Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians)

by Don Pendleton

  As a secondary item, there was Stel. Not that she could ever become a minor consideration of his life, but a rich lifetime still lay before them. At the moment, Whaleman’s anxieties lay with the fate of the Reever militants. Even so, the knowledge that his primary mission would also allow him to be with Stel again could not be completely submerged in his anxieties.

  Terra was rushing toward them in the view-screen. Whaleman cleared his mind and concentrated on the view. It was one he would never tire of. The fantastic blues and greens of this lush planet! The shuttle was slowing for an atmosphere entry and lining into the slot for Yorkport. A barely perceptible vibration told him that they were cycling over to Yorkport control as the automatic gravity arrestors took charge of their descent. Then the viewscreen was showing indescribably beautiful towers of puffy clouds, and they were flashing over the high mountains of Eastern Europe. Fertile fields stretched unbroken to the edge of the continent. Almost immediately thereafter they dipped into the Yorkport approach lane, and the great blue ocean was beneath them, the floating fisheries whizzing by in a surrealistic-like procession.

  Why, Whaleman wondered, why? Why had man risen from the only planet that could bear him, turned his back on her forever, and sought his mad fortunes in the black voids of a hostile creation? Little time remained for philosophizing, however. The egress light was flashing and the grav-reversers were humming. In the viewscreen stood Yorkport, and in the viewscreen of Whaleman’s mind, AgSta 23 lay just beyond. Without a doubt, Zach Whaleman was returning home. He was returning to Reeverland, where he belonged. He hoped that he had returned in time.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Film of Red

  Whaleman moved out of the shuttle and into the swirling throngs of humanity at the spaceport. Even up here, he was strongly aware of the garden atmosphere, the sweet smells, the sparkling luminescence of solar radiation penetrating the wet gasses of Earth. He found that his appreciation of Terra’s charms had grown, if anything.

  He disengaged from the crowd and moved to a low parapet, sniffing the moist fragrance and savoring the smell of growing things which wafted across the spaceport from the fields just beyond. The city was an unbroken strip, extending in a straight north-south line as far as the eye could follow, no more than two hundred yards wide. One of the ten strip-cities of Earth, it housed and served the half-million Homans who were engaged in the vital task of food production and processing from the western half of the Atlantic to the middle of the continent.

  Whaleman gave only passing attention to the unvarying architecture of wildly-colored steel and plastic structures, returning almost immediately to the line of greenery just beyond, his eyes moving quickly to the distant northwest and the deeper coloration of fruit trees. That was his goal. He rejoined the crowd and the swiftly moving staircase whisked him out of the spaceport and into the bowels of the terminal. He stepped off at the fourth subterranean level and casually approached an orientation booth.

  A homan girl, dressed in form-hugging Gov-Tech gray, gave him the prescription smile and quickly inspected him for profession and rank. A single flash of the eyes told her all she needed to know.

  “Terra welcomes, Gunner,” she said pleasantly.

  Whaleman nodded and then stepped back to avoid a noisy group of youngsters who suddenly crowded the booth. A male EdTech who was accompanying them grinned at the Gunner and apologized for their behavior. Whaleman hung back and allowed the GovTech to direct the group to the Andes Academy, a pre-professional indoctrinarium on the South Continent. When the girl returned to Whaleman, he was ready for her. He showed her a confused smile and said, “Terra leave, three-day pre-cycle, then deepspace two solar orbit6.”

  The clerk nodded her understanding. “First view, Terra?” she asked.

  He indicated that this was the case with a jerk of his head, adding, “Much confusion. Recommend tour?”

  She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then replied, “Desire entertainment?”

  He slowly shook his head. “Prefer, uh, view agriculture.”

  The girl’s eyes lingered on Whaleman’s flaming hair. She said, “Skronk,” and consulted a light-tube display, then told him, “Some multi-season stations are open, Gunner. But no multi-crop.”

  “Fruits,” he said, smiling.

  She returned the smile. “Apples pretty. AgSta 21 and 23 are multi-seasonal, all operation in view at once—blossoms, growing, harvesting—even some planting now at 23.”

  “Request route to AgSta 23,” the Gunner said. She looked again at his hair, depressed a button and inspected another light-tube display, and said, “Know of Reevers?”

  Whaleman nodded. “Indoctrinated,” he assured her.

  “Be kind to Reevers,” she reminded him. “Avoid if possible.”

  “Skronk,” he said.

  “If in trouble, anywhere in Reeverland, distress call is Boob. ”

  Whaleman blinked. “Skronk,” he said.

  The GovTech flashed him a smile then pursed her lips thoughtfully while gazing about at the various exits displayed on her tube. She murmured an apologetic, “Ags travel rare,” then raised her eyes and pointed toward the far end of the terminal. “Gate 66,” she advised him. “Tube Two, program mile post forty point seven. Skronk?”

  The Gunner touched her hand, said, “Skronk— gratitude,” and set off for the distant conveyor gate.

  He was beginning to feel slightly giddy from a new emotional strain by the time he entered the tubes. He had left the crowds far behind, at the other side of the terminal. This end of things bore evidence of a creeping neglect. An empty tube car awaited him in Tube Two. He stepped into the car, studied the instructions at the console, then punched the milepost program and took a seat. The car began moving immediately and soon he was hurtling along in a continually quickening acceleration beneath the strip city of Yorkport.

  Watching the visual display above the traffic console, he took note of the point where the car swerved westward, away from the strip, and into the hilly orchard regions. Almost instantly the annunciator proclaimed the approach to his station and the car began a smooth deceleration.

  The door beside Whaleman’s seat swung open. As he exited, he could hear the robot traffic console cycling back to a homing code, and the car was hurtling away before Whaleman’s eyes were fully adjusted to the gloom of the tiny tube-station. He found the stairway to the surface and stood on the first step for several seconds before realizing that the stairway was not motorized. He began ascending under his own power and soon walked out into dazzling sunlight and the heady odor of apple trees in blossom.

  A low-slung structure of var-colored plastics occupied a hillock some 100 yards distant, the only evidence of human presence in the incredibly lovely Garden of Eden. A small metallic sign emplaced just outside the egress door of the tube pointed toward the hilltop structure and bore the words “AS 23.”

  Whaleman moved quickly in the opposite direction, seeking the cover of the trees, trying to get his bearings and realizing for the first time the enormity of his undertaking. He had no idea whatever of the layout of the area nor of the relative location of the Reever commune. Then he remembered the words of Tom Cole on that last night when Whaleman engaged the Boob in combat. “Go to the other side and follow the plastic walkway,” or words to that effect. Tom must have been directing him to the station management, Whaleman reasoned.

  He began a wide circle of the hillock, keeping it in sight and was rewarded some twenty minutes later when he came upon a narrow walkway of red plastic. Ten minutes after that, he found the distribution station. Several trains were at the docks, taking on cargo. The Gunner circled around the complex, keeping to the trees, and found the point of altercation with the autosentinel. It was still and peaceful there now. He wondered about the item of information passed on to him at the Yorkport terminal by the GovTech, thought about it for a moment, then stepped into the clearing and yelled, “Boob!... Boob!”

  A duplicate of the monster
which had confronted him the other evening immediately appeared at the other side of the clearing, moving swiftly out of the building area and scuttling across the open ground toward him. The speed of the ungainly automat surprised Whaleman. Here was undeniable evidence, to Whaleman, that the Corporation was officially aware of—and responsible for-the machine that attacked humans. Hadn’t the GovTech given him the signal which would summon the monster, in case of “Reever trouble? ”

  The Gunner turned away from the confrontation and faded into the trees. The important thing now was to find the commune. Time was slipping quickly away. He went into a jogtrot, his eyes alert for familiar signs and marks. The unsettling events of the previous few days had taken a toll of his physical functions. He found himself tiring rapidly. His sleep cycle had been upset and his food intake badly unbalanced. He had expended large gobs of energy reserves, both physically and emotionally—as his exhaustion increased, his emotional deterioration seemed to become more pronounced, and he was fighting back a wave of panic when he came upon the stream through which he and Stel had walked earlier.

  He let out a triumphant yell as he leaped the stream and ran full speed toward the clearing which he knew lay just around a low hill. Then he saw the flash of color of a domehut and—yes, yes—Reever Whaleman had come home!

  He ran into the clearing, loudly calling Stel’s name, then drew up short and leaned against a hut, fighting for breath and staring dumbly about at the scene confronting him.

  Men and women lay in frozen curls, from one end of the commune to the other, some in the doorways of their huts, many in the pavilion area, as though some great calamity had befallen them instantaneously, without warning. A woman at Whaleman’s feet was curled around a large serving dish, the prepared food scattered beneath and around her. A child lay just inside the hut which was supporting Whaleman. The Gunner knelt to examine the woman, found the lifesigns severely depressed, then he stumbled on through the commune, dazedly pausing to stare at a familiar face here and there.

  Tom Cole’s hut was empty, as was Stel’s. Whaleman continued the now-frantic search and found Sofia Scala/Lowen balled-up at the edge of the pavilion. He carried her into a hut and carefully placed her on the couch, then began applying wet compresses and massaged her spine, diaphragm, and chest areas. He was rewarded some minutes later with a quivering solar-plexus and a muted groan from his patient.

  As he continued the ministrations, Sofia began to uncurl, her eyes fluttered, and she began to weep in shuddering gasps. He kept at her, rubbing her limbs and speaking to her in soothing tones.

  When he was sure that she was conscious of his presence, he demanded, “What is this, Sofia? What is happen here?”

  “S-sick,” she moaned. “Ohhh ... sick—Zach?”

  “Yes, is Zach. What is happen here, Sofia?” “B-boobed. From the s-sky.”

  Whaleman angrily exclaimed, “Damn these Boobs! When is happen? Where is Tom, Stel, others?”

  “Aren’t they with you?” the tortured girl groaned.

  “With Zach? No. No... Sofia! How much time is gone?”

  Sofia drew her knees toward her stomach and retched. Whaleman held her head and hastily moved a basin into place. When she had finished, she lay back in a more relaxed manner, and said weakly, “I think I’m okay now.”

  “Yes, Sofia looking better, more color, like same before. Sofia, is important—how much time is Tom gone?”

  “I-I don’t know,” the girl mumbled. “About... I don’t know ... a few hours before the . . . scooters came back.”

  “Morning? Night? When?”

  “Ohhh. Let’s see. Morning. Uh-huh, morning. Dawn, Zach. They left at dawn. ”

  Whaleman groaned and passed a hand wearily across his eyes. “Stel went with Tom Cole?” he asked presently.

  “Yes. She went. Gravcar. Team One. Left at dawn.”

  Shaking inwardly, Whaleman said, “Sofia A-OK now. Rest, feel better. Then help others. Cold compresses, Sofia-skronk? Massage arms, legs, break neural blocks. Skronk?”

  “I know what to do,” she replied faintly.

  Whaleman ran out of the hut, halted indecisively for a moment, then raced back through the compound and the stricken Reevers. Dear God of the Galaxies, he cried into the depths of himself, find me a way—find my way to Terra 10!

  On a dead run for the distribution station, he tried to calm his tumbling mind and select a logical course of action. Before long, he had decided that no logical course existed. So—he would have to be illogical! As illogical as any Reever could be! And as daring, as determined, and as deadly. Yes! He would find his way!

  He ran out into the clearing at the distribution center and did not slow down when Boob came out to meet him but kept a straightline course along the shortest route to the other side.

  Boob did not slow, either, and fired at full speed. The blast caught the Gunner at mid-stride and hurled him to the ground. He came to a halt poised on one knee, hands lifted in surprise and pain to his head, and his immediate impulse was to scream at the limit of his lungs. Why now were the Boob guns affecting him? He instinctively threw himself to one side, dodging the way Stel had done earlier, and picked up another fringe-area reverb. This time, he did cry out with the incredible, sickening agony and looked about for an avenue of escape. There was none—except—perhaps ...

  With the desperation of the frightening responsibility on his shoulders for the lives of his beloved Stel and Tom Cole’s raiders, he threw himself straight at the big bug, managed to grasp a spindly leg, and twisted wildly beneath the flat belly. The zing-guns stopped their ultra-sonic song and Boob whirled in frustration, sensors cycling in a determined search for the prey. Whaleman was on his feet and whirling with him, partially suspended with outstretched hands hanging on grimly to two of the six legs.

  How long, he wondered, could he hang on? And while he hung there in temporal safety, what was happening to Stel and Tom Cole? He lost the grip of one hand and fell to the turf, then scampered back beneath the belly just as a zing-gun was depressing toward him. The Boob’s intelligence bank was beginning to understand the situation. He stopped his whirling dance and idled, assimilating the intelligence. Whaleman took advantage of the lull to strengthen his grip on the legs and to attain a better balance. And then the frail legs began to fold and Gunner Whaleman began running out of space. The Boob was going to ground.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Rage to Kill

  Hedge was tensed over the controls of the gravcar, Blue beside him poring over an illustrated manual for the nav-comm system, and Tom Cole fidgeting at the far side of the command seat. Cole muttered, “Something is sure as Mars wrong here, mister, PI1 tell you that for sure.”

  “Well I know that’s Board Island down there,” Hedge insisted. “There just isn’t another place like it in the world. That’s her. ”

  “Didn’t say it wasn’t,” Cole rumbled. “Said something’s wrong. And something is. ”

  Blue threw the manual at his feet and declared, “Well, that gunship ought to be exactly where we’re at now, that is, if he’s going to fringe the isolation shield down onto Board Island.

  “I’m telling you, that’s her,” Hedge said angrily.

  Stel leaned over from the seat behind them and said, “It’s the first time we’ve seen things from this height, Hedge. How can you be so sure?”

  “I’m sure, don’t worry about it,” he growled.

  “So where is Terra 10?” Blue asked calmly.

  “That damn Zach,” Hedge said.

  Stel said, “Don’t be so quick to—”

  “Everybody shut up!” Tom Cole roared.

  Stel threw him a reproachful glare and settled back into her seat. Hedge stared morosely at the controls of the gravcar. Blue retrieved the manual and began rapidly flipping the pages.

  “Guess it’s going to be up to me,” Blue groused. He flashed an irritated glance at Hedge, then smiled, winked at Tom Cole, and said, “Look at old Hedge. The dream of a
lifetime come true.... and look at ’im.”

  Hedge snickered, pushed the drive lever into GRAV DISENGAGE, and sent the little craft falling into deeper space.

  “May as well look around some,” he said, suddenly grinning. “I guess we can cruise around up here until we’re too old and feeble to ever take a gunship.”

  “Hurry and figure out that nav-comm, Blue,” Cole demanded. “I don’t like this flying around up here by the seat of Hedge’s pants.”

  Blue nodded and replied, “I think I might have something here, Tom. Let’s see—well, damn—damn, Tom, why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Think of what?”

  “A homer! Old Zach’s got a homer on this baby!”

  “What’s a homer?” Cole asked interestedly.

  “It’s an automated navigation feature. If I can figure out how to activate it, it’ll fly us straight to Terra 10!”

  “No matter where she is?” Hedge asked.

  “Well, I...yeah, I think so. Everybody shut up for a minute, and let me see if I can’t figure this thing out”

  “Maybe we should try to communicate with Zach first,” Stel said. “Maybe he’s had to change the plan—or delay it for some reason.”

  “And maybe he’s had a change of heart,” Hedge added.

  Blue said, “I thought you were all going to be quiet for a minute.”

  “We are, Blue,” Tom Cole assured him. “You just figure that thing out. We’re going visiting Mr. Zach Whaleman whether he’s changed his heart or not.”

  “Zach wouldn’t do that,” Stel murmured.

  “Shut up, will you just shut up?” Blue cried. “I’m reading a hundred years beyond myself...will you shut up and let me concentrate?”

  Stel withdrew to her comer of the cabin and brooded in silence. They should wait, she was thinking. If things were not right, then it was for a good reason. And it would have nothing to do with Zach’s faint-heartedness or treachery.