Fantastic Vignettes

by Jerry

  Sadly Zee-Zee surveyed the rapidly running puddle that had been Clarice’s clothes. “Oh!” was all he said.

  The Arctic Shield

  Sandy Miller

  “THEY DON’T have the faintest idea,” Clinton, Officer Commanding, First Radar Network, said calmly to the assembled group of officers deep in the icy, earthly bowels of the Arctic Circle, “that we’ve got the radar and video on them right now.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled quizzically, “—and they’re in for a surprise if they try something—which is almost a certainty that they will.”

  Clinton had good reason to brief the officers for the war drums were sounding all over Asia and the atom-headed war rockets would soon begin their long trajectories toward the industrial behemoths of the United States.

  Clinton went on talking, reviewing the tense situation and making sure his men had their commands in tip-top shape. The danger was immediate.

  Suddenly the red light above the communications desk flared brightly and the triple radar screens flashed on. Two robot-video screens also went on disclosing a flat cheerless field where row on row, were huge rockets, apparently primed and waiting. Simultaneously almost the video screens blinked out as the enemy shot their spy-carriers out of the air. But that was enough. At once the room cleared as men rushed to their posts.

  Clinton and his aids saw it come—over the radar screens. The greenish pips of light slowly rose from the center of the screen, their velocity gradually increasing.

  There was little emotion on the soldier’s face as he pressed the “action” button. The base was primed. Overhead the cold clear sky showed nothing, nor did the radar screen reveal more—for the moment.

  “By God!” Clinton roared, “here they come.” The pips slithered over the graduated line on the screens showing they—the rockets were within firing range.

  Now the interceptors, inhuman robotic rockets rose in linear trajectories at tremendous speeds. Little darts of destruction waiting to contact the enemy’s worst.

  The resultant holocaust astonished even Clinton who had expected something like it. The hideous plumes of exploding atomheaded war rockets filled the skies. The Geigers went mad as the radioactivity overloaded them. The Arctic base spat defense rocket after defense rocket, in huge droves, smothering the attackers beneath an overwhelming superiority.

  And as quickly as it had begun, it ended, leaving only the snake-stemmed mushrooms of ice and water and gas to mark the beginning of the war. Laconically, Clinton spoke into the communicators, part of the Washington hook-up: “First enemy rocket attack repelled completely—nothing through the defense screen. Enemy completely unprepared for us. No life lost—neither ours nor theirs.”

  And, Clinton thought, that “no loss of life” sounds good. How long will robots and rockets do the fighting? When will they succeed in pushing a bomb through to the states? When will the cities feel the hand of the Devil?

  Clinton sat down wearily. The war was on nerves, not alone bodies. How could it end? He stopped thinking about it . . .

  Room Service—Plus

  Leslie Phelps

  THE HOTEL Solar which has recently been completed at the New Chicago Spaceport can only be described as “out of this world”. The construction of the hotel was undertaken by the Terran government at the request of the Astrogational Services as well as the Diplomatic Corps. The reason and necessity for such a hotel is apparent—especially if you drop in at the Spaceport and observe the terrific amount of interplanetary traffic. Rockets are coming and going night and day.

  But what makes the hotel unique is its appointments and services. Nowhere in the entire Solar System can you find the variety and completeness of its facilities. Are you a Venusian from the steamy hot jungle planet accustomed to living in forty percent carbon dioxide and a temperature of a hundred and twenty degrees? Well, when you alight from your rocket at New Chicago you won’t have to go to makeshift quarters rigged hastily by unfamiliar personnel. Instead you are wafted by an electric car, enclosed and atmosphered to your requirements, directly to the gigantic towering edifice—the Hotel Solar. Venusian quarters are on the thirty-first, thirty-second and thirty-third floors. As far as you’re concerned it is like stepping back on your native planet, for here is a murky foggy atmosphere hot and dense, rich in “see-oh-two,” and redolent with the earthy jungle odors.

  Perhaps you’re a Martian, accustomed on your rare Terran visits to choking in Earth’s dense oxygen-laden atmosphere and staggering under the increased gravitational load. Your thin bony frame can’t take such conditions for long and as a rule you’ve left Terran hospitality as soon as you could. But not now. You’re whisked to the Hotel Solar and comfortably situated in dry, arid, thin-aired rooms perfectly suited to your requirements.

  Piles of burning holka perfume the rare air and you think you’re back on Mars. Leeder anti-gravs cut the terrible-pull and you’re able to walk around with your delicate head in the air.

  Then maybe you’re a Jovian. For you hitherto a Terran visit has been a nightmare of living in a space-suit and feeling as if you’re floating free in space—with all the accompanying nausea.

  But not in New Chicago at the Hotel Solar. The minute your rocket docks you’re shuttled deep into the bowel of the hotel, through a central lock into the Jovian quarters. Here you nearly collapse from surprise. It is as if a chunk of the Jupiter has been transported to Terra.

  Through the capacious chambers of the Jovian Rooms, violent blasts of ammonia-laden methane heavily laced with free fluorine provide you with a rich atmosphere native to your red planet. Leeder gravs are on full and you walk lightly through multi-grav fields as lightly as a Terran through one grav. The breeding rooms provide you with these incredible foods, the muscular flesh of the sanf, the succulent tenderness of crystal-plants. You are a Jovian on a bit of Jove.

  The authorities have spared no expense in making the Hotel Solar the most magnificent building on Earth. Comments from interplanetary visitors have been extraordinarily favorable.

  A Plutonian whose life-cycle operates at two hundred degrees blow zero, found his facilities at the hotel better than the natural climate of Pluto!

  If the interstellar drive is ever developed—and we’re sure it will be—there will be an interstellar hotel just like the Hotel Solar. It has been found to pay off. Diplomatic and social existence is so much easier when you’re breathing your own atmosphere and walking around under your normal gravity. . . .

  Hijack Patrol

  June Lurie

  FROM HIS vantage point on the bluff, Mark Weston surveyed the arrow-straight six-lane stretch of concrete that lanced straight east from Sonoma. It was an impressive sight. The night was pitch-black, but the concrete road shone brilliantly from the indirect lighting of the center-strip.

  Mark touched the throttle and dropped the helicoptor down another five feet, effectively concealing himself. He kept the turbine at a slow idle, ready for instant motion.

  He spoke into the microphone: “Weston, chief, at Spot five. No sign of the truckers yet.”

  “Relax, Mark,” the soft-spoken voice came back. “Jamie and French, twenty miles back just noted them. There are four 1986 Wilson truck-trailers. They’re doing ninety-five with turbines wide open. The minute you spot a ‘Swooper’, call for help. We’re not playing heroes tonight. Got it?”

  “Check,” Mark said, and replaced the mike. He lit a cigarette concealing its glow in his cupped hand while he mused on the strange activities of the swoopers. Knowing that turbine trucks were running rich cargoes of consumer goods straight from California to New York along U.S.X. Highway Four, hijackers, using fleets of helicoptors were jumping the trucks, bringing them to a halt, whisking their cargoes somewhere to be disposed of to the proper fences. So far they hadn’t been caught, but on a tip from a pigeon, the Highway Patrol was preparing to make an ambush of its own.

  Trying to watch three thousand miles of concrete six-lane highways is not easy.

  Sudden
ly Mark’s ears caught the sound of turbines, the keen shrill whine of blowers. The trucks were coming by his station!

  He watched their headlights climb over the slight grade. As they thundered by beneath him, he was impressed by the powerful cabs lugging trains of six and eight trailers almost exactly like the old railroad trains used to do. But these babies ran on rubber and they ran fast.

  Abruptly Mark galvanized into action. He spat into the mike: “Got ’em chief! Caught the light! Send the boys!”

  He gunned the helicopter. Before him was an amazing panorama. The truck-trailers were slowly braking to a stop. They had good reason to. Hanging above their cabs, were jet-black helicoptors, six-man jobs, and converging on them were of heavier cargo jobs.

  Mark gained altitude, garnering time until the swoop should be made upon the ‘swoopers’. Completely unaware of the potential menace, the hijackers were already at work unloading the parked trucks. Hark could already see the road-block they had thrown up just in case there was some other vehicular traffic.

  His speaker barked: “O.K. boys, jump ‘em.”

  Mark sent the helicoptor into a long shallow dive, his nosegun pointed straight at the cluster of men and machines. The truck-drivers were already dead, he knew. The swoopers operated completely coldbloodedly.

  Pin-points of light told him, the patrol was coming up. He touched the firing stud. The twenty-millimeter stuttered. A rain of explosive shells burst into the cluttered melange. Mark could hear the screaming as he made his first pass, and strange whistles followed him. The bandits were shooting back.

  But the fight was out of them. Mark’s accurate pass had cut them into demoralized ribbons, and had blasted a dozen ’coptors into wrecks of crumpled sheet-metal.

  The patrol was approaching from every direction and the hijackers began to see the light. Gunfire seized and Mark interrupted his second pass. There was no use in senseless slaughter especially when the Patrol needed information so badly.

  The raid took in two hundred men counting the forty dead from gunfire.

  “There will be no hell-raising with transports on Highway Four,” the chief said, “at least not any more . . .”

  Meteor?

  A. Morris

  DR. GRABLE said: “. . . and anyhow, Bill, the farmer brought it in. Take a look at it.”

  Bill Armstrong walked along the corridor of the museum with his friend Dr. Grable, the curator toward the hall where meteors and meteoric specimens were exhibited.

  Dr. Grable paused before the specimen. It was still resting on a massive dolly for despite its small size—about three feet in diameter—it was of nickel iron obviously.

  “There it is, Bill. Looks like a plain meteorite to me. The farmer said I should cut it open. He swears it rose ten feet in the air after it hit, floated around and then settled back. If the man isn’t nuts, I’ll eat the meteorite. It’s a plain nickel-iron job—Lind of big for such a type—but still a plain meteorite.”

  “I thought there’d be a story in it,” Bill said, “at least from what the farmer said on the ‘phone, but it looks like another case of hallucination.”

  He examined it closely. It was a mass of gnarled and twisted metal, with the rough porous surface always seen on meteorites. He straightened up and said: “O.K. Doc, let’s go. I’ve seen enough.”

  The two men walked away . . . and behind them . . . the meteorite shifted ever so slightly on its pallet . . .

  Solar Pirates

  Lee Owen

  STATION three-eighty-four might be cramped but it had almost everything a patrolman might want—at least for a while. I was on duty, thumbing through a sheaf of microfilm, idly amusing myself, but fully clad in space-armor as regulations required. Larry and Frank were sacking it comfortably somewhere in the station. Every now and then I glanced toward the Videolarm, but nothing had happened for weeks.

  The last time we got a call was more than two weeks ago when Central on Mars Seven flashed a two-nine—a couple of kids had taken a joy-ride on a rocket speedster. Frank picked ‘em both up without any complications or trouble.

  Abruptly I was jolted out. of my musing.

  I flipped away my cigarette and turned toward the Videolarm.

  Leslie, the dispatcher at Central, poked his ugly face onto the screen and his face rumbled from the speaker cones:

  “Three-eighty-four! Attention! Clamp radar tracers on a four man pirate. Go and get ‘em boys—and shoot to kill! They’ve murdered two civilians here on Mars Seven. Move!”

  “O.K.” I barked back at the screen, “Three-eighty-four acknowledging and acting!” I turned toward the tape-recorder. Swiftly I spoke into it: “Taking the flitter after pirates—track me, boys!”

  A minute later I was seated in the bucket of the fast little flitter and moving at high acceleration away from the station. My radar tracers were on and my Rodenhammer anti-blast screens were up.

  It took twenty seconds for my instruments to pick up the pirate. Recognition clicked through. It was a four-twenty rocket, fast and tough, but no match for a Solar patrol craft like my flitter. I’ve often wondered how pirates can be so damned foolish to think they can punch it out with the Patrol which is usually so much better armed and equipped, but they do.

  They gave me a run, all right.

  Fast as the flitter was, the pirate had some jets too, and the pilot knew how to use them. But he stood about as much chance of shaking me as a criminal does a blood-hound. The little flitter—on full robotic—followed unerringly.

  At three thousand kilometers they began throwing fire, first a Well ton torpedo, a lethal cylinder laden with triple-Q, and powered by rockets, but my screens washed it out at a thousand It’s.

  My instruments showed power absorption. The pirates were trying a heat beam.

  I could have laughed at the futility of it.

  “O.K. boys,” I spoke quietly into the ’mitter, “the jig’s up. Let’s call it quits. Come in quietly with me and I won’t hurt you.”

  No answer.

  “Last chance,” I barked now, good and mad, “I’m pushing a pulse in half-a minute if I’m not answered.”

  No answer.

  Here goes. I touched the firing stud. An intensely lethal spear of radiation lashed from the forward tube-mount. It didn’t move fast. I could follow it with my eyes clearly through the heavy filtered port.

  The ravening lanco, like some grotesque tongue reached out and touched the tail of the pirate speedster.

  A corsucant flash of incandescent flame, a vaporizing puff of sublimed metal—and half a pirate spacer lay helpless in space!

  I towed them in—they even tried handguns on me on the way back—but of course the screens kept them away. And the patrol took them away.

  Sometimes I wonder about how boring a patrolman’s lot can get. Right now I’m reading again. Frank is due to relieve me, but the Videolarm is quiet. Oh well, maybe things will get more interesting later . . .

  Plutonian Foundry

  Milton Matthew

  THE SPACEMEN’S BAR has been the witness of many strange tales and weird experiences. It is sometimes regarded as a sort of explorer’s club and the management does everything to encourage this. If you’re looking for an entertaining evening drop down sometime and talk with the men who do the dirty work in deep space. It’s fascinating . . .

  “I just got back from a Plutonian hop,” the bronzed muscular man said, “and I’m still freezing.” He slapped his hands to his sides as if to warm them.

  “Have another hooker of zinth,” John Clondon said laughing, “That’ll take the chill out of your bones, Frame.”

  Frame laughed too: “Thanks, I can use it.”

  The two men were at the Spacemen’s Bar exchanging stories of their latest activities.

  “What was up on the Pluto skip?” Clondon asked.

  “Usual cargo trip,” Frame shrugged, “medicinals and so forth. But I wanted to see what the amoeboids really lived like. Believe me, the Videos don’t
lie. Those crystalline monstrosities are slow and sluggish and they look exactly like amoebas, but I guess they get along all right. But try to imagine a trip to one of their foundries! I did it—I mean, I was there!”

  “Yes,” Clondon observed, “that must be odd—theirs is a water crystal metabolism, right?”

  “You said it,” Frame answered. “Just think—to them water is intensely hot! And as for us humans—we’re simply radiant portions of a sun almost. Well, what I started to say was that I spent some time in their foundries.

  “I wore a regulation space-suit of course—plus about eight hundred pounds of insulation so that I didn’t burn up the Plutonians. Walking into the foundry was the equivalent of going into a refrigerator. The Plutonians were working around, pouring water into plastic molds and in general carrying on just as you would expect in any foundry—except the molten material was water!

  “I gave them quite a jolt when I stuck a hand in the water. To them it was as if someone had thrust his hand into a ravenous cylinder of molten radiance.

  “I spent about two hours watching the operations which were conventional. But they asked me to leave shortly afterwards; it seems my body temperature was making the foundry uncomfortable for the regular workers!”

  Clondon laughed. “What an experience,” he said, “I can just imagine how the Plutonians must have felt. Can you imagine us encountering people whose body temperature is that of the sun?”

  Frame looked at him steadily. “Yes,” he said, “I can—and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if eventually we ran into such a race. Is it any more fantastic than the Plutonians . . .”

  The First Emissary

  Leslie Phelps

  THE WIND was a keening wail that whined into the dim Martian day. Esterbrook, Clayton and Swenson stood before the monstrous sandstone monolith and stared at the crack that betrayed the existence of a door in the stupendous structure. The first men on the Martian globe stared with near awe and reverence at this example of a monument to a civilization which must have been a thousand times as old as Man’s.