by Earl
Then he told me all about the big explosion that blew him off the Earth. He had got on the track of atomic power, there in his Fort Wayne workshop. He got it in little spurts, with tiny amounts of activated fuel. He hoped to develop the process to where it could be used industrially. Then came the disaster—an explosion that killed 25,000 people, dug a hole a half-mile deep. He estimates that a whole pound of matter had gone off at once.
Then he got to crying again when he continued talking. Chief, do you know the whole thing was not his fault at all, and not deliberate? He is positive it resulted through the carelessness of his assistant. He had taken the most elaborate precautions against danger. But he can’t prove his point, because the assistant was blown up. The very fact that Halbert himself had been leaving in his car, and was miles away at the time, made it look bad for him.
You know the rest, Chief. Court trial, insinuations that he aimed at rule of Earth and all that rot, sentence to exile for the rest of his natural days—for the murder of 25,000 people. Murder? Chief, this guy wouldn’t step on a lowly skunk, human or otherwise. He’s a humanitarian, or I’m not Aston Wyrick, the best newsman this side of Orion. So you can imagine how the sentence has corroded his soul during all these years.
But he didn’t give up, or get bitter. He still wants to give civilization the gift of atomic power. The Mercurians finally sponsored him, three years ago. He’s worked on it ever since, harder than a slave. His success in his mine will mean atomic power for the entire System. And he says that if it works, he’ll send the plans to Earth—anonymous!
Chief, you’re too commercial to appreciate this sort of thing. But I’m a poet down underneath, so to me it’s the real thing. You take that writeup I’m sending you by radio-cable and print it word for word. Don’t let any of your rewriters touch it or, so help me, I’ll tear the office apart when I get back.
We’ve got to take up Halbert’s case, Chief. We must smear the truth about him all over the System. We can prepare the ground for him so that, when and if his atomic power works, he’ll get the full pardon he deserves. Tomorrow is the tryout, and it’ll be a great thing for Multiplaneteer, too. All set, Chief? Answer immediately. Rick
MAY twenty-seventh, three ten P.M.
Dear Rick:
You crazy crusader! Dr. Halbert’s case is taboo, closed. It’s packed dynamite. The Congress of Scientists would blackball Multiplaneteer for the next two ages if we opened up your way. Lay off, dimwit. Is it the soup, vodka, or Orby? Brown
May twenty-seventh, six-nine P.M.
Dear Chief:
Since when has anything but the great arbiter, Public Opinion, ruled about the humanities? With the success of Halbert’s atomic power, my story will start a riot from here to Hermes if the Brainies in Congress don’t give him the Distinguished Cross of Space!
You want human interest. Here it is, you primordial dope! Rick
May twenty-seventh, Midnight.
Dear Rick:
Who are you calling primordial? You’re fired, utterly, completely, ultimately, eternally! Anderson is taking the next liner for Venus, to continue your Tour where you got left off. Back to your poems and puddling post. Good-by and good riddance.
Brown
May twenty-eighth, Noon.
Dear Mr. Brown:
Okay. I ought to send you a radiocable, telling what I think of you—at one cent a word. You wouldn’t rate five. Aston Wyrick, Esq.
May thirtieth, noon.
Dear Mr. Brown:
I’m no longer in your employ, so this is off the record.
Dr. Halbert’s machines worked! They worked like a million bucks, purring like a well fed cat. At the cost of five dollars—which includes fuel, depreciation of machinery and all—he dug out a thousand dollars worth of platinum in one hour. That, Mr. Brown, is history!
Of course that’s all it is, just history. It won’t mean that the System’s industry will treble itself overnight, raising the standard of living for everyone, mostly you and maybe me. It won’t mean the dawn of a greater civilization. That’s only for poets like me to rave about. You know better. And you know, too, that the man who did it is a scoundrel, a murderer, a beast who wantonly wiped out half a town just for the fun of it.
You should have seen the look on his face, Brown. You’d think he was looking straight into some heaven—and also into some hell.
But why should I bother to go on? It’s the vodka in me. Believe it or not, I’m going on a permanent jag and stay on it, so I won’t get sober and realize what tiny piddlers you and I and all the rest of us are compared with that man. Even Orby can’t stop me. Aston Wyrick, Poet
May thirtieth, Midnight.
Dear Rick:
All is forgiven! I took a chance with your story and it went over with a bang. Went to press three hours ago and already about five million radiograms and cables have come in, cheering for Dr. Halbert, demanding his pardon. What a great day for Multiplaneteer! And also for you, Rick. Your story did it. It really wasn’t a bad writeup, when you examine it closely—and reverently.
Incidentally you’re reinstated with Multiplaneteer, at double salary. Little fit of anger I had. Trivial thing. I know you didn’t really intend to hit the bottles, anyhow. Brown
MAY thirty-first, Noon.
Dear Brown:
Sorry. Can’t postpone that bun. Besides, I have some poetry to write. Besides that, Orby has other plans Rick
May thirty-first, Midnight.
Dear Rick:
I won’t lecture you, but you’ve got to postpone your stew! You must get an exclusive interview with Halbert for us. Multiplaneteer needs you. I’m a cosmic heel, an abysmal ass, a primordial dope—at five cents a word. You’re the greatest newsman that ever lived. Your poetry is divine. Orby is all right, too. But what can he offer you that I can’t? Triple salary on the spot! Brown
June first, Noon.
Dear Chief:
You’re darned right Orby is all right! But you seem to have the idea that Orby is a male of some species. No, my pal. She’s a woman, a lovely one.
Note the date, Chief? It’s my wedding with her that I can’t postpone. There won’t be any more stews, incidentally. Orby insists on that.
My poetry was what won her, Chief!
We’ve talked it over and decided we’ll take your offer. I believe you promised four times my former pathetic salary? Anyway, Orby doesn’t want me in pictures, or even in Hollywood, for some reason. We’ll have our honeymoon on Venus and I’ll carry on for Multiplaneteer at the same time, on the Grand Tour.
Exclusive interview with Halbert coming to you via radio-cable. He is one happy man, Chief, even happier than me, his humble instrument of redemption.
Your Extraterra Correspondent signing off for the present. We’re taking the next liner for Venus, to be married in space. Rick
June first, one-fourteen P.M.
Dear Rick:
Congratulations, sight unseen! I won’t have to lecture you any more—at five cents a word. Orby can take the job, at whatever rate Cupid charges. Make a poem out of that. . . .
Brown
VASSALS OF THE MASTER WORLD
Mighty Tharkya——for untold aeons the tyrant ruler of a million conquered galaxies. Then from fettered Earth came the clarion call to arms—’“Revolt!”—and ten billion slaves blasted to certain self-annihilation against the energon-supplied armadas of the Master World.
IT was a peculiar singing whine, followed by a ground-shaking thump, that woke James Kaine from a sound, dreamless sleep.
He half rose in bed, straining his ears. Whines and thumps were not the common thing in this quiet, open section of New Jersey. but Kaine didn’t investigate at first. He was annoyed and tried to resume sleep, settling back. In the following minutes he became wide awake as he heard clinking sounds, like the use of tools. Also a glow of light reflected from outside.
Muttering under his breath, Kaine slipped noiselessly from bed, envying his wife who had not awak
ened. He looked out of the second-story window of their bungalow. The nearest neighbor was a block away.
It was the dark hour before dawn. The sky was peppered with star sparks, and over the northwestern horizon pulsed the glow of New York City. But the light that had come from somewhere near was out now.
Kaine strained his eyes toward the far end of his property and barely made out a long, smooth bulk. It was metallic, glinting with starshine. What the devil was it—an airplane? They had a nerve, landing on his lawn and probably ruining it.
But it must be an emergency landing.
He stared. Dimly, then, he saw the figure crouching before a long tube that seemed set on a tripod, outside the ship. The tube probed skyward, like a telescope, and changed angle every few seconds with a rustle of pinions. Kaine couldn’t make out the figure.
“Damn!” he breathed. “I suppose I’ll have to go see.”
He left the window and fumbled for his clothes in the dark, all thought of further sleep gone. As he dressed the first grays of dawn stole through the air. Quietly, he left his sleeping wife, went down the creaky stairs and out into the crisp air.
Curiously, as he had occasion to reflect later, his uppermost thought was that if any part of his lawn had been plowed up, they’d pay for it. But back of that, he had a vague sense of the extraordinary in this event.
“Hallo there!” he called softly as he rounded the corner of the house. “What’s the trouble?”
He strode forward, peering through the morning mists.
Three things came to Kaine’s attention with stunning rapidity. Half his lawn was a seared, blackened mess. Secondly, the ship had no wings. And third, the figure that straightened from the tube and turned wasn’t—
His mind almost refused to accept it.
—Wasn’t human!
Kaine gasped and blinked.
The figure was manlike, but not human. It was short and willowy, gnome-like with a blue skin and large head. It was built in the same plan as man except for having four arms, a pair on each side. The face was intelligent, the large owl-eyes keen. These features were clearly visible behind a wonderfully transparent globe that encircled the head and fitted snugly at the neck. It must be breathing its own, artificial atmosphere.
FRIGHT came like a blow to James Kaine. He hoped it was an illusion. But the strengthening blaze of dawn did not vanish it. His mind whirled at the verge of panic. For a moment he was just a child confronted by a bogey-man, ready to bolt with a scared whimper.
Then mental relays clicked and replaced blind fear with curiosity. He swallowed, forcing himself to adopt the scientific outlook on this. As a writer of scientific articles, some of which had speculated on otherworldly life, he must accept the alien being for what it was—a creature from some other world. He felt color drain back into his face.
The blue being, in turn, showed little surprise at his appearance. Rather, he seemed puzzled. He looked at Kaine, then around at the scenery and up into the sky, as though asking himself a mental question. Finally he spoke.
The flowing words were unintelligible to Kaine. He shook his head. The syllables changed to clacking consonants, apparently of a different language. After several other variations of speech, the blue man, non-plussed, motioned for Kaine to speak.
“You want me to talk?” Kaine queried. “But you can’t know my language, either—”
“Talk!” returned the alien commandingly.
Kaine now noticed that the blue man’s voice issued from a small machine on his chest, with a metallic overtone.
“I can’t think of much to say,” Kaine stammered.
“Talk—much!” ordered the alien, or his voice machine. Kaine had sudden respect for the device. It obviously learned words instantly, crazy as that seemed, through some telepathic channel.
Incredible? This was all incredible. But it was happening, right here and now in 1940.
What should he say? Kaine’s mind became an annoying blank, as if from stage fright.
“For Pete’s sake!” he mumbled. “With the whole dictionary full of words, I’m stuck.”
“Dictionary! Words!” repeated the uncanny voice, mimicing his inflection perfectly. Then, a little hesitantly: “For Pete’s sake—dictionary!”
It was, Kaine sensed, a command.
He hurried to the house and returned with his Collegiate Dictionary. The elflike being still stood beside his telescopic instrument with an impatient air. Kaine started at “AA” in the dictionary, waded through half a column, and then began skipping. After all, abacus, abaft, abase, and words of that type were unnecessary to average speech. Besides, it would take all day to include them. Selecting, and going as rapidly as he could, Kaine raced through the alphabet.
He stopped in the “l’s” suddenly and glanced at the attentively listening blue man.
“Do you understand everything so far?” he asked practically.
“Certainly!” the alien retorted.
Kaine finished an hour later, his throat dry and hoarse.
“Thank you!” said the blue man. “Now I am able to use your language quite readily. This instrument on my chest catches the telepathic impulse that you automatically send out with each spoken word. It records them indelibly as thought-tracks along a spool of wire. When I speak, in my own language, the instrument mechanically substitutes your words. There are hundreds of other languages recorded on separate spools.”
The blue man paused, and Kaine opened his mouth to ask some of the buzzing questions in his mind. But the alien being seemed to have questions of his own, and beat Kaine to it.
“What sector of space is this?” he queried. “Frankly, I’m lost! I made observations with the telescope, but can’t seem to place your primary’s position. Is your sun in Sector M-45, or perhaps N-23?”
“Search me,” Kaine returned, bewildered. “I don’t know anything about space sectors.”
“You must!” snapped the blue man, frowning impatiently. “Everyone knows the space sector his sun is in. Is it L-62? I thought I recognized an L-62 star before.”
“I tell you I don’t know,” Kaine declared firmly. “You’re talking gibberish, as far as I’m concerned. Or anyone else on Earth. You say you’re lost. What planet or world are you from?”
“Are you joking?” accused the blue man, his eyes wide and angry. “Surely you must know I’m one of the Tharkyans?”
“I didn’t know till you told me.”
“You’ve never seen my kind before?”
“Never!” Kaine was sure of that. “Your system hasn’t been censused, by our census-takers?”
“Of course not, whatever you mean.”
“And you’ve never paid the Tax?”
“See here,” Kaine grunted. “You’re talking riddles.”
The Tharkyan leaned against his telescope, shaking his head inside his helmet in a curiously human mannerism. He waved his four arms as if overwhelmed.
“Then this sun has been overlooked—for Pete’s sake!” he marveled. “Completely passed over by our scouts, explorers, governing commission, census-takers and tax-collectors! How strange!”
JAMES KAINE felt ready to burst with unanswered enigmas. What the blue man had revealed sounded ridiculous—and yet chillingly ominous.
“You mean then,” he asked, “that you’re from some other star with planets, and that your race has colonized other planet systems?”
“Let me explain.”
The little blue being stood erect and went on. “We Tharkyans are the oldest, most civilized, and most powerful race in this galaxy. A million of your years ago—I computed your orbit—we arose to our heights. Our sun lies about 50,000 light-years from here, near the hub of the galaxy. Achieving the faster-than-light drive for our space ships, we gradually spread out among the stars. As you may know, there are more than 100 billion stars in this galaxy. Only one out of 100,000 has planets, but that means a total of a million colony systems. One million and twelve, according to the last census. The
y comprise our empire!”
Kaine gasped. The British Empire in spatial terms!
“You’ve colonized them all—over a million planetary systems?”
“All except this one it seems.” The blue man smiled whimsically. “And perhaps a few others we’ve somehow missed. Distances are so vast, and recording methods so intricate, that it has been quite a project. We have gone from one end of the galaxy to the other, which is 200,000 light years in its greatest extent. We scouted, explored, set up a governing body and collected tax from the last new system ten thousand years ago. But now, of course, this solar system will be the last, or latest, to join the empire.”
“What if we don’t wish to join?” Kaine objected, slightly repulsed at the Tharkyan’s lordly manner of saying it. “What does joining involve?”
“Rule by us,” the blue man returned blandly. “You have no choice in the matter, in the first place. Almost all the planet systems have native civilizations. All are under our jurisdiction.”
He waved two of his four arms, dismissing the matter.
“My name is Thork,” he introduced himself. “Of the Inspection Service. I was on my way to sector L-28, to inspect our station there, when I ran into a small cosmic cloud. That is, a dark area caused by fine dust in space. I must have passed a star that threw me off course. Anyway, I found myself lost, and landed here to get my bearings. Little did I know I had found a new, undiscovered system of planets!”
He went on thoughtfully.
“Incidentally, I can see why your system has escaped detection so long. The dark cloud, or nebula, covers you on three sides. You don’t see it yourself because of your proximity to it, and its diffuseness. It’s likely that no one else would have blundered into your star for another thousand years, if I hadn’t found it. But come, I must see more of your world and your civilization. You will be my guide.”
“But my wife—” Kaine objected automatically.
“Wife—um—mate,” Thork murmured, as if comparing the dictionary terms. “I will give you five minutes,” he conceded magnanimously. “Tell her as little or as much as you want, in that time. You will not be harmed.”