of the physicist sped over the dromic highway. At first, it was the only vehicle from one horizon to the other. But then other traffic began to appear, growing more frequent as Hermes entered the zone of farming in sand.

Large plots of cultivated cactus lined both sides of the ruler straight roadway. Vehicles passed in both directions now. This was the area of enormous grain agrochtima, dry crop farms of plantation size worked by servile day laborers. Large photonic lamps mounted on metal and concrete towers glowed with artificial light that controlled the many processes of photosynthesis going on the cropland below. Aerostats moved across the sky with their photonic mechanisms.

Fields appeared with sitari sand wheat, then came dry rice crops that looked like some kind of prairie grass. Orchards with small trees stretched toward the bright sky. These included the beloved chourmadia sand date. Cypress and palm trees shaded the blazing ground, tall guardians of the orchard pathways.

Calampaki stalks of dryland maize rose along the track of a monorail line that carried agricultural workers who lived on the lower tiers of Gamara. Huge barns stretched on both sides of the road. Gardens of marouli lettuce, fasoli beans, and a variety of desert vegetables rolled by on both sides. A multitude of arid and semi-arid crops presented themselves to anyone passing by.

Hermes could see giant arotic mechanisms plowing and cultivating the sand, as well as laborers working with their hands and simple antique tools. Some were cutting delicate desert wheat in the way their ancestors did ages before in the original Greek homeland about the Aegean Sea.

Ahead of him, the eight decks of modern Gamara loomed like a soaring tower wrapped in a film of foggy heat. The vertical city was the opposite of the searing desert. This ladder to the sky grew taller and