by Earl
The plant-man’s crown of petals flipped in what might have corresponded to a nod. “Our race evolved on—” Then he stopped suddenly, as though abruptly realizing the significance of what he was revealing.
Fostar pointed the barrel of his gun directly at the creature’s eye. “You will talk—or die!” he threatened grimly.
The plant-man unmistakably quailed. With him, as with perhaps any other creature in the universe, the individual will to live was a dominant factor. For a moment, his unwinking eye stared with stubborn defiance, and then he said:
“The next outward planet, the fifth, is our home world!”
“Go on!” commanded Fostar, glancing around at his companions. “How did your race get to this planet? How did you destroy the Eaters? Tell me as much as you can!”
“It is a long story,” returned the alien. “I do not know all of it. Much of it is almost legend. About five thousand”—Fostar’s mind interpreted the next vague term as “years”—“ago, our race achieved a peak of civilization. We were the dominant life-form. Our world had always been a prolific floral environment. Evolution produced a moving plant-form—our ancestral type—that prospered because it could seek its own sunlight, instead of struggling against all other rooted plants. Intelligence evolved, with our limbs. And telepathy, since we had no”—the appropriate word seemed to be “vocal chords,” in Fostar’s mind. The plant-man resumed.
“But our sun had been gradually, cooling from its original super-hot state. Sunlight, our very life, fell in intensity. When we achieved space-travel, we came to this world and found it much more suitable. We multiplied rapidly, through spore reproduction. The Eaters, a rising civilization, objected. War flamed!” The alien stirred, as though coming to the climax of his narrative. “We prevailed! Two thousand years ago, the last city of the Eaters fell to our hordes and weapons. We had gained a new world!”
“Murder!” whispered Fostar tensely. “Race murder!”
The plant-man seemed to sigh, ignoring the accusation. “Since then, as some of us maintain, we have degenerated. Life has been too easy on this new world. Much of our science is lost. We do not even have space-ships anymore! We have only one primitive weapon, for protection against wild beasts. We spend our time sunning ourselves, absorbing the good things of this world—” The telepathic impulses of the plant-man became fainter and rambling, as though he were thinking to himself, and had forgotten his audience.
Fostar sprang up, eyes glowing. “There’s our answer, Dr. Bronzun!” he exclaimed. “We have as much right to this world as they have. They murdered an entire race, ruthlessly. Is there any reason now why we can’t lead our people here?”
“None at all!” agreed the scientist, heaving a sigh with the release of a depressing problem. “Our search for a new world is ended!”
“It’s a horrible thought,” shuddered Alora, gazing around at the ruins. “That this once-great civilization was destroyed—mercilessly. In a way, we’ll be revenging these people—”
“Need I remind you gentlemen,” interposed Angus Macluff mildly, “that we have yet to reach our ship? Earth will never hear of this world from us, I’m afraid!”
FOSTAR tried his radio again, realizing that now, more than ever, it was vital for them to reach the ship and return to Earth. “Fostar calling Marten Crodell. Fostar cal—”
And then, over the quiet hiss of the tiny receiver, a voice interrupted. “Marten Crodell answering. I’ve been trying to contact you. Why have you been gone so long? Is Alora safe?” His tones were anxious.
“We’re lost and in trouble!” Fostar went on in clipped phrases, giving their story.
“That explains these green beings watching the ship!” said the land-owner. He went on slowly, half hesitantly. “I had told myself I would neither hinder nor help you, Rolan Fostar, since I’ve been in your ship!”
Fostar gasped. They were the words of a cold, practical man, one who had all his life believed himself fanatically right. How incredible his attitude seemed now, under the light of an alien sun, perhaps even to himself! There was a strange, thoughtful undertone of doubt in his tones, as though he had been thinking deeply while they had been gone.
“However, under the circumstances,” Marten Crodell went on, “I’m with you! My daughter is in danger. I can’t fly the ship to Earth alone. And we are facing a common enemy—if not a common cause. I’ll help, Fostar, in whatever way I can!”
“All right!” snapped Fostar. “You know something of the ship’s controls. Start the rocket-motor, let it Idle. We’ll get our bearings from the sound. When we get near the ship, be ready with a rifle to cover us. Start the motor now.”
They waited tensely. A minute later, a steady low rumble sounded over the quiet of the dead city. “Let’s go!” cried Fostar, facing the direction from which it came.
“And I think we’d better hurry!” remarked Angus Macluff. “That green beggar you were talking to slipped away while we weren’t looking. He’ll have his companions after us before long!”
And so it proved. Pattering feet sounded behind them as they hurried through the demolished city. But now, at least, they knew their goal. At a flying pace, they managed to keep well ahead of the pursuers.
“If only we aren’t cut off!” panted Fostar.
It seemed they would be at the next intersection, but the group facing them was small. Their gun-blasts cleared the way. Again, further, a flanking group of the enemy appeared, but too late to intercept the flying Earth-people.
His gun hot and smoking in his hand, Fostar laughed grimly. As fighters and strategists, the green plant-men were clumsily incompetent. Degenerate, ineffective, they certainly were. Mankind would have little trouble eliminating them—thus avenging the race murder of the original, human-like inhabitants.
Finally, the panting Earth-people saw their ship, near now, glinting brightly in the sunlight. Dr. Bronzun gave a hoarse shout of relief, then stumbled, falling back. Angus Macluff flung a brawny arm around his waist and hurried him on. Fostar slipped Alora’s arm into his and pulled her along, to keep up their speed.
They reached the edge of the ruins.
As they ran into the clearing beyond, a group of the aliens stood between them and the ship. A withering blast from the Earth-people’s guns failed to disperse them. Bullets hummed back.
Then, from the lock of the ship sounded the barking hiss of a blast-rifle. Marten Crodell stood there, pumping away methodically, raking the aliens from the back.
Under this double deluge of death, the remaining plant-men broke. They scattered, in utter rout. The way was clear!
Exhausted, the four stumbled into the ship. Marten Crodell closed the lock, shutting out the menace of the plant-people.
FOSTAR sat at the controls, a month later, watching the sun—their sun—slowly expand in the void. Their argosy among the stars was over. Thinking back, the last six months of orthodox time seemed crowded with a lifetime of incredible events. It had been like a fantastic dream, sometimes nightmarish, sometimes too starkly realistic. Mankind doomed—mankind saved! And he had been an instrument of destiny!
When they had come within the confines of the Solar System, and Fostar had slowed their superpace to less than light-speed, he tuned the radio for news from their home world.
After a while, a message repeated in a variety of ways blared forth.
“Dr. Bronzun’s theory of doom is now believed corroborated! The observatories of Oberon, Titan and Io report a decrease in the cosmic rays. Space-time is thinning. Earth and the whole Solar System are careening to the Edge of Space! And out there lies—annihilation!”
“At last—they realize it!” cried Dr. Bronzun. He exchanged quiet glances of triumph with Angus Macluff and Fostar.
But Fostar and Alora were watching Marten Crodell. They saw the swift, unbelieving shock that spread over his face. Stunned, he stared out into space—out toward the Beyond. His body shook.
Fostar pitied him. The land-owner was seeing
his lifelong empire of money and land crumbling about his head. He, more than any one else In the Solar System, felt the doom as a personal blow. It was not till an hour later that he turned, facing them.
“I was wrong,” he said simply. “And you were right!” He squared his angular shoulders. “Come, let us tell them of the new world!”
A YEAR later, at Yorkopolis’ greatest space-port, the five again stood together. Television apparatus hummed busily, recording a memorable event. Dr. Bronzun and Marten Crodell stood shaking hands, as a commentator spoke to the millions listening in.
“These two men, people of earth, have done great service to humanity, but will do infinitely more. Dr. Bronzun is in charge of the Great Migration. Marten Crodell, formerly our greatest interplanetary organizer, will be his first assistant. To the side you see Rolan Fostar, chief pilot in charge of the transport fleet. Alora Crodell, with him, is to become his bride, in the first marriage on the new world! Angus Macluff, chief engineer of the fleet, will be their best man. And today, they lead us to our new Earth!”
Ceremonies over, the party stepped within the huge, trim ship nearby, and a moment later it took off. With a roaring crescendo, ship after ship followed, carrying the first of humanity—save for the previous military expeditions—to their new home far out in the void. The long line of the ferry fleet spiraled off into space.
Within the officers’ cabin of the flagship, Fostar ordered the auxiliary pilot room to take over, then sneaked a kiss from Alora. Dr. Bronzun and Marten Crodell pretended to be interested in the wall charts.
“Marriage is a dangerous tiling!” said Angus Macluff dolefully. “I’m afraid you two will be very unhappy!”
“You old fraud!” accused Alora, wrinkling her nose at him. “You know you mean just the opposite!”
EPILOGUE
TWENTY years later, Yorkopolis lay quiet and empty, as were all the other cities and habitations of man, borne by the deserted Earth toward destruction. Queerly, however, some few hundreds of people kept vigil, having refused to leave Earth, unable to bear the thought of taking up life on a new world.
Suddenly Manhattan Island lifted itself into the sky and floated gently oceanward. The ocean became as smooth as glass, as natural laws reversed themselves inexplicably, with thinning space-time. The sun shed down an eerie green light, and under it grass grew a mile high at elevator speed. These were the beginnings of chaos . . .
But humanity lived on in a new world, under a new sun, safe from the doom.
THE BLACK COMET
Captain Moor was called mad, because he dared to brave the limitless expanse of interplanetary space!—He led his crew, like a Columbus of the void, to the alien world of Mars and a series of weird adventures!
MOST of the passengers were in their cabins and asleep. It was well past the third hour of the night-period. Bob Andrews leisurely made his way along the A-corridor. He was heading for the lounge salon of the main deck. Perhaps some passenger was still up, with whom he might chat—any way, anything but sleep. He had had too much of it since the ship left Mars.
The young officer quickened his pace. He was passing the corridor intersection. Bob Andrews suddenly felt the cold steel of a gun in the small of his back. He stopped short at the command of a gruff voice. For a brief second a shuddering thrill ran through him. Was the ship being taken over by spacateers? Such a thing had not happened in the spaceways for years!
He was ordered into cabin M42. The door stood partly ajar.
It appeared to Bob Andrews that the man was laboring for breath, as if from violent exertion, or as if mortally wounded and gasping for air. He wondered what all this meant as he entered M42.
A moment later he heard the door being bolted behind him. He was ordered to turn around.
Bob Andrews gasped and his eyes dilated from startled shock. Before him stood an Osatar, red skin half hidden by his covering of soft white hair. The face was almost human and denoted intelligence. This man of Mars had long tentacles instead of arms. From each shoulder socket a pair of them hung almost to the floor. They twisted and quivered like serpents.
The earthman shuddered, but not at the sight of the familiar Osatar. On the floor, sprawled in death, lay the body of a Red-devil. It was typically brilliant red of skin, devoid of hair, and with taloned and webbed hands and feet. The face was satanic and leering.
It was the first Red-devil from the Kouun Basin that Bob Andrews had ever seen. His racing mind tried to account for the savage monster’s presence aboard a spaceship. Such a thing had seldom been reported before.
The Osatar supplied the information, huskily: “Smuggled out of the Kouun Basin by someone who . . . who is my enemy . . . to murder me. Hid in the ship when it left Mars . . . attacked me tonight. I killed him.”
Bob Andrews saw the gaping knife wound in the Red-devil’s chest. A pool of green-tinted blood had trickled to the floor.
The two men stared at each other. The Martian was about to speak again when he wavered. Hia body trembled. One of the tentacles grasped a chair for support Another groped in a pocket of his tunic and brought forth a packet. With a shaking tentacle it was tendered to the earthman.
“Take this,” the Osatar said, “and guard it with your life. On it are directions . . . destination . . . deliver it.” The gruff voice trailed off to a husky whisper: “Deliver it . . . without fail!”
The alien creature was slowly sinking to the floor. The young officer could see death in its glassy green eyes. He leaped forward to give aid. A tentacle waved him away.
“I die,” hissed the Martian. “It is to late . . . my enemy succeeded. . . .” A curling tentacle touched the raw knife wound at the throat, from which thick green blood welled, soaking the tunic. “I die . . . but Mad Moor. . . . Mad Moor lives! . . . packet . . .”
The Martian crumpled to the floor—dead.
The young ship’s officer stood as if transfixed. He could scarcely believe the last words that had fallen from the lips of the Osatar. Mad Moor alive! Could it be possible when a universe had mourned him as dead for nearly a quarter century! His hand trembled as his eyes stared at the mysterious packet.
When Bob Andrews left M42 to make the formal report of the double death, the packet was well hidden inside his shirt, next to his skin. Should he confide in Bill and Dick? He pondered that question gravely as he made his way forward.
THE Blue Star settled as lightly as a feather in its cradle. With a slight bump, it came to rest. It lay amidst the mass of metal spars like some unknown creature from an uncharted sea. The many faceted sides of its great steel body scintillated in the rays of the setting sun. From the many opened ports streamed the passengers. It was like a swarm of ants about a goose egg.
From a port near the stern of the space-liner stepped three young officers, arm in arm. They were resplendent in their uniforms of green leather and shining silver braid. They, in common with other spacemen of this year of 2275, had the grace and strength of well-trained athletes.
Bob Andrews dragged his two companions along. His eyes reflected eagerness. He paid no attention to the questions they deluged him with. In their haste, they collided with an officer who had just stepped from an elevator coming up from the city outlet of this giant cradle station. The officer staggered back before recovering balance.
The three young officers jumped to stiff attention and saluted when they saw who it was. Commander Knowlton eyed them sternly as he straightened his coat.
“Hell-larking no sooner a ship cradles,” the words crackled out. “By Jupiter, I’ll be at the next Solar Assizes and see if I can put a stop to this sort of foolishness.”
He whirled on his heels and stamped for the main landing.
“The old walrus,” growled Dick when the Commander was out of ear-shot. “Just because we’re hurrying.”
“And just why are we hurrying?” queried Bill. He addressed his question to Bob Andrews, as they entered an elevator.
Bob snapped the switch for the ground
level. It wasn’t till they reached it that he answered.
“You’ll know when we get to my apartment. After that, I’ll wager we’ll be off on the keenest adventure of our lives. It’ll be twice the thrill of our first assignment to Venus.”
Again with two arms about his companions’ shoulders, he dragged them along to the nearest tube-lane.
In the secrecy of his apartment, soundproof from casual ears, Bob Andrews told his two friends that part of the story not entered in his official report. He told of the packet, and of the dying Martian’s last words.
“Mad Moor?” exploded Bill. “The Mad Moor history refers to?”
He and Dick looked at each other breathlessly. Mad Moor! He was the hearts’ hero of every young officer in the Solar System!
“Undoubtedly the same,” nodded Bob. “He was the first man to take a spaceship beyond the moon and return, in 2220. Sixteen years old at the time! And I thought I was good in becoming a commissioned spaceman at eighteen. Six years after the pioneer space trip to the moon, he blasted to Mars and back. And then for nearly a quarter-century he blazed trails throughout the Solar System. His adventures were more fantastic than those old fairy tales we have heard about. It took iron nerves and red-blooded courage to fly the old rocket ships they had over a half century ago. Imagine landing a huge steel ship like they had with rocket blasts, and on strange satellites and planets to boot. Today, with the Eco Cradles,[1] anyone with a little technical training can land a ship. But Mad Moor sailed the void when there were no Eco Cradles, only harsh rocks and solid ground to land on.
“Mad Moor they called him, because he took no thought of the great odds against him in those first days of solar exploration. When he had opened almost every possible lane of interplanetary travel, and had nothing to do but watch others follow in his pioneering footsteps, he disappeared for three years. He was thought dead, wrecked in space. He came back, though, to organize the famous SSS[2] when spacateers began robbing freighters and endangering the safety of space-travel.”