The Best of E E 'Doc' Smith

by E E 'Doc' Smith

  Too late. Hell was out for noon, with the little speedster still inert. Cloud had moved fast. too; trained mind and trained body had been working at top speed and in perfect coordination. There just simply hadn't been enough time. If he could have got what he wanted, ten full seconds, or even nine, be could have made it, But... .

  In spite of what happened, Cloud defended his action, then and thereafter. Damn it all, he had to take the eight-pointthree second reading! Another tenth of a second and his bomb wouldn't have fitted-he didn't have the five per cent leeway he wanted, remember. And no, he couldn't wait for another match, either. His screens were leaking like sieves, and if he had waited for another chance they would have picked him up fried to a greasy cinder in his own lard!

  The bomb sped truly and struck the target in direct central impact, exactly as scheduled. It penetrated perfectly. The neocarballoy casing lasted just long enough that frightful charge of duodec exploded, if not exactly at the center of the vortex, at least near enough to the center to do the work. In other words, Cloud's figuring had been close-very close. But the time had been altogether too short.

  The flitter was not even out of the crater when the bomb went off. And not only the bomb. For Cloud's vague forebodings were materialized, and more; the staggeringly immense energy of the vortex merged with that of the detonating duodec to form an utterly incomprehensible whole.

  In part the hellish flood of boiling lava in that devil's cauldron was beaten downward into a bowl by the sheer" stupendous force of the blow; in part it was hurled abroad in masses, in gouts and streamers. And the raging wind of the explosion's front seized the fragments and tore and worried them to bits, hurling them still faster along their paths of violence. And air, so densely compressed as to be to all intents and purposes a solid" smote the walls of the crater. Smote them so that they crumbled, crushed outward through the hard-packed ground, broke up into jaggedly irregular blocks which hurtled" screamingly, away through the atmosphere.

  Also the concussion wave, or the explosion front, or flying fragments, or something, struck the two loose bombs, so that they too exploded and added their contribution to the already stupendous concentration of force. They were not close enough to the flitter to wreck it of themselves" but they were close enough so that they didn't do her or her pilot-a bit of good.

  The first terrific wave buffeted the flitter while Cloud's right hand was in the air, shooting across the panel to turn on the Berg. The impact jerked the arm downward and sidewise, both bones of the forearm snapping as it struck the ledge. The second one, an instant later, broke his left leg. Then the debris began to arrive.

  Chunks of solid or semi-molten rock slammed against the hull, knocking off wings and control-surfaces. Gobs of viscous slag slapped it liquidly, freezing into and clogging up jets and orifices. The little ship was hurled hither and yon, in the grip of forces she could no more resist than can the floating leaf resist the waters of a cataract. And Cloud's brain was as addled as an egg by the vicious concussions which were hitting him from so many different directions and so nearly all at once. Nevertheless with his one arm and his one leg and the few cells of his brain that were still at work, the physicist was still in the fight.

  By sheer force of will and nerve he forced his left hand across the -gyrating key-bank to the Bergenholm switch. He snapped it, and in the instant of its closing a vast, calm peace descended, blanket-like. For, fortunately, the Berg still worked; the flitter and al! her contents and appurtenances were inertialess. Nothing material could buffet her or hurt her now; she would waft effortlessly away from a feather's lightest possible touch.

  Cloud wanted to faint then, but he didn't-quite. Instead" foggily, he tried to look back at the crater. Nine-tenths of his visiplates were out of commission, but he finally got a view. Good-it was out. He wasn't surprised; he had been quite confident that it would be. It wasn't scattered around, either. It couldn't be, for his only possibility of smearing the shot was on the upper side, not the lower.

  His next effort was to locate the secondary observatory, where he had to land, and in that too he was successful. He had enough intelligence left to realize that, with practically all of his jets clogged and his wings and tail shot off, he couldn't land his little vessel inert. Therefore he would have to land her free.

  And by dint of light and extremely unorthodox use of what jets he had left in usable shape he did land her free" almost within the limits of the observatory's field; and having landed, he inerted her.

  But, as has been intimated, his brain was not working so well; he had held his ship inertialess quite a few seconds longer than he thought" and he did not even think of the buffetings she had taken. As a result of these things, however, her intrinsic velocity did not match, anywhere near exactly, that of the ground upon which she lay. Thus, when Cloud cut his Bergenholm, restoring thereby to the flitter the absolute velocity and inertia she had had before going free, there resulted a distinctly anti-climactic crash.

  There was a last terrific bump as the motionless vessel collided with the equally motionless ground; and "Storm" Cloud, vortex blaster, went out like the proverbial light.

  Help came, of course; and on the double. The pilot was unconscious and the flitter's door could not be opened from the outside, but those were not insuperable obstacles. A plate, already loose, was sheared away; the pilot was carefully lifted out of his prison and rushed to Base Hospital in the "meat-can" already in attendance.

  And later, in a private office of that hospital" the greyclad Chief of the Atomic Research Laboratory sat and waited-but not patiently.

  "How is he, Lacy?" he demanded, as the Surgeon-General entered the room. "He's going to live" isn't he?"

  "Oh, yes, Phil-definitely yes," Lacy replied, briskly. "He has a good skeleton, very good indeed. The burns are superficial and will yield quite readily to treatment. The deeper, delayed effects of the radiation to which he was exposed can be neutralized entirely effectively. Thus he will not need even a Phillip's treatment for the replacement of damaged parts" except possibly for a few torn muscles and so on."

  "But he was smashed up pretty badly, wasn't he? I know that he had a broken arm and a broken leg, at least."

  "Simple fractures only-entirely negligible." Lady waved aside with an airy gesture such small ills as broken bones. "He'll be out in a few weeks."

  "How soon can I see him?" the Lensman-physicist asked. "There are some important things to take up with him, and I've got a personal message for him that I must give him as soon as possible."

  Lacy pursed his lips. Then:

  "You may see him now," be decided. "He is conscious, and strong enough. Not too long, though, Phil-fifteen minutes at most."

  "QX, and thanks," and a nurse led the visiting Lensman to Cloud's bedside.

  "Hi, Stupe!" he boomed, cheerfully. "Stupe' being short for stupendous, not 'stupid."'

  "Hi, Chief. Glad to see somebody. Sit down."

  "You're the most-wanted man in the Galaxy," the visitor informed the invalid, "not excepting even Kimball Kinnison. Look at this spool of tape, and it's only the first one. I brought it along for you to read at your leisure. As soon as any planet finds out that we've got a sure-enough vortex blower-outer, an expert who can really call his shots-and the news travels mighty fast-that planet sends in a double urgent, Class A-Prime demand for first call upon your services.

  "Sirius IV got in first by a whisker, it seems, but Aldebaran II was so close a second that it was a photo finish" and all the channels have been jammed ever since. Canopus, Vega, Rigel, Spica. They all want you. Everybody from Alsakan to Vandemar and back. We told them right off that we would not receive personal delegations-we had to almost throw a couple of pink-haired Chickladorians out bodily to make them believe that we meant it-and that the age and condition of the vortex involved, not priority or requisition, would govern, QX?"

  "Absolutely," Cloud agreed. "That's the only way it could be, I should think."

  "So forget a
bout this psychic trauma. . , . No, I don't mean that," the Lensman corrected himself hastily. "You know what I mean. The will to live is the most important factor in any man's recovery, and too many worlds need you too badly to have you quit now. Not?"

  "I suppose so," Cloud acquiesced, but somberly. "I'll get out of here in short order. And I'll keep on pecking away until one of those vortices finishes what this one started."

  "You'll die of old age then, son"" the Lensman assured him. "We got full data-all the information we need. We know exactly what to do to your screens. Next time nothing will come through except light, and only as much of that as you feel like admitting. You can wait as close to a vortex as you please, for as long as you please; until you get exactly the activity and time-interval that you want. You will be just as comfortable and just as safe as though you were home in bed."

  "Sure of that?"

  "Absolutely-or at least, as sure as we can be of anything that hasn't happened yet. But I see that your guardian angel here is eyeing her clock somewhat pointedly, so I'd better be doing a flit before they toss me down a shaft. Clear ether, Storm!"

  "Clear ether, Chief!"

  And that is how "Storm" Cloud, atomic physicist, became the most narrowly-specialized specialist in all the annals of science: how he became "Storm" Cloud, Vortex Blaster-the Galaxy's only vortex blaster.

  Tedric

  Aided by Llosir, his strange, new god, Tedric enters into battle with Sarpedion, the sacrifice-demanding god of Lomarr in this story of science and swash-buckling adventure.

  "The critical point in time of mankind's whole existence is there-RIGHT THERE!" Prime Physicist Skandos slashed his red pencil across the black trace of the chronoviagram. "WHY must man be so stupid? Anyone with three brain cells working should know that for the strength of an individual he should be fed; not bled; that for the strength of a race its virgins should be bred, not sacrificed to propitiate figmental deities. And it would be so easy to straighten things out-nowhere in all reachable time does any other one man occupy such a tremendously-such a uniquely keystone position!"

  "Easy, yes," his assistant Furmin agreed. "It is a shame to let Tedric die with not one of his tremendous potentialities realized. It would be easy and simple to have him discover carburization and the necessary techniques of heat-treating. That freak meteorite need not lie there unsmelted for another seventy years. However, simple carburization was not actually discovered until two generations later, by another smith in another nation; and you know, Skandos, that there can be no such thing as a minor interference with the physical events of the past. Any such, however small-seeming, is bound to be castastrophically major."

  "I know that." Skandos scowled blackly. "We don't know enough about time. We don't know what would happen. We have known how to do it for a hundred years, but have been afraid to act because in all that time no progress whatever has been made on the theory."

  He paused, then went on savagely: "But which is better, to have our entire time-track snapped painlessly out of existence-if the extremists are right-or to sit helplessly on our fat rumps wringing our hands while we watch civilization build up to its own total destruction by lithium-tritiide bombs? Look at the slope of that curve-ultimate catastrophe is only one hundred eighty seven years away!"

  "But the Council would not permit it. Nor would the School."

  "I know that, too. That is why I am not going to ask them. Instead, I am asking you. We two know more of time than any others. Over the years I have found your judgment good. With your approval I will act now. Without it, we will continue our futile testing-number eight hundred eleven is running now, I believe?-and our aimless drifting."

  "You are throwing the entire weight of such a decision on me?"

  "In one sense, yes. In another, only half, since I have already decided."

  "Go ahead."

  "So be it."

  "Tedric, awaken!"

  The Lomarrian ironmaster woke up; not gradually and partially, like one of our soft modern urbanites, but instantaneously and completely, as does the mountain wildcat. At one instant he lay, completely relaxed, sound asleep; at the next he had sprung out of bed, seized his sword and leaped halfway across the room. Head thrown back, hard blue eyes keenly alert, sword-arm rock-steady he stood there, poised and ready. Beautifully poised, upon the balls of both feet; supremely ready to throw into action every inch of his six-feet-four, every pound of his two hundred-plus of hard meat, gristle, and bone. So standing, the smith stared motionlessly at the shimmering, almost invisible thing hanging motionless in the air of his room, and at its equally tenuous occupant.

  "I approve of you, Tedric." The thing-apparition whatever it was-did not speak, and the Lomarrian did not hear; the words formed themselves in the innermost depths of his brain. "While you perhaps are a little frightened, you are and have been completely in control. Any other man of your nation-yes, of your world-would have been scared out of what few wits he has."

  "You are not one of ours, Lord," Tedric went to one knee. He knew, of course, that gods and devils existed; and, while this was the first time that a god had sought him out personally, he had heard of such happenings al! his life. Since the god hadn't killed him instantly, he probably didn't intend to-right away, at least. Hence: "No god of Lomarr approves of me. Also, our gods are solid and heavy. What do you want of me, strange god?"

  "I'm not a god. If you could get through this grill, you could cut off my head with your sword and I would die."

  "Of course. So would Sar ..." Tedric broke off in the middle of the word.

  "I see. It is dangerous to talk?"

  "Very. Even though a man is alone, the gods and hence the priests who serve them have power to hear. Then the man lies on the green rock and loses his brain, liver, and heart."

  "You will not be overheard. I have power enough to see to that."

  Tedric remained silent.

  "I understand your doubt. Think, then; that will do just as well. What is it that you are trying to do?"

  "I wonder how I can hear when there is no sound, but men cannot understand the powers of gods. I am trying to find or make a metal that is very hard, but not brittle. Copper is no good, I cannot harden it enough. My soft irons are too soft, my hard irons are too brittle; my in-betweens and the melts to which I add various flavorings have all been either too soft or too brittle, or both."

  "I gathered that such was your problem. Your wrought iron is beautiful stuff; so is your white cast iron; and you would not, ordinarily, in your lifetime, come to know anything of either carburization or high-alloy steel, to say nothing of both. I know exactly what you want, and I can show you exactly how to make it."

  "You can, Lord?" The smith's eyes flamed. "And you will?"

  "That is why I have come to you, but whether or not I will teach you depends on certain matters which I have not been able entirely to clarify. What do you want it for that is, what, basically, is your aim?"

  "Our greatest god, Sarpedion, is wrong and I intend to kill him." Tedric's eyes flamed more savagely, his terrifically muscled body tensed.

  "Wrong? In what way?"

  "In every way!" In the intensity of his emotion the smith spoke aloud. "What good is a god who only kills and injures? What a nation needs, Lord, is people-people working together and not afraid. How can we of Lomarr ever attain comfort and happiness if more die each year than are born? We are too few. All of us-except the priests, of course-must work unendingly to obtain only the necessities of life."

  "This bears out my findings. If you make high-alloy steel, exactly what will you do with it?"

  "If you give me the god-metal, Lord, I will make of it a sword and armor-a sword sharp enough and strong enough to cut through copper or iron without damage; armor strong enough so that swords of copper or iron cannot cut through it. They must be so because I will have to cut my way alone through a throng of armed and armored mercenaries and priests."

  "Alone? Why?"

  "Because I cannot
call in help; cannot let anyone know my goal. Any such would lie on the green stone very soon. They suspect me; perhaps they know. I am, however, the best smith in all Lomarr, hence they have slain me not. Nor will they, until I have found what I seek. Nor then, if by the favour of the gods-or by your favour, Lord-the metal be good enough."

  "It will be, but there's a lot more to fighting a platoon of soldiers than armor and a sword, my optimistic young savage."

  "That the metal be of proof is all I ask, Lord," the smith insisted, stubbornly. "The rest of it lies in my care."

  "So be it. And then?"

  "Sarpedion's image, as you must already know, is made of stone, wood, copper, and gold-besides the jewels, of course. I take his brain, liver, and heart, flood them with oil, and sacrifice them... ."

  "Just a Minute! Sarpedion is not alive and never has been; does not, as a matter of fact, exist. You just said, yourself, that his image was made of stone and copper and... ."

  "Don't be silly, Lord. Or art testing me? Gods are spirits; bound to their images, and in a weaker way to their priests, by linkages of spirit force. Life force, it could be called. When those links are broken, by fire and sacrifice, the god may not exactly die, but he can do no more of harm until his priests have made a new image and spent much time and effort in building up new linkages. One point now settled was bothering me; what god to sacrifice him to. I'll make an image for you to inhabit, Lord, and sacrifice him to you, my strange new god. You will be my only god as long as I live. What is your name, Lord? I can't keep on calling you 'strange god' forever."

  "My name is Skandos."

  "S ... Sek ... That word rides ill on the tongue. With your permission, Lord, I will call you Llosir."