“By the looks of your expense sheet,” Von Zorn growled, “you must have had plenty of interference all round.”
“It took power, Chief. I was fighting the sun’s energy, and even at a distance of thirty-six million miles that’s no joke. Lucky we’ve got the best robots in the System and the perfected narrow-beam control.”
“That’s true,” McColm said. “These—what d’you call ’em?”
“Prometheans,” Quade supplied. “After Prometheus, who lit his torch from the sun.”
“Good name. That’s exactly what these creatures do, you know. They get energy directly from the sun. Those spines”—McColm took the Promethean from Quade’s hands and scrutinized it closely—“they look like heavy fur, but they’re largely of mineral content. They serve a dual purpose. Tiny muscles activate them so they can function as legs, and when the Prometheans move, which isn’t very often, they can scurry along like caterpillars. But these spines also develop electric energy on which the creature lives.
“One of the metals we’ve isolated in the spines is selenium. Now it’s obvious that tinder the conditions of terrific heat and light on Hot-side, the selenium reacts with some other metal—it might be one of several—to generate a weak electric current. We can do that in the lab, of course. The Prometheans store the electricity, like condensers, using what little they need whenever necessary.” McColm’s chubby face was alight with interest.
VON ZORN said hesitantly, “You mean—they eat electricity?”
“Don’t we all?” Quade asked, and the scientist nodded.
“Of course. You eat solar energy, or you couldn’t live. You’ll find chloroplasts—tiny globular bodies—in the green leaves of vegetation. They contain chlorophyl. And they store sunlight as chemical energy. Photosynthesis enables a plant to change simple inorganic compounds into the complex molecules, which form a great part of our own food. Here’s the cycle: the plant uses chlorophyl to transform carbon dioxide and water into carbohydrates, which give us solar energy in usable form when we eat the green leaf.
“These Prometheans simply take a short cut—which they can do because matter is basically electric. Millikan proved that with his oil-drop experiment. The atomic structure of a Promethean enables it to absorb energy direct without any intermediate stages.”
Von Zorn, who had been listening with eyes closed, gave a slight start and opened them.
“How about keeping ’em alive? We’re a long way from Mercury.”
McColm tut-tutted.
“We’ve solved that one,” he answered. “We used a dry cell. The Promethean wrapped itself around the terminals and sucked the juice out of the battery in no time at all. And for a while it was quite active, too. It had more energy than it gets in many a long day on Mercury. Figuratively speaking, of course, for it’s always day on Hot-side. I compute that a Promethean needs one dry cell a week to keep it healthy.”
The annunciator buzzed. Simultaneously Ailyn Van entered.
An unusual girl, Ailyn. She was the ultra-modem star of Nine Planets, and her fan mail had strained the struts of many a spaceship. Despite the streamlined boniness of her face, she was, as the saying goes, a knockout. Her platinum-tattoed eyes passed over McColm, annihilated Quade, and raised Von Zorn’s temperature.
“I want a Promethean,” she said, and that was that.
Von Zorn gulped.
“Uh—I don’t know, Ailyn. We only have nine of them, and the lab boys need them for experiments. What do you want one for, anyway?”
“They’re so cunning,” Ailyn explained. “And I’m having some publicity stills taken tomorrow. It’ll be lovely publicity.” Spying the Promethean McColm still held, she strode over and calmly appropriated the Mercurian, which made no comment save for a faintly fluorescent sparkle.
“Well!” said Ailyn, pouring the creature from one hand to another and watching the fireworks. “It tingles!”
“Mild electric shock,” McColm explained. “Whenever it’s moved about, it has to adjust itself. This means expenditure of energy; hence the sparkling. It lives on electric energy. You feed it a dry cell once a week—”
“How quaint.” Ailyn stabbed the unfortunate scientist with a platinum glance and went out, trailing orange and blue sparks. And quite suddenly Quade felt an icy qualm of uneasiness.
He turned to the others.
“I wonder if We were wise in letting that creature out of our hands before we know everything there is to know about it,” he said slowly.
McColm shrugged.
“They can’t be dangerous. They aren’t large enough to hold a strong electric charge.”
THE annunciator buzzed again. A voice said, “Mr. Von Zorn—Miss Kathleen Gregg to see you. She wants a—one of the Mercurians.”
And that was the beginning. The Prometheans were the latest rage of the stars—the newest fad of Hollywood on the Moon. There were nine of the electric creatures to pass around among a hundred stars and featured players, not to mention the wives of the board of directors. Von Zorn helplessly permitted the Prometheans to be taken from him, with the one proviso, of course, that they remain on the Moon so Gerry Carlyle might not have a chance to acquire one of them. The price of a Promethean skyrocketed overnight into the thousands, with no sellers.
And less than twenty-four hours later—the Moon started to go haywire!
Quade and McColm were leaving the offices of Nine Planets with the intention of absorbing solar energy as prepared by the Silver Spacesuit’s renowned chef. They got into Quade’s surface-car but the automatic starter did not immediately operate. Quade investigated.
“Battery must be dead,” he grunted. Getting out, he lifted the hood and let out a soft whistle of amazement. Wrapped about the battery terminals like a drowsy cat was one of the Prometheans.
“Just look at that!” Quade said to McColm over his shoulder. “The little devil’s deliberately sucked all the juice out of the battery. Wonder who put him there? A corny gag, if you ask me.” He slipped on a glove and ungently removed the Promethean, tossing the creature to the street, where it lay sparkling vigorously and continuously. But, more surprising, it was much increased in size over any of the other Mercurians.
“It was hungry,” McColm said, “that’s all. Or shall we say thirsty? Our little friend here has been tapping a sort of fountain of youth. More electricity at one time than he ever got on Mercury. Naturally the size increased. Doubtless its activity will increase proportionately.”
Taking the cue, the Promethean arose, sparkling indignantly, and moved off down the street with precise movements of its under-spines. The dignity of its progress was somewhat impaired by a pronounced libration.
The Promethean wobbled.
Quade and McColm exchanged looks and suddenly grinned. Though the creature bore no resemblance to anything human, it somehow managed to convey a perfect impression of an intoxicated reveler veering homeward with alcoholic dignity.
“He can’t take it,” Quade chuckled. “He’s tight!”
“Too much energy,” McColm nodded. “He’s drunk with energy, more electricity than he’s ever had before at one time.”
Quade recaptured the Promethean and left the scientist briefly to take his prisoner into the Nine Planets building and turn him over to the labs. When he returned he found McColm waiting with a taxi. They drove to the Silver Spacesuit and found a table near the stage, where hundreds of important acts were striving valiantly to catch the eye of movie mogul and talent scout.
Right now a trio of acrobatic dancers were performing. The girl had form fitting gravity plates, powered by wires invisible in the tricky lighting, and weighed less than a pound, so that her companions could perform seemingly incredible feats of skill and strength. But this was an old stunt, and attracted little attention.
WITHOUT warning the lights flickered and dimmed. Simultaneously the girl, who was at the moment shooting rapidly through the air, fell heavily upon an assistant director who was absorbedly eating lobst
er at a ringside table. There was an immediate confusion of acrobat, assistant director, and lobster. The audience laughed with genial approval.
Then the mirth changed to indignation as the lights went out altogether. There was mild excitement as the early evening crowd milled around aimlessly in the dark.
Wordlessly Quade and McColm ploughed through the mob toward the rear. There, where the power lead-ins passed through the meter box, another of the Prometheans was found coiled around the bared wires. The headwaiter, gripping a flashlight, was staring in wide-eyed amazement at the object and shaking his free hand.
“It—it shocked me,” he murmured. “Ouch!”
Quade found a glove in his pocket, and with its aid he ripped the rapidly growing Promethean from the wires. The lights flared up again. With the Mercurian under one arm he fled back through the cocktail bar in a short cut to Lunar Boulevard, McColm at his heels.
“If any more of these little devils are loose, they may get into the central power house. That’d be plain hell.” And, just then, every light on Hollywood on the Moon except those on vehicles wavered and went out.
“You’re a little late, Tony,” McColm said. “They’re taking the juice from the generator terminals right now!”
CHAPTER III
Panic on the Moon
QUADE hailed a taxi, leaped for its running-board. He promptly found himself sailing up in an astounding jump, hurtling completely over the surface-car and coming down lightly on the other side.
The cabman thrust his head unwarily through the window to stare at this athletic marvel, and dived ungracefully out to crack his head smartly against the paving of Lunar Boulevard.
McColm, guessing what had happened, hastily glided around the taxi and helped the two men to their feet.
“The gravity plates below us,” he said tonelessly. “They’re not working either. More Prometheans sucking away the power.”
“You don’t tell me,” said Quade bitterly, experimenting with a tender ankle. “Take us to Central Power, buddy, and make it fast.” As the taxi jerked into motion he murmured, “Thank God there’s only nine of these blasted things altogether.” He still held the captive Promethean and now, opening a baggage compartment, he thrust the creature inside and slammed the panel.
Men and women were pouring from night spots and buildings along Lunar Boulevard, Even late workers on the sets of Nine Planets gave up and joined the tumultuous throng. Surface autocars, with their individual batteries and lights, were small oases in the absolute blackness of interstellar space. Hollywood on the Moon was half frightened and half amused by what they considered something of a gag while a temporary difficulty in the power rooms was repaired.
Through the mob Quade’s taxi scooted skilfully, Heading for the entrance to the lunar caverns, where gigantic generators produced the electric power that was the very life-blood of the Moon. Arriving at the skyscraper that masked the mighty machines beneath, Quade and McColm piled out.
“Turn around so your headlights shine down the entrance ramp,” Quade commanded, thrusting a bill in the driver’s hand. Without waiting for an answer he followed McColm down into gloom.
The elevator bank was motionless and dark, but not silent. From within two of the shafts floated up a terrific banking and shouting from carloads of passengers trapped between floors and suspended precariously by emergency brakes.
Quade ran to the stairs and led the way down the descending spiral. Two minutes of clattering, reckless flight in total darkness brought the men to the power room level. A flickering red glow guided them to the central cavern, a vast natural chasm filled with the dynamos, generators, and huge machines that kept the Moon alive. Several piles of cotton waste were burning here and there.
Normally everything in the power house is more or less automatic, and few attendants are necessary. At the moment one of these, a burly man with a harassed expression, was striving frantically to pry loose one of the Prometheans from the terminals of a generator.
Since the mercurian was more than ten feet in diameter and spread over most of the generator’s surface, the burly man’s efforts were not notably successful. Indeed,! his attempt to pry the creature loose with a crowbar seemed merely a gesture.
AS QUADE ran forward the whole cavern seemed to explode in a blinding blaze of flame. There was a deafening thunderclap, and an invisible hand seemed to lift Quade and McColm and smash them back. The attendant vanished. A spouting, roaring fountain of sparkling pinwheels showered over the power room’s plastic floor.
Presently the world stopped reeling and Quade clambered unsteadily to his feet. The electric lights were again burning; blue mercury and pinkish helium globes glowed here and there among the others. With numbed surprise Quade noticed that the Promethean no longer clung to the naked power lines. But all over the room were scattered dozens of small Prometheans, glittering madly as they poured in a drunken rout toward the generators. A score of them reached the bared terminals, and the lights went out again.”
The cotton waste still burned. McColm rose, his round face grimy.
“Did you see that?” he breathed. “They’ve reproduced! When they get so much electricity stored up in them they can afford to share it with offspring, they divide by multiple fission.”
Quade was kneeling beside the attendant’s motionless body.
“Yeah . . . he’s still alive. That’s a miracle, McColm!” He stood up, lips tightening grimly. “This is pretty serious. We’ve got to stop those things right away!”
The two men marched into the sparkling sea, kicking a path toward the generators. Quade, with his gloved hand, began pulling the Prometheans from the terminals. McColm tried to help, but was promptly knocked sprawling by a savage electric shock from one of the visibly growing Prometheans.
“Never mind,” Quade said swiftly. “I can pull ’em off faster than they can climb back on. Find a bag or something to put them in.”
But it was too late. The Prometheans were, so to speak, in their cups, and large enough and active enough to cause Quade trouble. In some obscure fashion they realized that Quade was an enemy, trying to prevent them from reaching the intoxicating electric current. So they advanced with drunken persistence and surrounded him.
An electric shock is not calculated to induce calm. Quade yelped and fell down, his legs momentarily paralyzed. The Prometheans sparkled with a vaguely triumphant air and advanced.
McColm rushed in, kicking vigorously, and dragged Quade to safety.
“This’ll never do,” the scientist gasped. “There’s no bag to hold them in, and they’d burn their way out anyhow. We’ve got to get weapons.”
Quade stood up, tottering slightly.
“Where? The only weapons are in the prop department on the lot. This is a city, not a fortress. The police have gas guns and bullets, but the Prometheans don’t breathe and are too homogeneous to be harmed by explosives. They haven’t any vital parts. They’d just be blown apart and we’d have a lot of new Prometheans to fight.”
“Heat rays?” McColm said. “No—they’d absorb the energy. Wait! We might short-circuit them. They must have a positive and negative end, or they’d never be able to absorb the electricity as they do. If we could place an iron bar so as to touch each end—”
“Walking over a metal plate would act the same way,” Quade said, and pointed. One of the Prometheans was crawling idly over the iron housing of a turbine, completely unconcerned.
MCCOLM blinked.
“Well—we might douse them with water and short them that way.”
Quade went to a drinking fountain and bent over it. Usually this broke a light-beam impinging on a photoelectric cell, and sent water spouting up. Nothing happened. The lights were out, of course.
Quade found a manually-operated fountain, but this, too, was useless.
“The pumps aren’t working,” he grunted. “They take power too, you know.”
When architects had designed the fantastic beauty and utility of Ho
llywood on the Moon, they had decided against placing any unsightly water tanks above ground for gravity flow water. Instead, they had placed the storage tanks in the Moon’s caverns, with powerful pumps to direct an upward flow.
“Well,” McColm said desperately, “let’s try clubs. Maybe we can beat them to a pulp.” With this ferocious intention he found a crowbar for himself and one for Quade, and turned back to the Prometheans. These creatures, no longer molested, had returned to sucking juice from generators, and were having an uproarious time in their strange manner, dropping occasionally to the floor to reel about with dizzy delight, sparkling in all colors of the spectrum.
One of them wobbled toward Quade and made a playful dash at his ankles. The crowbar crashed down. But the Promethean seemed to ooze out from under the blow, squirting away to carom against one of its colleagues some distance away. The two Mercurians conferred for a moment, and then staggered off to a generator, sparkling mockingly at the discomfited Quade.
It was impossible to kill the creatures thus. And before long another terrific explosion rocked the. power room and a second Promethean burst flaming into a score of smaller ones. Quade seized McColm’s arm and drew him back to the comparative safety of the stairs.
“We’re wasting our time,” he panted. “Look at those devils crawling toward us to give us the works. We’ll have to have help, that’s all there is to it.” He paused to lift the unconscious attendant to his shoulder and followed McColm up the stairs. A few Prometheans followed, but in their condition the puzzle of climbing steps was difficult if not insurmountable, and presently they all rolled down again.
The taxi-driver was still waiting, listening to the radio in his car.
“Nine Planet’s office, quick!” snapped Quade.
“You won’t find nobody there,” said the driver. “Von Zorn’s ordered everybody to evacuate the Moon until the Mercurian menace is under control.”
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