by Jerry
Their mounts arrived at that moment breaking off the conversation. But Witson had no doubt that Norton had not forgotten a single thing which would cause the enemy trouble. Norton had that type of mind and thoroughness. Their horses betrayed a nervousness, as if they sensed the coming struggle and realized that they were to be part of it. A shadow, which dissolved into two separate beings, an Indian and a horse, slid to a stop before them. It proved to be their guide.
They could hear all about them the varied sounds of men engaged in the acts of getting away, and co-mingled with the low-voiced commands were the sounds of horses being saddled and mounted. In an amazingly small time all was in readiness. A pregnant silence settled over the compound. Then Conners stood erect in his saddle and shouted:
“All right, boys! Let’s go!”
A SINGLE concerted shout met the announcement. Then there was a vast clattering sound as hundreds of horses moved into action. Not all left by the gate through which Norton’s car had come. In fact only a small part of them left that way. Among them was the group of which Conners was the head.
While Norton rode his horse up alongside the Colonel’s, Witson reined in beside the Murian, who was obviously ill at ease.
“First time on a horse?” the old man asked.
The other shook his head, dumbly. He was too engrossed in the business of just staying mounted. No one had thought that he might not have any knowledge of horses. Nor had he.
“Yes,” he replied to Witson’s question. Then, as the horse leaped forward, following the pace set by the lead animal, he continued in jerks, “We—don’t—have—animals . . . ohh!” the exclamation was wrung from him as his mount settled into a long-strided run.
“Just let him have his head,” Witson called in advice, spurring his own horse alongside. “There. That’s better,” he continued as the other took his advice.
Their Indian guide suddenly cut off from the highway. From then on it was sage and sand. They settled down to a steady pace which ate up the miles. The sun was exactly overhead when the Indian pulled up to a halt in the lea of a narrow gully. They dismounted and the men took their rations from the saddle bags. They ate them cold. To Norton, unused to riding such as he had been through, it seemed but a moment had passed when Conners arose and looking at the watch on his wrist said:
“Time to move, men.”
They were an odd lot as they wearily arose and remounted. A half dozen cowboys in the soiled jeans and Levi’s which was their standard dress; two platoons of men in the speckled, khaki coveralls that were their desert uniform; three men, heavy set and placid-looking, who were deputies in peace time; and Norton and his two friends made up the Colonel’s party. Only the Indian, the perfect example of the stoic, showed no strain from the ride.
Once again they were in the saddle and on their way. Once again the sand arose in dusty fountains from the horses’ hoofs. And once again the land rose and fell in even waves before them. This time, though, each succeeding hill was a little higher than its neighbor. The sun descended in the brilliant flaming glow of flame which characterized it in that part of the country. The sky was like something taken from a calendar. But Norton and his friends were too weary-to note its beauty.
THE night stole upon them, chill and forbidding.
Once again they rested, this time for an hour. And once again the interminable ride. This time they did not stop until dawn knocked at the peaks of the mountains into which they had come. The Murian slid from his saddle and lay inert on the ground, too spent to move. Norton flopped beside him as did Witson. One of the cowboys built a small fire and two of the cavalrymen made breakfast for the rest. It was a welcome relief from the rations they had had on their last two stops. Conners let them rest a little longer, this time. At last he rose and came over to sit beside Norton and his friends.
“About eighty miles more,” he announced in a mild tone. As a matter of crossing the street.
“To where?” Norton asked.
“To where we meet the others.”
“And where precisely is that?”
“Just this side of the Utah border. That’s why we started at different times and why some had to take cars to get to the rendezvous. We’ve gone around two hundred and fifty miles, so far.”
“What is it, some small town?”
“Lord, no! Although there will not be the ten thousand men we expected, there will be some odd six thousand. And that many men in a town the size of these border hamlets would be noticed from the air. No, we meet in—a valley which our friend here,” he thumbed toward the Murian, “says lies some hundred miles south of our goal. More, he gave us the exact details of the spot.”
Conners pulled several maps from the trouser pockets of his coveralls and spread them out for their perusal.
“See,” he said, pointing to a heavily underlined section, “this is the valley. He says it is about ten miles across and half as broad. At its head is a pass which is a wasteland. Beyond the pass is a great area of desert land, never before mapped. And here,” he pointed to a dozen radiating red lines from the focal point of the waste land under discussion, “are the routes we take.”
“Sounds complicated,” was Norton’s observation.
Conners sighed. “It is.”
He arose and gave the signal to resume their ride. The rest seemed to have worked miracles. For even the Murian seemed more at ease in the saddle. Conners was right. Norton’s watch showed twelve, when they reached the head of the valley.
Norton looked curiously down into the shallow floor of the valley. Never had he seen so many men on horseback. The entire floor was alive with mounted men. And more and more of the details of thirty kept riding down to join the rest. The Murian had picked an excellent spot. The valley was in effect a huge box. The entire floor was level, so that it made for easy handling of the large numbers of horsemen. Far ahead and seen through a haze, was the entrance to the pass Conners had spoken of.
Then the Indian led the way down.
Everything moved with clockwork-precision when they reached the valley floor. Two cavalrymen greeted them and after inquiring as to their number, directed them toward one side.
“You’ll find herders at number 2 camp site, sir,” one of them said.
“Where can I find General Sanders, private?” Conners asked.
“Headquarters is just beyond that stand of trees, sir,” came the answer.
Conners put the group in charge of one of the non-commissioned officers in their group and with Norton and his friends in tow made for headquarters.
The General’s face was alive with good humor and his eyes crinkled in greeting.
“Welcome!” he shouted in jovial tones. “Welcome! Norton, your friend is a genius. I tell you a genius! Now if we find the rest—but pshaw! Of course we will . . .”
“Excuse me, sir,” a voice broke in.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” the General turned to the officer who had intruded into his talk.
“Colonel West has just come in,” the rather young-looking officer said.
“Good! Send him in.”
While they waited for the Colonel’s arrival, Sanders rolled down an immense map which hung suspended from one of the canvas walls.
“Step this way, gentlemen,” the General said.
They crowded close to the wall. Norton saw that the map represented the immediate vicinity of the valley and an area not more than a hundred miles on all sides, as was shown by the scale at the bottom of the map.
The tent flap parted and a short, roly-poly man came through. There was something vivacious about his way of stepping, as if he was in the midst of a dance. His features, too, were alive with an inner joy, in contrast to the rest, even the General, who in spite of his air of joviality, had a suppressed air of tightness about him.
The Colonel had a high pitched voice, in keeping with his appearance.
“Maps again, eh, Sam?” he said in familiar greeting.
“That’s right. And you�
��d better get a good look at this one. I’m sending the first of the scouts out to get the lay of the land. As soon as they come back, the first detail will follow.”
“Carry on, mon Capitaine,” West said.
The General lifted a pointer from the wooden edge at the bottom of the map.
“As you will note, gentlemen,” he began, “this is a map of our operational area. According to the information given us, this area marked, A, is the goal we must attain. It’s a shallow, circular valley, flat for almost all of its surface, and it’s approximately twenty miles across. Precipitous bluffs surround it in its entirety.
“The numbers marked off in red, are troop disposal locations. I hope you have driven home to your junior and non-commissioned officers, the fact that they must memorize these locations. The signal corps will use the heliograph apparatus since we have been told that any mechanical signal devices will be detected. The attack will begin at 1700. Now, are there any questions?”
“Yes,” Conners said. “Why must we wait for the scouts? Why not go in and beat hell out of them now?”
“Because we don’t know whether they have arrived or not. We have reports to the effect that some of their planes have been seen. But we must have knowledge of how this Jetto is disposing his forces.”
There were no other questions.
“You will find dinner waiting in the mess,” the General announced. “I imagine most of you can use a hot meal.”
There were no dissenting voices.
THE moon was a brilliant silver disc.
Norton, lying on his stomach in the scrub grass looked down into the valley. Beside him lay the Murian. Farther off about ten yards, Witson kept Conners company. The silence was broken only by the small sounds of men seeking more comfortable positions in the tough grass and among the boulders. Norton knew that several hundreds of such group were scattered all around the rim of the valley.
Down below, the moon reflected on the shapes of a hundred cigar-shaped space ships. Fires made light the entire valley floor. At the very center of the valley, a half dozen gigantic machines showed distorted, grotesque shadows along the floor. He looked at his watch. Another hour of waiting, then—he steeled his mind against the thought that they might fail.
He rolled slightly and the muzzle of the gun at his side pressed deeply into his side. He pulled it forward and then Murian turned at the sound.
“You feel pretty certain that this weapon will do the trick,” he said.
“Yes!” Norton answered without hesitation. “Further, they’ll never know from where we’re firing, since there are no gun flashes to give us away.”
The moonlight showed the wry grin on Norton’s lips.
“We have a saying in this world, ‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating.’ It all came out so perfectly on the drawing board.”
“You mean,” the Murian asked incredulously, “that you haven’t even performed an experiment?”
“No!”
“Oh good! Fine! A brain storm and a whole world . . .”
“Wait, my friend,” Norton said hastily. “It isn’t as if I whistled in the wind. Mathematically it worked out perfectly. It should do the same in practice.”
The Murian sighed aloud. “We’ll see,” he said.
The darkness lightened and from the east a faint streak of pale-hued rosy light showed above the edge of the far plateau. The light grew brighter, climbed higher until the sun itself peeked down at them.
Norton shaded his eyes and looked keenly toward the light. Somewhere to one side of it General Sanders and a picked body of troops lay in seclusion. He turned his eyes away and looked below once again. Already there were the first signs of activity which proclaimed a new work day.
The thin, dry mountain air had the property of making things stand out with perfect clarity. He saw several men come from a large, low building. They were either the cooks or kitchen helpers, whose duty it was to start the fires going. Then, from another building a file of soldiers, dressed in the tight-fitting clothes of the Murians, marched forth.
A hand wrenched at his shoulder and a voice called in quick accents:
“Look! The signal!”
Norton hastily turned his glance in the direction of the other’s pointing finger. A signalman was using the blinker code on the heliograph. Over and over again, the message came, “Commence firing, as per instructions.” Even as Norton pointed the odd, funnel shaped muzzle in the direction of the space shapes, he found time to tell the Murian a final direction in the use of the gun:
“The range is about a thousand yards. Set the catch at ten, aim and fire. That’s all there is to it.”
It was strange, and fearsome too, the absence of sound. Norton and the rest pressed the triggers of their guns and nothing seemed to happen. Yet down below, in the shallow, circular valley, terrible things were taking place.
WHERE the space ships had once stood, there was only emptiness now. And where the derrick shapes of the huge machines had been, only emptiness remained. Norton felt a sickness come over him when he saw what happened to those unfortunate enough to be caught in the path of the soundless waves. Whatever part of their body was struck just disappeared. So it was that he saw trunkless legs still running in reflex action. And saw headless bodies stagger drunkenly about. Then a half dozen shadows passed slowly across the valley floor, like the distorted shapes of pre-historic birds. It puzzled him. Then the Murian shouted:
“Quick! Before they loose the ray on us!”
It was the feared air patrol.
“Conners!” Norton called hastily to the Colonel. “Get that gun going.”
A half dozen men sprang from the tall grass and raced to the large caliber gun hidden between two boulders. In a few, elongated, ugly snout pointed heavenward. Norton peered upward to where the patrol ships had separated. Just as the Murian had said, they flew at a rather low level and slowly. Perfect targets. Yet when the gunners released their silent blasts at them, they continued in flight. Something was wrong. And that something had to be righted. Soon! For already some of the planes had let go their cargoes of madness on those below. Norton saw men on the far side of the rim in the first stages of madness. Soon all would come under the influence of the ray.
“Blast them!” the Murian shouted, leaping to his feet. “They’re impregnable to sound. And that’s what your weapon is, isn’t it?”
Norton nodded, too overcome with horror to speak.
“Call Conners, quick!”
The Colonel dashed over as if the devil was at his heels.
“Tell the General to attack,” the Murian said. “And quickly, before it’s too late.”
“You mean have the men go down there?” Conners asked incredulously.
“Yes! Yes!” the other answered with impatience.
The emergency of the moment was too great to permit detailed explanations. Conners did as he was told. And even as he gave instructions to the signalman attached to their outfit, the Murian began a headlong, reckless race to reach the bottom. Hard at his heels, Norton and Witson followed in close pursuit. They reached the flat and as they pelted onward after the Murian, they heard the pursuing footsteps of the soldiery.
Norton hadn’t noticed it, but directly below them was a shed of some sort. It was evident that the Murian was making for it. And that there were those within it who were just as evidently intent on seeing to it that he didn’t. For from several apertures in the walls, flashes of light blossomed. And the ground all around the running man suddenly darkened as the flame scorched the earth.
Worse, now Norton and the rest came into the open at the mercy of those hidden within. Nor did they waste time leveling their volleys at them.
The Murian skidded to a halt, and fell flat on his face. For a second, Norton thought he had been hit. Then he saw the other lift the gun he still carried to his shoulder and press the trigger. And where a second before there had been a shed, there was nothing. The miracle of sound, high beyond the power of
the ear to get, had disintegrated it.
Conners panted to a stop beside the prone body of the Murian.
“The General wants to know what to do now?” he asked breathlessly.
The Murian rose slowly. He looked about and saw that the signalman was waiting only a few feet away, his mirror-like heliograph in readiness. He pointed to a pear-shaped building a half mile off, set in the edge of a particularly perpendicular section of the cliff, and said:
“Our weapons will have no effect, either on the building or the destroyer ships. They are impregnable to sound. So there is but one thing to do. Take that building . . . by direct attack!”
“That would be suicidal,” Conners said in horror.
“Better death that way, than . . .” the Murian pointed to the rim of the cliff. And they got his meaning. The ray had now begun to show the harvest it had sowed. A gigantic battle seemed to be in progress up there. They saw men in savage hand to hand combat. And above them, the ships moved in languid, graceful flight, sowing the seeds of madness.
CONNERS turned without another word and signalled to the waiting signalman. Immediately, the flashes went forth giving the do or die command of the Murian.
Not all of the men had stayed above. Great numbers of them had come below. With and without leaders, they came forward to get into close quarters with the enemy.
It was an even battle until the Murians realized that the Earthmen’s guns were more than a match for their own blast pistols. Then at a command from someone in the pear-shaped, metallic affair those in the open retreated to the safety of the sound-proof barracks. Once inside, they turned their weapons on their adversaries with terrible effect.
All this time, Norton and the others were making at full speed for the shelter of a large steel dormitory. Someone was waving a white shirt from one of the windows. They piled into the structure, guns at the ready. There wasn’t anything to be afraid of. Only an immense room, stretching for a full hundred yards, divided into halves, barren except for bunks on either side: there was no other thing in the room. Nothing but a handful of the most wretched humans they had ever seen. They were gathered in a huddle in the near corner of the room, their eyes looking toward them with the frightened looks of those in too great a misery to do anything else.