He had no time to look closely at it. The Erdtmann sprang. Again Blake and Carruthers were at death grips with this alien terror whose very body burned like fire at the touch.
Other footsteps sounded; the officers closed in, Donovan at their head. But Vardu was incredibly strong. Nor was it easy to hold him, for the strength of his enzymic secretions seemed to have been increased by his activity. Blake’s hands were raw, flaming masses of seared flesh. His breath rasping and whistling in his throat, he fought on . . .
“Don’t use your guns!” the bull voice of Donovan roared. “You can’t see to aim in the dark!”
But, suddenly, the black silhouette of a hand and pistol were outlined against the Erdtmann’s feathery body. The weapon snarled. Vardu let out a shrill, piercing cry. His taloned hands went to the wound.
Only for a moment was the Erdtmann off his guard, but the distraction turned the tide. A wire-mesh net was whipped around Vardu, and then another. Frantically he fought and strained. But now he had no chance.
Finally he lay on the floor, only his head free, arms bound to his sides, wrapped in nets that were visible only as meshes of blackness against the feathery, shining form. Tying the last knot, Blake drew back.
“There he is,” he said hoarsely.
The Erdtmann stared up, no expression in the yellow, saucer eyes. Again Blake’s attention was caught by the dark object about the monster’s throat. Swiftly he leaned down and deftly drew it over Vardu’s head.
A heavy metal case, already prepared, lay near by. At Blake’s command, the Erdtmann was lifted and lowered inside. The lid was closed.
“He’ll do,” Carruthers said, snapping the padlock. “He can breathe through the air-holes, and he can’t get out. Let’s have some light, now.”
The ultra-violet lamps were switched off, and the doors opened. The group regarded each other ruefully.
Every man was in rags. All had suffered from the contact with Vardu’s poisonous body-secretion. But Blake was almost out on his feet. He was nearly naked from the waist up, and his chest was seared and reddened as though with fire. His hands were puffy and crimson, already blistering. But there was a light of triumph in his eyes as he held aloft the ring he had taken from Vardu’s neck. It was made of dull black metal.
“A reel!” Carruthers’ voice was excited.
“Right! Maybe close contact with Vardu made it invisible till now—it was under his feathers. Look at that case, Andy. The metal’s been almost eaten through, and it’s durium at that. I guess the Erdtmann can reduce any metallic ore . . .” Blake went unsteadily toward the door, trailed by the others.
“There’s film in this, if it isn’t ruined. Come on I Let’s head for a projection room.”
AT the door they were met by Joe Denton. His face was scarlet with mortified anger.
“You, Blake!” he snapped. “I’ve come to find out why you had the Borer seized by the authorities. What—”
Blake opened the door of the projection room. “Come inside, Denton. And the rest of you.”
Denton hesitated, glanced around, and sullenly obeyed. Susan, Carruthers, Inspector Donovan, and his men followed, finding seats in the miniature theatre. Instead of the usual seats, there were long rows of padded benches. Blake gave the ring of film to Carruthers.
“Take it up to the booth and run it,” he requested. “It seems to be okay—though we can’t be sure till we try.”
Despite the burning pain of his injuries, and his weakness, Blake felt a sense of strong excitement as he found a seat and waited.
On the screen at the end of the room a vague image grew. It flickered and faded, and grew once more distinct. The wire film was injured, then. Blake pulled nervously at his lower lip. Was the whole reel useless?
Not The face of Doctor Keith sprang out on the screen, against a background of gray fog and rock wall. The scientist’s voice grew from a low crackling into clear audibility.
“. . . not much time. I just managed to . . .” The face of Keith faded on the screen, and the voice died away. Then both were clear again. “. . . out of the ship with the camera. Lucky there was a built-in microphone in it—”
Light flooded the theatre as the door burst open. One of Donovan’s officers stood framed on the threshold. He was holding one of the ultra-violet lamps on its tripod, and his other hand gripped a pistol.
“He’s loose!” the officer blurted. “He got out—”
Donovan sprang up. “Who? Vardu?”
“Yes. He—” The man halted as Blake plunged past him to slam shut the door. “The—the box he was in just seemed to crumble apart. He was out before we knew it. I think I put a bullet in him, but—”
“Where is he now?” Blake snapped.
The man shook his head. “We lost him when he got out of the sound-stage. I thought he might head for you, Mr. Blake, so I brought along one of those lamps.”
“Good work,” Blake nodded, plugging the cord into a socket and swinging the lens so that it focused over a wide area in the little room. “I’ve been a damned fool, Donovan. If Vardu can dissolve durium ore with his body secretions, he can do the same thing with a metal box or mesh nets.” Blake sat down suddenly, sick with realization of what this meant. Vardu would not fall twice into the same trap. And the moment Blake emerged from the theatre, invisible death would stalk him as before. No one would be safe. Despite the painful heat of his burns, Blake’s backbone felt like ice.
Even now, death might be behind him, waiting just outside the door . . .
He came to a decision. “Start the film again, Andy,” he called up. There might be some clue in the record Keith had left. It was a forlorn hope—but there was none other.
AT Donovan’s command, two burly officers put their backs against the door. In the dimness the others returned to their seats. But this time there was an air of ominous tension, and the quiet had something macabre about it.
Once more the film began to unwind. On the screen Keith’s face grew.
“. . . Lucky there was a built-in microphone in it . . . I’m going to give this reel to Vardu when I’m through, and tell him to find Bob Blake and give it to him. I think Bob will come after me, though I told him not to risk it.”
At first Blake did not realize the significance of this. Then his jaw dropped, and he blinked uncomprehendingly at the screen.
The voice of Keith went on, “I’ve got to talk fast. I’m in an underground cavern now, and Joe—Joseph Denton, my nephew—is in the Borer. He’s trying to kill me—”
Someone cried out. One of the officers at the door cursed, and flung his arms around a wiry figure that tried frantically to wriggle free. For a moment there was confusion.
Donovan took instant charge. “Stay where you are!” he shouted, and lumbered toward the door, followed by two of his men. There was the sound of a scuffle.
Then Joseph Denton was being led back to his seat on the last bench. He was sullenly silent now, and did not resist when two burly officers sat down on either side of him, guns ready in their hands.
“All right,” Donovan’s quiet voice said. “He’s unarmed—now. See that he stays where he is, boys, till the picture’s finished.”
In the silence Blake felt his heart hammering. The mystery was being explained. But there were still enigmas—
In his booth Carruthers started the film again.
“. . . trying to kill me. He’s already tried once, and failed. But I’m unarmed . . . Joe has been negotiating with some foreign power to buy the Borer. He’s just told me that. He knows I can’t escape. He’s told me his plans—gloating, the devil! He can’t operate the Borer, but, after he’s disposed of me, he’s going to radio Bob Blake to come down after him. He’ll have a perfect alibi—he hopes. But Vardu’s invisible, and I’ll see that he gives this film to Blake. If I can make him understand. He and his tribe are like children—though they’re friendly enough. I’ve tried to get them to help me capture Joe, but they’re afraid. Only Vardu has any courage
. He’s got the idea that all humans are murderers like Joe. And—” Keith seemed to hesitate. “He’s so damned stupid! I shouldn’t have tried to enlist his help against Joe. The fool thinks I want him to kill Blake, too. But I’ll straighten him out on that—”
“I see,” Blake grunted. “Only Vardu didn’t quite understand!”
As though in answer, the eerie voice went on, “I’ve taught Vardu a little English. If anything goes wrong, Bob, let him watch this film and listen to it. Vardu! Bob Blake is a friend! Do you understand? You must not harm him! . . . That should do it. . . The gaunt old face on the screen twisted with grief. “I’m doomed, I’m afraid. Joe will kill me eventually. But I’ve made an important discovery. This cavern is filled with durium ore. Durium is very valuable, but it costs more than it’s worth to extract the pure metal. But the Erdtmann can do that—the enzyme their bodies secrete breaks down the ore so that durium can be easily extracted. The Erdtmann can be trained to do that, and, too, I think their specialized enzyme can be analyzed and duplicated. That means there’s a fortune in this cavern. As discoverer, I imagine I own it. If so, this is my last will and testament, and I leave this cave, with its treasure of durium, to my niece, Susan Morley.
“I wish to bequeath this to Susan, because she may not inherit the Borer. I realize now that it is a powerful war weapon. Therefore the Borer, and its plans, must be given freely to the United States of America, to be used if necessary in the case of foreign invasion—which I hope and pray will never occur!”
The screen went dark. No one moved for an instant. Then, very softly, Blake whispered, “Donovan . . . turn on the light.”
Instantly the Inspector caught his meaning. He reached out toward the ultra-violet lamp and pressed the switch. The invisible ray swept the room.
Blake whirled. Had he been wrong? Had that soft, curious rustling meant nothing? Or had it been the sound of feathers rubbing against one another?
Beside Blake sat Donovan; on his other hand sat Susan. The officers were standing against the walls, save for two who flanked Denton where he sat on the last bench. Nothing else was visible in the small, bare room . . .
And then Blake saw. Towering above Denton, bent in a half-crouch behind the man, was—
Vardu!
THE huge, alien figure loomed there like a colossus.
The weird face was a mask of sheer horror, for part of it had been shot away. The yellowish blood stained the feathery pelt. Like some gigantic bird of prey the Erdtmann hovered—
“Stop him!” Donovan roared. He flung himself forward—too late.
The monster swooped. His body seemed to dart down and enfold Denton. The mighty, taloned arms wrapped about the killer’s waist. Denton was hugged in a crushing embrace to Vardu’s form.
The room exploded into a blinding blur of action. The officers leaped toward Vardu, straining to pull him from his victim. Their efforts were useless. The Erdtmann clung doggedly, while the frightful screams of Denton rose to an ear-piercing crescendo—and stopped.
Only then did Vardu’s great-thewed arms relax. He allowed Denton to be pulled from his grip. But at sight of that limp figure Susan gave a sick little cry and turned hastily away.
He was dead. And the manner of his dying was dreadfully evident. His clothing, his skin, and most of his flesh had been eaten away by the rock-devouring enzyme that covered Vardu’s body . . .
The Erdtmann lay quietly beside his victim. His saucer eyes were no longer afire with murder-lust. His fleshy beak moved, and a curiously husky voice whispered, “Me—me friend.”
Blake pushed past Donovan and stood staring down at Vardu. He said through dry lips, “Friend. Yes. Friend, Vardu.”
The feathered head rolled slightly; blood trickled slowly to the carpet, fluorescent in the ultra-violet light that made the Erdtmann visible. He went on haltingly:
“Me—see picture. Picture say you friend. Me not understand before. You—not hurt me?”
Weakly Vardu raised his taloned claw in a poignantly human gesture. Without hesitation Blake gripped it in his hand, scarcely feeling the pain from his burned skin.
“Friend,” he said softly. “Not hurt you. Friend, Vardu.”
“Be careful,” Donovan urged in an undertone. “He may be dangerous yet.”
There was no mirth in Blake’s smile. He glanced at the Inspector.
“Vardu is dying,” he said. “Can’t you see that? Our bullets didn’t all miss . . .”
The Erdtmann raised his other talon and groped in empty air. Suddenly Susan was standing beside Blake. She put her soft small hand into Vardu’s claw.
“Friend . . .” the alien being whispered—and gently withdrew its talons from the humans’ grasp. The yellow eyes filmed. With a sudden, convulsive movement Vardu wrenched his body over; a shudder shook him. Then he lay quite still. He was dead.
There was a brief silence. Donovan shook his head slowly, and slipped the gun back into his pocket.
Susan’s hand crept into Blake’s, and his fingers tightened over her small ones. The girl murmured, “Poor Vardu.” There were tears shining in her eyes.
Blake found it difficult to swallow. His throat was very dry . . .
“Yes,” he said gently. “Poor Vardu. The cards were stacked against him from the first. Vardu never had a chance against—humans. He—he didn’t quite understand.”
THE SEVEN SLEEPERS
The movie-makers of tomorrow blast off from Hollywood on the Moon in quest of the greatest show in space—the secret locked within Almussen’s comet!>
CHAPTER I
Coming of the Comet
THE great lens in the Mount Everest Observatory had withstood the stresses of the coldest climate and the highest altitude on Earth. Nobody had foreseen that Gerry Carlyle would ever use it. But when she did, the baleful gleam in her eye was enough to chip the telescope’s beryllium steel.
Gerry was mad—disgusted, heartbroken, miserable. She had gone into a fury only to keep form crying. And Catch-’em-Alive Carlyle, the Solar System’s greatest explorer, was never guilty of feminine weaknesses. What she wanted, she got, by virtue of a keen, alert mind, indomitable courage, and experience that covered practically every one of the Sun’s planets.
Visitors to the London Interplanetary Zoo were struck by the preponderance of the legend, “Captured by Gerry Carlyle” on innumerable cages. Formidable nightmare monsters from a dozen worlds had been trapped by Gerry, taken aboard her space ship the Ark, and brought back—alive!
Now Gerry, watching on the huge telescope visiplate the glowing fires of Almussen’s Comet, realized that she was losing the biggest scoop of her wild career.
The worst of it was that Gerry needed that scoop. The London Zoo paid her chiefly on commission. But the girl had to provide good, regular salaries for her staff, he had never saved much, for there was always new equipment to buy, expensive research to pay for. The upkeep of the Ark alone was slightly galactic in magnitude. For months now Gerry hadn’t found a new monster. The Ark was being completely overhauled and modernized, and money was getting low.
The last factor didn’t bother Gerry. She had to provide for her men, of course, but the real danger was losing her commission. She hated the idea of being out of her beloved job when all the monsters in the System had not yet been captured and caged. She exulted in the thrill of pitting her brain against the resources of alien worlds and incredible beings, the excitement of skirting the brink of death and coming back unscathed. As Catch-’em-Alive Carlyle she could really live. But existence as plain Gerry Carlyle would be degradation, slow torture.
Now one of the greatest enigmas of the interplanetary abysses was coming within reach. But Gerry couldn’t move. She was stymied—and the most amazing scientific adventure of her life was thundering into the void as Almussen’s Comet swept Sunward.
Despite her anger, she was decidedly pretty as she glared at the visiplate. In her carriage was the easy grace of a leopardess. Slightly taller than the avera
ge, with features that had made many a heart take up new rhythms, she had a body hard as any athlete’s beneath her soft curves. In her volatility, too, she resembled a wild animal. She was the most remarkable woman of her century, having outdone every male competitor in the toughest game of them all.
Right now Gerry was standing utterly motionless in the middle of the room, which didn’t much resemble an observatory. It was a small, well-furnished cubicle, the duplicate of a dozen others, each equipped with a visiplate connected with the gigantic telescope. She looked bitterly at the pallid fires of the comet, and would have stamped in frustrated annoyance. But the golden carpet was one of the finest products of the uncannily skilful Martian weavers. It had the sheen of solid metal, yet was resilient to the foot and absorbed practically all sound. So Gerry did not stamp.
A SMALL televisor in the corner buzzed.
“Calling Miss Carlyle . . . Call from London. . .
The girl swung toward the device and touched a switch. On the screen, a man’s worried face appeared.
“Well?” Gerry snapped.
“I’m terribly sorry,” the face said abjectly. “But the Jan Hallek Mercury expedition can’t possibly be back for at least a month. And even then his ship would have to be overhauled thoroughly and specially adapted for your purposes and—” Furiously, Gerry switched off the face. She resumed her pacing, cursing a fate that seemed to chain her to the miserable Earth. At the same time, the greatest opportunity of her lifetime sailed nonchalantly past through the skies, never to return.
Occasionally the televisor buzzed, and apologetic faces reported more sad news. But then the door opened and a tall, dark-young man entered. He was not bad-looking in a rugged way, dressed in careless masculine good taste. He looked hot and harassed as he slung his dress cap halfway across the room and flopped into an easy chair.
“Well, Captain Strike?” Gerry’s razor tongue began to carve the nearest animate object. “Before you fall asleep, you might inform me of your progress.”
Collected Fiction Page 143