Fantastic Vignettes

by Jerry

  He touched the firing stud and the beaten old gun responded. It fired three times automatically before the rusted mechanism gave up the ghost and exploded. The gun, Johnny, and the surrounding concrete mingled together in a vast cloud of dust. But Johnny died with a smile on his twisted face.

  The rocket no longer existed. When the second shell struck, there was a cataclysmic eruption of smoke and flame and the Martian vessel disappeared in a coruscant flare of light as thirty tons of liquid oxygen devoured the combustible fuels . . .

  And when the smoke settled the sun shone down peacefully on a placid scene . . . and somewhere in the air there seemed to be a promise of more revenge for others . . . all Earthmen were not dead . . .

  Solar Guardian?

  Carter T. Wainwright

  “YOU’LL TAKE the first flight, J. Mishakoff,” the Communist colonel said, straightening the tunic of his baggy cotton uniform. His tongue, accustomed to the smoothness of Korean found difficulty with the Slavic sibilants. He wasn’t particularly fond of this help, but his men had to have air cover. And the Slavs could provide that with that deadly fleet of Ilyushin jet fighters standing outside in their drab war paint. Ayee! That would be a sight to see! The American bombers and strafers would melt like butter before the Soviet air-fighters!

  The colonel brought himself with difficulty to the present.

  “Intelligence has informed us that the Americans are putting sixty B-29’s over Seoul in three hours. They have learned of our tank park. They think they’ll surprise us. Ah!” He smacked his lips. “They will learn, eh, Mishakoff?”

  The Soviet Captain, veteran of a hundred aerial battles shrugged.

  “It will be slaughter,” he said calmly, lighting a long papruslca. He let the smoke drift from his nostrils. “There is no sense wasting jet fuel, colonel,” he said. “I wish my group to be overhead no more than a “half hour before the scheduled attack.”

  “Quite sensible, Captain,” the Asiatic replied. “My orderly will ring you in your quarters.”

  Three quarters of an hour later, Mishakoff was summoned to the small staff room.

  “Litvinov,” he called to his adjutant. “Put the pilots on ready!”

  “Well, Mishakoff,” Colonel Lee Hui said, “they are on their way. The radar spotter reports fifty-eight B-29’s! What a target they will make for your aircraft.”

  The Colonel could hardly refrain from rubbing his hands with glee.

  Ten minutes later a hundred and twenty Ilyushin jet-fighters were air-borne. Captain Mishakoff had ordered strict radio silence to assure the surprise. The stupid Americans hadn’t the slightest suspicion that such a large number of attack jets were behind the Red Koreans. Just wait! The Captain glanced at his watch. Another ten minutes!

  Signalling with his wing-tip lights, Mishakoff rose for more altitude and like a host of evil birds the horde of jets followed. That was it! Plenty of altitude—and then come swooping down on the unsuspecting Americans like hawks on a bunch of chickens. Even as the simile occurred to him, Mishakoff thought of the hawking days on Uncle Boris’ estate in the Caucausas. He touched the firing stud of his stick and the strangely silent, smooth-purring aircraft bucked slightly as a brief test burst vanished into the night sky.

  Then he saw them! Far over the right and far beneath the vast armada of unaware American bombers was silhouetted against the light reflecting surface of the ground.

  Once more Mishakoff wiggled his wings and flicked the wingtip lights. The hundred and twenty Ilyushins swung in a wide silent arc toward the unprepared bombers.

  Captain Mishakoff pushed the stick gently forward. As the acceleration began he thought again for some unaccountable reason, of hawking. The lets nosed forward as one!

  And then out of the bleakness and the black of night, a strange roaring sound smote Mishakoff’s ears. It rose above the roar of the diving jets like a weird banshee wail. Mishakoff turned his head. He strained to see. And then he saw the incredible sight.

  Knifing straight into the Soviet formation of diving jets with tremendous speed, was a host of odd-shaped craft. Looking for all the world like silvery flattened spheres, the odd aircraft ripped through the Soviets like hurled buzz-saws—and with the same effect.

  His heart in his mouth, Mishakoff saw his sleek formation disintegrate into shattered shards of metal. The strange saucer-like craft seemed impervious to harm.

  Mishakoff groaned and in mingled rage and frustration opened fire. He saw the ten tracer streams converge on one of the gleaming circular vessels. And nothing happened. Slashing to and fro the strangers made a complete destruction job of the Soviet jets. Metal literally rained from the sky.

  Mishakoff cursed, first softly and then violently. With a sob of despair he swung the stick to the side and gave the jet full left rudder. But it was too late. In frightened panic, Mishakoff gave his ship the gun. The Flying Saucer overtook him with ease and the ship disintegrated around him . . .

  The American bomber formation flew on undisturbed and unaware of its peril a moment before . . .

  And back at base, a radar officer looked puzzled. He scratched his head. “Damn it, Jack,” he said to the radio technician at his side, “The ’scopes are acting up again. Get rid of those snowy pips or the next thing you know somebody’ll be reporting flying saucers or beer bottles . . .”

  Triton Terror

  June Lurie

  YOU CAN roast or freeze, as you please, on the frigid Neptunian satellite of Triton. Tim Blake adjusted the thermostat slightly and shivered. Twenty-five kilometers beneath the lonely Pulse Station the heat pumps dragged more energy to the dome. Outside the bitter methane winds whipped coldly against the metallic structure, their sound a keen, high-pitched whine that never ended.

  Tim looked at the bleak white orb that was the planet Neptune, three hundred and fifty thousand kilometers away and shuddered again. God, he thought, Pm getting punchy. Six months here has a man talking to himself and hoarding nuts. No wonder they figure six months is enough. Well, with relief due in two weeks, I guess I can stand it. He grinned when he thought of the time he’d have back in Losang.

  He went over to the pulser and checked its multitudinous gauges and meters. One hundred times a second, ceaselessly it spat a twenty-five thousand Kilowatt peaked pulse into space in a tight two degree beam. This served as a convenient marker for the Martian-Jovian run and made automatic control of a ship simple. Quickly Tim went through the standard checkup, including a test survey of the two stand-by transmitters. The beam must not go out! And it wouldn’t unless the dome were practically destroyed.

  Suddenly a green pip flashed on a ’scope, and the buzzer sounded. Tim jumped to the panel. What the devil! Relief couldn’t be this early and no craft would have any reason for landing. Triton was simply a marker beacon.

  The receiver tripped and the loudspeaker shivered into crisp tones.

  “Conant II, freighter Venus calling dome . . . Emergency landing . . . meteroic damage . . . request O.K. . . .”

  Tim shook his head. This was strange. Entirely too strange. But he couldn’t refuse succor.

  “Pulse Dome IV okaying . . . Come in . . . stay clear of Dome . . .”

  The receiver abruptly quieted and Tim watched through the glassite. In two minutes he saw the rotund bulk of the ship coming in, all rockets spitting flame. And as carefully as he looked there seemed to be no evidence of damage. A curious feeling of alarm overtook him. This was fishy—but good! He climbed the metal steps to the Dome top and seated himself in the Beam-turret. He didn’t move or revolve the heat-beam projector. He didn’t want to give away his awareness. This might be legitimate and it might not.

  The ship came down with no trouble at all. The rockets died and airlock door swung open. Two space-suited figures emerged. They were unarmed as far as Tim could see. He watched them carefully. They moved against the blasting winds toward the Dome lock. Tim squinted straining to analyze them. Then it came to him. They seemed to waver slightly, as i
f they were just bordering on the translucent. The stronger Tim tried to fix them in his sight the more they seemed to shimmer.

  Then he realized the illusion. He knew what they were. Physically they were two-foot gobules of cell masses and they were sitting right inside the ship! Those suits were moving across the ground only in Tim’s mind! This wasn’t the first time Mercurian Thinkers had tried to seize a Dome.

  I’ll cook their hash, Tim thought. Grimly he swung the barrel of the Beamer around and touched the firing trigger. The suits vanished in a flare of light. And at the same instant Tim felt as if something was freezing him into position. Tele-hypnosis was standard Thinker tactics. Forcing every motor nerve of his body into motion, Tim brought the Beamer to bear on the freighter—undoubtedly taken in so ace somewhere on the Venusian run. Slowly the weapon veered around. Tim fought the intense pressure of powerful thought. The Thinkers tried to suppress his unconsciousness, but it was too late.

  Tim played the Beamer over the freighter literally cutting it into chunks as easily as a butter knife goes through butter. Tire s-mi-immobile Thinkers jerked into frame effort as they dodged the Beamer but they couldn’t move fast enough. Unerringly. Tim swept them with his beam.

  The pressure snapped off. The overwhelming sense of mental power disappear-: and Tim knew he’d nailed them. He leaned back in the Beam turret and sighed with relief. That was narrow!

  Headquarters would do some more Thinker hunting when they found out about this. Mercurians daring to attack a Pulse Station. This work wasn’t quite as boring as he’d thought . . .

  Venusian Claim-Jumper

  Lee Owen

  THE FAT man waved airily. “That’s what I want you to do, Johnson,” he said, “Make a regular daily patrol in the heli—but don’t do it exactly on schedule. I don’t know who the raider is—but he’s ambushed two patrols already.”

  In spite of the de-humidifiers I could feel the oppressive sticky Venusian atmosphere weigh me down. I shrugged.

  “I’ll worry about that, Blanding,” I said. “I’m no amateur with a rifle.”

  “Get this straight, Johnson,” the fat man said. “I’m paying you to knock off this claim jumper and his raiders. I don’t want another dead man. These people are mighty shrewd and it’s a dead certainty that an Earthman’s behind them. They’re getting away with hundreds of tons of uranium ores. Remember this is for keeps. You’re not playing games with children.”

  “You hired me,” I said, “remember? I’ll handle my end of the job.”

  He dragged his ponderous bulk to his feet. “Well, that’s that. You’ll operate out of Hut No. Four, a new magnesium job we’ve hidden pretty well. If you want you can leave right now. The heli is outside, with your equipment and food supplies. I suggest you drop in once a week, at least.” I left the room with a strong feeling of dislike for Blanding. There was something treacherous about the man. I climbed in the heli and checked my equipment, including the rifles, my heat pistol and the spore suits. Here in Veneria, you didn’t have to wear spore suits because the atmosphere was acrid with chemical sprays which destroyed them. But out in the bush-brother, if you were caught a minute in an open space before a thorough rain had cleared the atmosphere, your lungs would blossom into hideous cancerous growths.

  The heli leaped into the air at my touch. In spite of the mugginess and stickiness of the dense air, there was something interesting about the job. I’ve knocked around a lot, but this Venusian venture looked good to a System stray like myself.

  The first week nothing much happened. I patrolled Blanding’s claims but I saw nobody except the almost human Venusians patiently working the mines for Blanding. Once or twice an overseer would come around for a. check-up but for the most part the natives worked alone.

  I was in the hut one night after a long thirty kilometer patrol. I’d just finished eating and was half-dozing into sleep. I heard a knock on the door. I pressed the button which opened the lock and let the stranger in the airlock where he could be sprayed with chemicals before he entered the room. But I held a heat pistol in my hand.

  “All right,” I said, “come in.”

  The inner door opened and a figure stepped through. I nearly jumped with surprise. Beneath the grotesque spore-mask and under the bulky coverall, I was looking at a girl. Those curved bulges weren’t air!

  The girl was fully armed but she had no weapon in her hand.

  “Well, Mr. Johnson,” she said, “how do you like gunning down innocent natives?”

  I raised my eyebrows with surprise. “I don’t get it,” I answered. “I’m patrolling for Blanding, and I haven’t seen a claim-jumper yet.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she said venomously, her voice acid with hate. “I’ll show you the bodies, you rotten pig.”

  “Now wait a minute, sweetheart,” I tried to joke, “You’re all mixed up.” I gestured with the flame pistol. “Besides, I don’t like strangers playing rough with me—see?”

  She laughed, a short ironic, bitter laugh. “If you raise that gun a centimeter, I’ll have you blown to shreds.”

  Involuntarily I looked toward the glassite windows. I could see three shadowy figures and the unmistakable outlines of rifles—pointed at me!

  I shoved the heat pistol back in its holster. “Listen,” I said, “I’m being level with you. What’s this all about? All I know is Blanding hired me to watch out for. claim jumpers. I haven’t seen any yet, and I haven’t gunned anybody down. Believe me, lady, I’m telling. the truth!”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You might be just dumb enough at that,” she said quietly.

  “You don’t know Blanding well, do you?” she asked suddenly.

  “No, I just met him a little more than a week ago.”

  “That explains it,” she said. “You’re coming along with me—I’m going to show you something. I’m going to show you what Blinding is doing with his—with my—mines.”

  At her command I put on coveralls and spore-mask and went out the lock. She let me carry a rifle, but of course with three Venerians walking: behind us, I was helpless to do-anything: dangerous to her.

  We walked through the night, stumbling and jumping and staggering through the dense vegetation. It’s a lot different than working a helicopter, I’ll say that.

  I recognized the number two mine the minute we came on it. It was an open strip affair. I nearly jumped with shock when I saw what was going on. A half dozen men were loading air scows with ore as fast as they could shovel it. And there was no mistaking that-rotund figure. It was Blanding!

  We dropped, behind the bole of a tree and watched operations. “What is this?” I whispered.

  “My name’s Corine,” the girl said. “These mines were stolen by that dirty dog—the last steal he’s ever going to make too,” she said vehemently. “I’ve always wanted to get him within a rifle sight.”

  “Wait a minute,” I muttered, “what’s the idea of him raiding his own mines?”

  “Don’t be simple,” she said, sharply. “He’s avoiding government regulations. He’s shipping the stuff back to Earth custom and tax free which just about quadruples his profits. Get the pitch?”

  “Corine,” I said grimly, “I’m not exactly what I appear either. My real name is Rannon Blake. I’m with the Patrol. This is the leak all right.” I glanced at the Venerians. “Tell your boys to play ball with me. I don’t want a bullet between my ears.”

  She muttered something rapidly to her Venerians and they grinned simperingly, nodding their obvious approval.

  I drew a careful bead on Blanding. “All right, Blanding,” I hollered out, “surrender! This is Blake—I mean Johnson—I know the whole story!” Blanding jerked up with surprise. He made an abrupt turn, agile for a man of such bulk, and a heat pistol flared from his side. The bolt cut through my coveralls. That was all brother. I fired.

  The big figure fell. My bullet had gone through a knee-cap. Nothing takes the fight out of a man quicker.

  The rest was easy. Blandi
ng’s rogues gave up in a hurry. I’d finished another successful patrol. And this one was even more successful. I’m thinking of going into the mining end myself. A beautiful face and a luscious figure—even under coveralls—have a lot to do with it—Corine knows that . . .

  Time Warp . . .

  Lee Owen

  LARRY-BLAKE stared ruefully at the complicated maze that confronted him. This amplifier was beauty! But the designers couldn’t have made it more complicated if they’d tried.

  He picked up the probe of the vacuum tube voltmeter and touched it to point six on a tube socket. There was a hiss and the arcing of electricity.

  “Damn!” Larry said vehemently, “Now I’ve really wrecked it!” And the amplifier had to be ready for tomorrow’s runs. Dr. Weston would blow his stack. Larry yawned and stared out the window into the darkness. The lab was perfectly quiet and no one was around. Why did he have to stay around tonight?

  Oh well, he mused philosophically, the job’s got to be done. He turned to pick up the voltmeter probe once more when something on the bench caught his eye. He’d have sworn it wasn’t there before! He looked at the gray metal case. Now who put an oscilloscope here? He got up from the stool and walked over to the gadget.

  The minute he got close to it he saw something was wrong. It looked like a big-eyed oscilloscope in one respect—and yet it was different. The metal appeared so shiny! Almost as if it were emitting light itself—a soft diffused radiation that seemed so pleasant.

  But it hadn’t been there a minute before. Larry scratched his head. What the devil was happening around here? He shook his head—must be getting punchy. I’m losing my grip, he thought.