A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  “BLUE rays, then?” muttered Ross, staring at Moore. He turned as Jorgens appeared hesitantly. “Well?”

  “Garbled message by ray-phone from our Earth station, sir. From Censor Trowbridge, apparently.” Jorgens handed over a sheet of paper. “We put it down as we heard it.”

  Ross and Moore bent over it eagerly. “. . . trouble . . . Moon . . . Four . . . Magnus killed. . . .” It ended with “. . . bridge.”

  Ross wheeled on Jorgens. “Magnus—killed? Is that what you heard?”

  Jorgens shook his head. “That’s what it sounded like,” he insisted. He flicked a hand at the ray-phone. “And that’s all we got. She went dead on us. But,” he added hopefully, “the ray-type seems to be coming to life.”

  “Good! Work on it, Jorgens. And try for the Peak One Moon station, or Peak Four.” Ross watched Jorgens join the little group of signalmen toiling over the ray-type machine, and shook his head. “Did you get that, Harry? Magnus killed.”

  Moore blinked inquiringly. “Do we go on?”

  “Go on?” Ross hesitated. He read the mangled dispatch, then squared his shoulders. “Nothing here about turning back. So on we go. Heaven knows what we’ll find.”

  “Magnus dead.” Moore shook his head. “Who takes over?”

  “On the Moon? I happen to know, because it came up at the conference five years ago. Queen Boada and the two chief lords form a Council of Three. That’ll be Boada, Horta and Artana, Lord of the Peaks. You remember him?”

  “Sure.” Moore wagged his jaws, chewing reminiscently. “Nice kid.”

  “Well, he was sixteen then. He’ll be twenty-one, grown up. And say! Remember the Princess? Illeria. She was fourteen, she’ll be nineteen now. Sweet kid.”

  “Skinny,” grunted Moore.

  “Yes,” Ross agreed absently. “Well, we’ll get a welcome from Boada and Artana. Maybe Horta will kick up a fuss, but he’s the minority.”

  The ray-type machine came to life with a faint rattle. Jorgens watched it critically, then stared as the words ran out on the page. He waited for the sentence to finish, then snatched the sheet from the machine and held it out in trembling fingers to Ross.

  The message was brief. Ross read it, shoved it at Moore, and grasped the orders tube. “Gun crews!” he sang out. “Load fore and after torpedo tubes and stand by!” He waited for the “Aye, sir!” to sound from both gun stations, then turned back to Moore.

  The navigator was standing with jaw-agape. He repeated the message word for word as if in a hypnotic spell. “Nagasaki destroyed. Purple Death.”

  Ross shook his arm. “Harry, snap out of it! We’ve got to fight!”

  “Fight what?” asked Moore dazedly.

  “I don’t know,” rapped Ross savagely. “But at a guess, I’d say the Purple Death, whatever that may be!”

  II

  THE assistant navigator looked back from his post by the helmsman. “Coming in to Peak One, sir,” he called. “What’s our speed?” asked Ross.

  “Two thousand, sir.”

  “Cut her down to a thousand,” commanded Ross. “Any signals from the Peak?”

  The navigator shook his head nervously.

  “None yet, sir. Shall I cut speed if they don’t signal?”

  “Yes,” Ross decided. “Slow up as you see fit, and hover at fifty miles if they show no signal.” He gestured to his chief navigator. “Come on, Harry, let’s inspect ship.”

  The two passed from the control room to the gleaming engines. Here the silent engine crew hearkened to the pulse of the powerful rocket engine, and kept steady eyes on the gauges that showed the compressed ray fuel was feeding steadily into the discharger. Out of the engine room they passed to the after gun station. Ross tapped one of the six-inch torpedoes, and slapped one of the slim three-inch cylinders in the number two torpedo rack. “We may need them all soon,” he told the station chief.

  The gunnery chief’s eyes widened. “We’ll be ready, sir. Can you—is there anything I can tell the men about—Number Eight?”

  Ross shook his head. “She’s gone,” he said briefly. “Might have been an accidental explosion—but I don’t think so. We’re landing soon. Just be ready, that’s all.”

  He swung away to the forward gun station, saw that all hands were alert, and led the way back to the control room. Jorgens was pulling a sheet from the ray-type. He handed it over quickly.

  It was from the Moon. “Warning to Earth Fleet!” it began. “Peak One wrecked. Come in on Peak Four.” And it was signed “Artana.”

  Ross strode forward, his blue eyes blazing. “That’s all, Jorgens?”

  “No, sir. More coming now.” He waited until the flying keys had rattled out two more lines, then ripped the sheet off. This message told more.

  “Peak One wrecked by rebels who assassinated King Magnus. Signal systems at Peaks One, Two and Three destroyed. Greetings to Commander Ross. Artana.”

  “Rebels!” exclaimed Ross.

  “Horta!” murmured Moore.

  The chief signalman caught the name. “That louse!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Pretended we couldn’t teach him anything, the time we set up his systems for him. He’s raising hell on the Moon, Commander?”

  Ross frowned. “That’s just a guess, Jorgens,” he reproved the signalman. “We only know this much for sure.” He tapped the two sheets.

  “Huh! Ten to one that blue-nosed devil’s in it,” grumbled Jorgens, turning back to the ray-type. “Want to answer, Chief?”

  “Yes.” Ross thought rapidly. He spoke in a low tone to Moore. “This might be a trap.”

  Moore blinked. “You mean, Artana sent this to decoy us in to Four and smash us?”

  “Not Artana,” corrected Ross. “Horta.”

  “Gosh, yes!” Moore fumbled his glasses off. “I hadn’t thought of that! No reason why Horta couldn’t send a message in Artana’s name!”

  “It’s a possibility,” Ross grinned sourly. He turned to Jorgens. “Send this: ‘Greetings to Artana, Lord of the Peaks, from Ross. Coming in to Peak Four.’ Repeat it, too, in case they aren’t getting it any too clear.” He wheeled to the helmsman, noted the speed was cut down now to six hundred miles, and nodded approval. “Change course for Peak Four.” Moore laid an urgent hand on his chief’s arm as the helmsman obeyed. “Say,” Bruce, this is risky!”

  “Risky!” Ross laughed shortly. “Of course it’s risky.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to stand off and wait for more news?”

  Ross shook his head. His eyes blazed. “Harry, there’s a lot of hell breaking out on the Earth and on the Moon, too. We’re in the middle. We can’t be in both places, but we can find out—I hope—what’s going on up here. And if we do, maybe we can put a heavy foot on what’s happening to the Earth. Do you remember what Trowbridge’s message said?”

  Moore’s ordinarily placid features tightened. “The Purple Death,” he whispered. “You’re the boss, Bruce. All I want is to get in on whatever happens!”

  THE Earth Fleet slid slowly down to the craters. The pale surface of the Moon gleamed dully, phosphorescent, lambent where the rays of the sun struck crater tops. Off to the left the High Peak, Peak Number One to the Earth visitors, loomed dark and sinister.

  But Peak Four showed all its lights, bright and steady. Ross ordered the six following ships to stand off and await orders, or act on their own judgment if the flagship came to harm. Then he took his place beside the helmsman. “Take her down slow,” he ordered.

  The rocket ship glided straight and sure for the brightest light. Slowly the pinpoint of white fire became a circle, then an oval. Then it broke up into hundreds of lights surrounding a platform. The helmsman muttered an order, and the rocket ship, answering the urge of her flippers, dived briefly and straightened out into a glide. From the control windows the shape of the platform took form, and dim little figures could be seen scurrying on its edges.

  Moore fidgeted uneasily. “We’ll be duck soup for them if it’s Horta,” he muttered.
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  Ross chuckled. “Where’s your sporting blood?” he jibed. “Bet you even money it’s Artana.”

  “That’s an easy bet for you,” retorted Moore. “You won’t live long enough to pay off if it’s Horta.”

  The crew of the ship seemed to share his fears. Every man hunched tense at his station. The ship glided lower, to three hundred feet. Two hundred. She lost way almost entirely, and grounded with scarcely a jar.

  “Nice set-down,” Ross complimented the helmsman.

  Instantly the crew sighed in unison. Tension was broken. They peered through the windows.

  “Back to your stations!” rapped Ross. He glanced through the control port and immediately saw a group advancing toward the ship. For an instant he held his breath. Then he whooped. “It’s Artana!”

  The crew cheered, briefly, knowing nothing of the importance of that single identification. Two artisans stood by the gangway, waiting.

  “Secure your helmets, men!” shouted Ross. He adjusted his own headgear, made sure that the thin tubes from his breastplate were feeding their tiny jets of oxygen to his nostrils, and signaled to the artisans. They threw the door wide, and Ross stepped forth to meet Artana.

  The young Lord of the Peaks came forward with a glad cry. “Ross!” he exclaimed, and grasped the Earth-man’s hand warmly.

  “Artana!” cried Ross. He eyed the Moon Lord from head to foot, and grinned. “You’ve grown, Lord of the Peaks!”

  THE boy he remembered was indeed now a man. Matching the six-foot Ross in height, he stood straight and slender, carrying easily the weight of the ray-rifle slung on his shoulder, and the poison-pistol at his belt. He smiled briefly at the Earth-man’s sally, then sobered at once.

  “You come at a critical time,” he murmured, pitching his voice so that his half-dozen followers could not hear. “The Moon People are divided by revolt, and the fate of die Kingdom is not easy to predict.” He caught sight of Moore.

  “Ah, my friend Harrell Moore!” His hand went out in a warm clasp.

  “Hi, Artana,” returned the navigator awkwardly. “You’re looking great. What’s the trouble? I’ll guess it’s Horta.”

  “Softly!” Uneasily the Lord of the Peaks glanced about him. “Let us go to the Peak Chamber, where we may speak at ease.” He led the way from the platform, halting only to allow Ross to relay an order for his six ships to land. Through a winding subterranean corridor they hastened to the council room of the Peak, which marked the administrative center of one of Artana’s provinces. Once inside the great room, Artana led them to low divans of stone, covered and made comfortable with soft cellulose-like stuff that rustled as they moved. He gave them the news bluntly, without preamble.

  “Horta has seized power in two-thirds of the Kingdom,” he cried, his voice breaking with emotion. “King Magnus was killed, perhaps not by Horta’s orders—but who else would have plotted it? The assassination seemed to be the signal for an uprising—and Horta issued a proclamation, as one of the three regents, declaring that he would act to preserve order in the Caverns and the land beyond where the Crater folk live. Three of the Peaks were overrun, and the signal systems were all destroyed. Here at Peak Four, my soldiers were ready, and all the rebels were slain.”

  “Queen Boada—and the Princess Illeria?” asked Ross.

  “They are safe.” Artana twisted on his couch in his distress. “They were at Peak Five when the attacks were made, and are coming here, escorted by a strong body of my troops. I expect them soon. But you, my friends? How can I receive you, when my people are embroiled in civil war—for that is what it is?”

  Ross waved his hand deprecatingly. “Don’t worry about us, Artana. Of course, we can’t take sides here. We can help to preserve the Regency, since the Truce demands it. But there’s one thing I’d like to ask.”

  “Of course, my friend.”

  “Have you heard of trouble on the Earth?”

  Artana looked up quickly. “We have had no word.”

  “Or—well, trouble in the sky?”

  Artana shook his head, puzzled.

  Ross answered his unspoken question. “One of our ships was destroyed on our flight from the Earth. And I don’t think it was an accident.”

  “A rocket ship?” Artana sat up. Then his eyes flashed. “Horta?” he murmured, as if asking himself a question.

  Moore leaned forward. “Has Horta been up to anything in the ray business?” he asked eagerly.

  Artana shook his head slowly. “Lord Horta and his savants have made progress in employing the R-ray, drawn from the red stars, as you taught him.” He knit his brows. “I have heard of nothing else—but wait. He and his most learned men have worked secretly for many moons, I know not to what purpose. You think—”

  “We think,” cut in Ross grimly, “that it’s possible that Lord Horta may be cooking up something new in the ray field.”

  Artana’s face darkened. “If that is true,” he murmured, “we may have the explanation of the disappearance of two of my brigades. I sent them out in force to scout Horta’s territory. No word has come from them.” His hand clenched. “A war of rays—here on the Moon!”

  ROSS’ and Moore exchanged uncomfortable glances. They had fought in the terrible war on the Earth when nations battled with the new red ray, and whole fleets of the ancient steel warships were sunk by the first of the ray-torpedoes, before the Council of Seven was formed to rule all Earthly affairs. And they had served in that first Moon-flight, and had slain with rays the first Moon armies who had resisted the intrusion of the Earth-fleet. Was history to repeat itself—in reverse, with Horta’s Moon machines raking the Earth with death? Perhaps that strange Purple Death of the Trowbridge message?

  Ross made his resolve. “If your armies can’t find out what Horta’s doing, Artana, perhaps my fleet can.”

  “Your fleet?” Artana looked up, a flicker of hope in his somber eyes. “You mean that you would fly over the Caverns?”

  Ross nodded. “And study the work he has done. Photograph it, and report to you and the Queen. If you then wish us to try to destroy it, I’ll take the responsibility. I feel that the Council of Seven would approve.”

  Artana stood up, his eyes alight. “Ah, Ross! If you succeed, and bring peace to the Moon people, your planet and mine will do you homage!”

  Ross flushed sheepishly. “Well, maybe. For my part I’d rather be overlooked. You know, there’s an old, old saying where I come from, ‘A hero today, a bum tomorrow.’ ”

  “A ‘bum’ ?” echoed Artana, puzzled.

  “A-a sort of—” Ross remembered in time that there were no beggars on the Moon. Nor panhandlers, nor paupers, nor hobos. “Oh, never mind. We’ll take off in the first hour of light, and see what we can see.”

  “In the meantime,” Artana hastened to say, “You must sleep.” He ushered them into a circular chamber, the elevator that would take them to the spacious underworld of the Moon. Closing the door, he pressed a button. The resultant motion was almost imperceptible, but Ross and Moore knew they were being hurtled toward the Moon’s core at hundreds of miles an hour. Almost instantly the chamber stopped, the shock of cessation being oddly cushioned. Artana opened the door, and the three stepped into the great rotunda whence radiated the life and activity of the Province of Peak Four. Moon people hurried to and fro, only a few stopped to stare at the Earth-men. Bakers were hawking the curious brick-shaped loafs of bread, and the fruits that had grown from the seeds from the Earth were stacked on stands. Drapers stood by their gossamer-like fabrics. Soldiers hurried to and fro in squads, and their presence explained to Ross and Moore the inhabitants’ disinterest in the Earth-men.

  The spacious chamber to which Artana led them was guarded by two tall sentries, and tastefully furnished. The Lord of the Peaks cast a last glance about, said, “I shall call you at the first light,” and vanished.

  Moore sank gratefully down upon a high-piled bed. “Well, if this is to be my last night’s sleep, I’m going to do well with i
t.”

  “You’re always worrying,” chaffed Ross. But he lay, awake, mind racing, long after Moore’s even breathing denoted that the chubby navigator’s fears had succumbed to his fatigue.

  III

  ARTANA awakened them as he had promised. His first words were of the widowed Queen. “Boada is here,” he told Ross. “She has slept, and will greet you after you have eaten.”

  They breakfasted in the chamber, on food that Artana had commandeered from the rocket ship, with some of the pale, delicious Moon pears beside the familiar Earth fare. Artana talked fast as the two Earth-men ate.

  “Two of the Cavern men came in with the Queen.” As the two flyers looked up in plain surprise, he smiled. “Yes, they were Horta’s men. But they say they do not wish to serve him longer. They say he plans to rule the Moon Kingdom alone, and will make war with the Earth.” The two leaned forward, food forgotten. “Did they say,” asked Ross, “how Horta plans to make war? With what weapons?”

  Artana shook his head sadly. “They deny all knowledge of such things. They are star savants, and they say all Horta’s war secrets are known only to his war chiefs.”

  The flyers’ disappointment impelled Artana to go on. “They do say that Horta and most of his forces are gathered in the Great Cavern, where all his secrets are kept. And that, too, is where he has set up his ray machines.”

  Ross narrowed his eyes. “The Great Cavern, eh? Well, that’s what we’ll have a shot at.”

  “You would have me accompany you?” Artana asked eagerly.

  “Ah, no, Artana. You are needed here. What if Horta were to make a sudden attack? You must give us a guide, though, to show us the Great Cavern. And I will leave my chief signalman, Jorgens, so that we may keep in touch with you.”