by Jerry
On the heels of the news of the construction of the ninth city, there came to Marto a summons from Thielpan. He found the professor slumped over his desk, asleep. At the sound of his entry, Thielpan raised haggard, bloodshot eyes to Marto’s face. He shoved a sheet of paper across the desk.
“Look at these and tell me what they are.”
Marto ran a practiced eye down the rows of equations. He knew them by heart, to the final alpha.
“They’re the equations of the force field generated by our Z-guns. They demonstrate, mathematically, the creation of a force which unlocks intramolecular tensions, resulting in a terrific explosion taking place in any object in which the force field is concentrated.”
As if he was weary beyond endurance, Thielpan lifted his head again from his arms to shove another sheet of paper across his desk.
“And these?”
Marto took the first series of expressions at a glance. He saw instantly that they were a variation of the fundamentals on the first sheet, except that they showed no resultant. He dived into the second line, the third, the fourth. As his mind tried to grasp the relationships involved, a growing pucker showed on his forehead. He sat down heavily in the chair facing Thielpan.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Thielpan sat up. His shoulders sagged and he answered in a thin, rasping whisper.
“You will understand, in time. Your job is to build the machine.”
“But these equations apparently are the formula for the generation of a force great enough to split the Sun in a thousand parts. I see no way of controlling the force.”
“The control is there, in the beta factor.”
“But evolving these equations results in beta diminishing to zero as a limit. Your control soon reaches the vanishing point.”
“Yes, and the generated fields collapse with it. There is no danger to anything but the control.”
“What is the control?”
“You build the machine. I will supply the control. Here are diagrams describing the apparatus. Set the whole staff to work at once.”
“But——”
“The commander of the defense force believes the Zarlee are preparing to bomb us. We have about two weeks. Our only hope lies in that machine. Go!”
“Yes, sir.” Marto saluted.
Under Marto’s terse orders, the jaded technicians cleared an upper chamber, brought immense power cables from the main generators, sheathed the walls with lead, and started setting up the complex apparatus described on the diagrams.
Days passed. The general staff of the defending forces conferred constantly with Thielpan. For the first time in years, Marto saw something like hope in their faces, hope mingled with fear. There was no question that the Zarlee were building another immense bomb. A tiny patrol ship slipped through their defenses and returned with the information.
BUT from what Marto was beginning to understand of the equations they were working night and day to express in copper and glass, in force and counter-force, in power coil and glittering oscillator, the besieged defendants of Snarth had a chance. They had more than a chance, given time.
Marto was beginning to understand the mechanics of those equations, and to marvel at the power of the mind that had evolved them. At the same time he knew there was a flaw in the equations. The diminishing value of beta meant only one thing. From the shape of mechanism he was devising, Marto suspected the logical answer to the diminishing value of this factor. He shuddered. If Thielpan, in devising this formula, had gone beyond space and time into hyperspace and hypertime, he had gone through a door that might open only one way. Marto wondered about the control Thielpan had promised. Wondering, he shuddered, shaken again by a rising fear.
But Thielpan, though he seldom left the chamber where the technicians were slaving, volunteered no information. He seemed to grow weaker and more irascible each day. The man never slept. Each passing hour he leaned heavier on Marto’s arm. He seemed to be kept alive by the will to live, and little else.
Marto marveled at the man, and, marveling, admired. His admiration grew almost to worship. Here was a physical weakling; yet here was a man who was more than a man, who would never fail his duty. Marto, remembering Jan Grath and the needle ray that had sliced through their ship—it seemed years ago—visualized Thielpan in his place that fatal afternoon. Thielpan would have been stronger than any inhibition or fixation he might have. He would have overcome fear as he overcame fatigue, by the power of his will.
On the tenth day the device was almost finished. Workmen were gingerly testing various parts of the apparatus. Coils, condensers, the crystal-controlled oscillator, each was tested, and each functioned properly as an individual unit. Thielpan refused to test the entire apparatus.
“It will work,” he said grimly. “Marto, go to my room and bring me the device you will find in my closet. Handle it carefully.”
It was something closely resembling a headset, except that the twin pieces of metal were obviously not designed to fit over the ears of the wearer. The cord and the plug attached to it——Marto knew where that plug fitted, knew the circuit it fed, knew that the frequency of that circuit was impressed on the master circuit, and he suddenly realized and was afraid that he had the value of beta.
WHEN he returned with the headset, he found the lead-lined chamber empty of technicians—with the exception of two who were setting up a visaplate—and filled with officers. The air was so thick with tension it could have been cut with a knife. Something had happened somewhere.
The first officer he saw was Jan Grath, now Colonel Grath. The news of this promotion had not filtered to the depths.
Grath was talking to Thielpan.
“There is no question about it,” he was saying, “The Zarlee bomb is complete. Our patrol ship got through and saw it, and managed to radio us before it was knifed down. They were testing it fifteen minutes ago. The thing is probably in the air now, heading out into space, where it will drop on us with a speed almost that of light. The only warning of its coming we will have will be a flash. If we could see it in time, we could blast it with our Z-guns. But we won’t have time to train a gun before it is on us. Our only hope is you. The only hope of the race is you. Have you finished that new weapon yet?”
Thielpan had moved a chair in front of the switchboard. Immediately in front of him was a cuplike depression in which rested a glass bowl, a bowl that was nearly a perfect vacuum. On this glass bowl was focused all the power of the generator. Marto did not clearly understand the operation of the device beyond this point. He knew what the equations said, but he refused to believe the math involved—refused, because to believe was to admit too much of the impossible.
“Gentlemen, we are ready,” Thielpan answered. “Marto, give me that headset.”
Grath saw him as he stepped forward. There was a look of incredulous repugnance on his face.
Thielpan adjusted the headset so that one metal disk was against his forehead and the other was pressed firmly against the base of his head. He plugged it in, threw the master switches. A screaming whine lifted up the scale, went beyond hearing, was present as a whipsaw vibration in their brains.
A blue glow flamed in the glass bowl, changed to purple, swirled wildly, coalesced into a pin point of light. It swelled to the size of a marble, to an egg, and now it was as big as a grapefruit. It stopped there.
Thielpan looked at the officers. “Gentlemen”—his voice was barely a whisper—“that blue globe is a force field. It exists as pure energy. All the power of our generators is draining into it. If the energy gathered in that ball were released, it would blow this city out of the Earth.”
Grath fidgeted. “That is very well. But how can this be used as a weapon? We need more than that to destroy the Zarlee torpedo.”
“Watch,” Thielpan answered.
He closed his eyes. Marto could see from the concentration showing on his face that he was making a mighty mental effort.
LIKE a light
that is turned off, the blue ball vanished. Instantly, there was in the room a tremendous, throbbing, pulsating feeling of power. Somewhere invisible in the lead-lined chamber was leashed a mighty force.
There was a click. The ball floated a foot from the ceiling.
“Lord!” an officer gasped.
Thielpan opened his eyes.
“You’re almost right,” he answered.
“Six centuries ago the mathematicians wondered if creation were not an act of thought. They were right, as far as they went. But they lacked the apparatus to go further. This headset I am wearing gathers the tiny thought currents from my mind, impresses them on this machine. That force field builds up in accordance with my will. I can control it. I can move it where I desire. I can force it through any wall by forcing it out of this dimension, through a higher dimension and back again. That is how I got it out of the glass bowl, where it was generated. That is why it vanished, and came back. Nothing can stop it, except a similar and equally powerful force field. I can release its tremendous destructive power at will.”
His voice had risen to a high-pitched scream. He stopped, and the only sound in the room was the labored breathing of many men.
“How can you direct it?” Grath whispered.
“It is extremely sensitive to all vibrations. Light and sound and a thousand other frequencies are picked up and transmitted back to me. Wherever that sphere is, I am. I can see all it sees, hear all it hears.
“And now get out,” Thielpan gasped. “All but Marto. Your chaotic thinking interferes with my control. Get out.”
There was a patter of feet outside and an excited orderly rushed in. He saluted Grath.
“Patrol Ship No. 81 reports the Zarlee torpedo is out of the atmosphere and is rising. It is only a matter of minutes, sir.”
Grath whirled to Thielpan. “Destroy that torpedo.”
Thielpan tried to rise out of his chair. His body was jerking oddly. Marto stepped to his side.
“That torpedo w411 be destroyed,” Thielpan gasped. get out.”
He collapsed in his chair. His eyes were turned up, his lips blue and trembling.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I guess I’m done. There’s a blood clot on my brain. Only a minute left. Marto—you take over.”
IN THE split second that followed Marto plumbed deeper depths than he knew existed in his soul. It had fallen to him, this job—to him of all people. To the least among men had fallen the task of stopping the Zarlee. No one else understood the operation of the generator; no one else would serve. And only minutes remained until the Zarlee torpedo raced down.
In Thielpan’s glazing eyes was a plea. The man was dying.
“I’ll carry on,” said Iar Marto huskily. A soft smile wreathed the face of his chief.
“Good boy.”
Marto snatched the headset from Thielpan, rasped an order at Grath.
“Carry him out. And get out, all of you.”
“You, of all people,” Grath murmured. “No, you don’t. I’m in command here, and I’ll handle that headset myself. We can’t risk this chance on you.”
Marto, in that final moment, was calm.
“You heard his order,” he answered. “Get out or I’ll throw you out.”
Colonel Grath paused a long second, the stub of his left arm hanging indecisively in the air. His eyes seemed to plumb Marto to the bottom of his soul. He turned on his heel. “Outside, men,” he ordered.
As the massive, lead-lined door dosed, Marto clamped the headset in place. That sensation overwhelmed him. As he closed his eyes, he looked out on a new world, the world as seen through the infinitely sensitive force sphere. He could see himself sitting there in the chair, his eyes dosed, a haunted, panic-stricken expression on his face. A tremendous range of colors was opened to him. The dull-gray walls of lead were an indescribable hue. The unaided eye saw them as gray; the force field saw them glowing with color. There were sounds he had never heard before. The drone of the generator, that had gone out of hearing, was audible again, as a thin hiss. He felt the jar of cosmic rays striking the field like needles of fire that penetrated his mind.
But time was fleeing.
Marto did not clearly understand the control of the field. He knew he had to get it out of the lead-lined chamber, out of the city of Snarth, into the air overhead. He knew there was a way, but he did not know the way.
He willed the blue sphere of radiant force out of the chamber. Nothing happened. Sweat started to pop out on his face. There was a way! He had to find it. Desperately, he ran over the equations. The sphere shifted, flickered, changed. The secret lay in mathematical manipulation. He forced himself to think of the symbols theoretically governing the transition into the fourth dimension.
Blackness deeper than the darkest night struck his mind. He gasped for breath, forgot to think, and saw a new world. He seemed to be floating high over the Rockies. Down below him he recognized the guarded entrance to the subterranean city of Snarth.
A new vibration was ringing in his mind. It was coming from out in space, growing in intensity, and climbing up the scale. He knew, without knowing how he knew it, that it was the Zarlee torpedo. Like a ray of light, he hurled the space field out. Something was flashing downward, gaining speed as it fell—something huge and black.
He attached the field to the object, manipulated the equations of the higher dimension. Instantly, he seemed to be inside, as the sphere shifted through a higher dimension and entered the Zarlee torpedo.
He released the prisoned energy of the field.
TO IAR MARTO, in the lead-lined chamber, it seemed that a red-hot ball of flame had burst within his brain. Stunning waves of radiation tore his mind apart. A little of him died.
To the men anxiously watching the sky at the gate of Snarth, it seemed that the blue vault of heaven had exploded. Out in space, where but a moment before had been nothing, was a vast puff of smoke riding huge streamers of yellow flame, as the Zarlee explosives were ignited by the energy loosed by the force field.
A great cry went up from the watchers—a cry that echoed and reechoed through the levels below—a cry that was heard everywhere except in the vault where Iar Marto, regaining his stunned and weakened senses, willed into existence within the glass bowl another sphere of purple fire. Seconds later it was the size of a grapefruit. Long before a minute had passed, it was hurled out of the depths, to find a resting place in the heart of a Zarlee ship rising to investigate the failure of their torpedo. There was a smaller jet of smoke, as the Zarlee space liner burst. In the brain of Iar Marto another red-hot ball of fire exploded. A little of him died.
The visaplates of Earth throbbed with the news. Out of their hidden caverns came the rocket ships of Earth. Every vessel that could mount a Z-gun took to the air. There was at hand a little matter of vengeance. There was the trifling job of exterminating the species that had decimated Earth.
But ahead of the rocket ships, and faster than they could fly, went destruction invisible. Zarlee ships seemed to explode faster than they could be lifted from the ground. Their base, located in what had been the heart of the United States, the heart of their central headquarters, where the four-legged vermin swarmed by thousands, where their generating equipment was located, exploded in a blaze of fire that ripped Mother Earth of her molten core. A volcano spouted there.
In the mind of Iar Marto another volcano spouted.
The rocket ships caught the Zarlee as they rose in disorganized confusion and tore at them like angry dogs. Ahead of the rocket ships went destruction invisible.
Within an hour there were no more Zarlee ships. Rocket ships were landing and disgorging crews in the shattered bases, to handle a job that the Earthman found to their liking.
Over the Earth the visaplates were clamoring for the man who had delivered them. Colonel Jan Grath removed the bar from the door of the lead-lined vault.
The visaplates of the world were tuned to this door. Out of it would come the man who had saved th
e few remaining millions from destruction. They waited breathlessly, these grateful millions, to honor their savior.
Colonel Jan Grath would be the first to receive him. As ranking officer, it was his duty to greet Iar. Even though he knew him as a weakling and a coward, it would be his duty to hail him as deliverer. And Jan Grath would do his duty.
THE DOOR moved on its hinges. The peoples of the world held their breath. It opened an inch, six inches, a foot, and a tumultuous roar of welcome droned from the visaplate.
As Iar stepped to the door, the roar abated, stopped. There was a hiss from the speaker as the millions caught their breath in surprise.
Shriveled, emaciated, thin and gaunt, as if he had aged a hundred years in that hour in the chamber, Iar stood, trembling, swaying, clutching at the steel door for support. Jan sprang forward to offer him an arm. As he waved the officer back, Iar noticed again that the left sleeve was empty.
“Iar! You’re hurt!”
Marto managed to smile. “A little. Are—are the Zarlee finished?”
“Like smoke before the wind. They never knew what hit them. The reports are all in. There’s not a Zarlee ship anywhere in the air over Earth. Their bases are shambles. Here and there the few survivors are being mopped up.”
Iar winced. Jan Grath, perhaps better than any other, knew what this destruction had cost Iar. And yet Jan did not know everything.
“I am glad. Mother Earth is free again, free to go on and on to whatever is her final destiny.”
“And the credit is yours, Iar. With you to lead us, we will go on.”
“I! I’m sorry, but I can’t lead you. I haven’t the ability, in the first place, and in the second place——” He paused, a thin froth of blood coloring his lips. He wiped his lips and stared dully at the thin, scarlet streak staining the back of his hand.
Jan slipped an arm around the frail figure. Iar pushed the arm away.
“No. I have but a few minutes left and I want to stand alone as these final seconds tick away.”