by Alex Raymond
THE WAR OF THE CYBERNAUTS
THE WAR OF THE CYBERNAUTS is the sixth in the series of fabulous novels inspired by the famous comic strip FLASH GORDON, read daily and Sunday by millions of fans throughout the world.
Twelve detection satellites mysteriously vanish while on routine space probes. Dr. Zarkov and Flash Gordon are sent to investigate. They encounter an amazing series of adventures when their space ship crashes on a gypsy planet inhabited by robots and plagued by an endless war. Two beautiful queens cast interested eyes toward Flash’s visage. Zarkov’s scientific genius saves our heroic pair from certain annihilation.
OTHER FLASH GORDON ADVENTURES
from Avon Books
#1 The Lion Men of Mongo
#2 The Plague of Sound
#3 The Space Circus
#4 The Time Trap of Ming XIII
#5 The Witch Queen of Mongo
#6 The War of the Cybernauts
THE WAR OF THE CYBERNAUTS is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in book form.
AVON BOOKS
A division of The Hearst Corporation
959 Eighth Avenue
New York, New York 10019
Copyright © 1975 by King Features Syndicate, Inc.
Co-published by Avon Books and King Features Syndicate, Inc.
ISBN: 0-380-00206-X
Cover art by George Wilson
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Avon Books.
First Avon Printing, January 1975
Printed in U.S.A
THE WAR OF
THE CYBERNAUTS
CHAPTER 1
The United States Secretary of Space Development was in a towering rage. In his office high above Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C., he pounded the top of his large desk with his fist again and again as he verbally assailed the man seated in the chair opposite.
“Vanished without a trace?” he repeated, shaking his handsome mane of white hair in disbelief. “You are a scientist, a man of intellect, Dr. Martin,” the Secretary howled. “How can you lapse into medieval jargon like that? Vanished without a trace! It’s twentieth-century witchcraft!”
Dr. Horace Martin writhed in his chair. He was a fairly small man, no more than five-foot-nine, with a bland face, light wavy hair, and wide-rimmed tortoise-shell glasses.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary, but I’m simply reporting the facts.”
“Facts?” roared the Honorable Madison M. St. George, smashing the desk top with his fist again. “I won’t accept that from you, Dr. Martin.”
He hunched there, his six-foot frame curved slightly, like a crossbow tensed for the kill, and glowered at Martin with his brows lowered over his bright black eyes.
“Sir,” said Martin, taking a deep breath, “I have only to report—”
“Twelve super-sophisticated space-probe satellites,” snorted St. George, rattling a sheaf of papers in front of him. “Twelve SSSSs! Do you keep the cost of one supersophisticated space-probe satellite, Dr. Martin?”
The scientist straightened. “One million, seven hundred and thirteen thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars and seventy-five cents,” he answered promptly.
“Each,” growled St. George, again banging the desk top. “And that means a dozen—a full dozen, Dr. Martin—cost—”
“—twenty million, five hundred and fifty-nine thousand, and nine dollars,” Martin said.
“Exactly!” cried the Secretary of Space Development, jumping up from behind the desk and pacing back and forth behind it like a white-headed lion testing the bars of its cage. “Do you realize, Dr. Martin, that we have to report these figures to the congressional budget committee when appropriations time comes around?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Martin contritely.
“There’s a big economy drive on, if you haven’t heard it, Dr. Martin,” St. George howled. “And there’s an energy crisis, and an inflation crisis, and an enormous deficit-spending crisis. Every penny spent by anybody is checked over and probed with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I know that, Mr. Secretary, but—”
“There’s talk of a Congressional Investigation on the loss of those SSSSs,” snapped St. George. “Do you know what that means, Dr. Martin?”
“Yes, sir, I—”
“Television cameras, hot lights, questions and answers, talk, talk, and more talk, accusations, suspicions, derogatory comments about scientists—oh, it won’t be pleasant, I assure you!”
“I’m sure it won’t—”
“But you won’t have to sit there and listen to them tear you apart. You know why? It’ll be me—I’ll be the one under the hot lights! I’ll be the one who has to suffer!”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Martin said.
There was an unexpected silence. The Secretary of Space Development sat down quietly at his desk. He stared across it at the mild man seated there. “Well? What have you got to say?”
“I was going to say, sir. that we are doing everything we can to find out where those twelve Four-Esses went to. You see, sir—”
“You’re just mouthing words, Dr. Martin!” snapped the Secretary of Space Development. “You should be out there doing something about it. All I hear are words, words, words. I never see any action.”
St. George swung up out of his chair again and moved back and forth, waving his arms dramatically.
“I want results! I want something besides speculations and excuses. I want—I want—”
Martin looked up.
“Why don’t you say something, Dr. Martin?”
“I’ve talked it over with the staff, sir, and we do have a plan of action. If you’d like to hear it, I have it right here in my briefcase.”
“More words, words, words,” snorted St. George. He stared a moment at Martin, and then wandered over to his chair and slumped in it, a defeated combatant from some unnamed war.
Martin reached down and opened his attaché case. He was Director of the Space Research Laboratory in Megalopolis West, located in the California Desert. It was from the enormous complex developed originally for the Venus probe that the first of the super-sophisticated space-probe satellites—called the Four-Ess by everyone in the scientific community—had been launched some nine months before.
That one had come back, after accumulating a great deal of valuable data on space conditions. The next five had gone out and likewise had returned with excellent results. Number Seven was the first in a long line of SSSSs that had never returned.
Martin ruffled the sheets of paper in his hand. “The Board has spent a good deal of time considering all the alternatives open to us, Mr. Secretary. And I think we’ve come up with a pretty good solution to the problem.”
“Good, good,” snarled the white-haired old curmudgeon, staring down his nose at Martin.
“If you’d like to look at it, sir?” Martin hesitated, and then extended the sheaf of papers across the desk to the Secretary of Space Development.
“You know I don’t like to waste my time reading words!” snapped St. George. “Give me a capsule account of that report—in fifty words!” The bright black eyes gleamed maliciously.
“Fifty words,” Martin leaned back to close his eyes. “Very well, Mr. Secretary. We’re planning to send the new Pandora Probe—originally intended to explore the Milky Way—with the two men aboard to find out what happened to the twelve missing Four-Esses.”
“Thirty-two words,” muttered St. George. “Not bad, not bad, for Washington, D.C.” He leaned forward. “Now why in hell couldn’t you have told me tha
t in the first place?”
“You didn’t give me a chance, sir,” said Martin, his face flushed.
St. George leaned back in his chair and laughed. “I guess I didn’t, did I? I suppose you think I come on pretty strong, huh?”
“Yes sir,” said Martin, regaining his composure and stuffing the report back in his attaché case.
The laughter stopped. The eyes hardened. “All right, Dr. Martin. Now let’s get down to brass tacks. All that hardware is out there floating around in space somewhere—twenty-million-plus dollars’ worth of it! You didn’t send it out there to bring back random information, did you?”
Martin flushed. He ran his finger around his collar.
“Answer me, Dr. Martin?”
“Well, sir . . .”
“Come on, now. You fellows out there work for me, you know. I’ve heard rumors. Oh, they’re pretty vague ones, of course. But they’re fairly accurate, usually.” St. George leaned forward. “Come on, Horace. Level with me. What is out there?”
Martin took a deep breath. He put the attaché case down beside his chair and straightened his tie. He usually worked in a sport shirt at the lab, and he was not comfortable in the confines of a suit and tie.
“It was Number Eleven that sent back the picture, sir. That is, Number Eleven of the twelve that vanished. It would be Number Seventeen of the lot.”
St. George’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“We wanted more information before we prepared a report, sir. This only happened two days ago, you know. We sent Number Twelve out last night.”
“I know. I know.”
“There is something out there, Mr. Secretary.”
St. George slid a little lower in the chair and stared across the desk top at Martin. “You should really have alerted me right away, Dr. Martin. Although I can understand your reluctance to do so.”
“Thank you,” Martin said with relief. “It was a most difficult decision to make.”
“But I’ve got to know the truth if I’m to fend off these damned Foggy Bottom rumormongers, you know.” He smiled crookedly.
Martin sat up straighter. He reached out his hand and snapped open the attaché case once again. This time he opened the case on top of the Cabinet Minister’s desk and laid it down flat. Removing the report he had already capsuled, he moved his fingers around on the bottom of the attaché case, twisting an invisible release. The false bottom lifted up.
With that he took out another manila envelope. This he opened and, with a glance around at the door to be sure no one was watching, withdrew a half dozen photographs.
“Probe Number Seventeen flashed back this picture before it—uh—failed to return,” Martin said slowly, handing the first of the photographs across the desk to the Secretary of Space Development.
Martin watched as St. George squinted at the blowup of the unidentified object and whistled through his teeth.
“What is it?” he asked slowly.
“We’ve put it into the computers, but so far the computers haven’t been able to come up with the slightest bit of analysis.”
“Where is the damned thing?” St. George asked in awe, turning the photograph upside down and sideways, assessing it carefully but with puzzlement.
“Where? We can isolate the exact spot. It’s in our solar system, out toward the edge, actually. With all planets changing position so fast, it’s hard to pinpoint it off the top of the head, but we know where it is. The astrophysical computers have analyzed it exactly from the positions of the stars and galaxies behind it in the pictures.”
“You don’t need to spoon-feed me with that kind of talk,” said St. George testily. “Okay, So we know where it is. Is it moving?”
“From the position in these six photographs, taken at Intervals of three minutes each, we know exactly how fast it’s traveling. It’s going—”
“Don’t give me doubletalk, now, Dr. Martin,” snapped St. George. “Compare it to earth’s speed through space.”
Martin squinted. “Um. It’s moving slower than earth, actually.”
“I see.”
“From the position and the direction, we ascertain it will not intersect with earth’s orbit but will pass on out of the system and into another galaxy eventually.”
St. George nodded. “No big collision with earth is anticipated, then.”
“None, sir.”
“Good,” said the Secretary of Space Development. “I had anticipated a hideous flap and then accusations of not learning of this potential catastrophe sooner.”
Martin handed over the remaining photographs. “Here they are, sir. None are clearer than the first.”
There was a long silence while the big white-haired man flipped through the pictures one by one, comparing each with the other and turning them to all sides.
“The damned thing looks like a big baseball, or something, doesn’t it?”
Martin laughed. “Our own planet looks like a big green and blue ball of light to our men in space,” he reminded the Secretary.
“But this one’s dark.”
“Right. Yet look at those three satellites.”
“I have looked at them,” St. George said. “What in the world are they?”
“We’ve had them through the computers too, and the computers simply don’t know what they are.”
Martin took the photos St. George had handed back and fanned through them. The picture showed a large round dark-gray sphere of some kind whirling through space. There were no clear indications on the sphere of water, or vegetation, or life of any kind.
Placed around the large object were three smaller balls, each less than one-twenty-fifth of the diameter of the big object, but each brightly lighted.
When scientists at the Space Research Lab first saw the photographs, they dubbed the satellites as “suns,” knowing of course that they were not suns at all, but possible “moons.” However, since it was not apparent where the light emanating from them in such a low-keyed way originated, they dropped the appelation “suns” in favor of “satel-lights.” The pun survived the first panicky hours of analysis.
“There’s obviously no sign of the missing Four-Esses in those photographs, is there?”
“That was the first thing we asked the computer to isolate. Not one of them is in sight, sir.”
“That figures,” muttered St. George wearily.
Martin looked up. “Do you want a copy of this photograph, Mr. Secretary?”
St. George frowned. “Better keep it with the rest of your reports. Dr. Martin. I understand your reluctance to release the information to the public. The press would have a field day. ‘New planet in solar system!’ ‘Collision with earth hypothecated!’ All that kind of nonsense. No. Let’s keep it veiled in a shroud of mystery.”
“Not afraid of being accused of a cover-up?” Martin asked gently.
“I’m in charge of this cabinet post,” snapped St. George. “You let me take care of it!”
“Yes sir,” said Martin with a smile.
“Who’s going up in the Pandora Probe?”
“One scientist and one astronaut.”
“Who are they?”
“We got a list of potential names from the computer.”
“May I see it?”
Martin shook his head. “I’ve committed it to memory, Mr. Secretary.”
“Discreet to the end,” murmured the cabinet minister. “Just give me the first two, please. Scientist first.”
“Dr. Hans Zarkov,” said Martin carefully.
St. George snorted. “I know him. Talks too much—but very brilliant, scientifically speaking.”
“Yes, sir,” said Martin, hiding a smile.
“The astronaut?”
“Colonel Flash Gordon.”
“Aha!” St. George’s eyes lighted up. “Where’s he these days?”
“On detached service to the Moon Stone Analysis Center in Houston, Texas.”
“Any more names?”
“Yes sir.�
��
Martin named five more.
St. George held up a hand. “I’ll go with the first two.”
“Yes sir.”
“If they can’t be had, let the computer name alternates. Do you have that?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”
“Have you contacted Zarkov and Gorden yet?”
“No sir.”
“Get on that immediately.”
Martin nodded and stood, carrying the attaché case as if it contained the atom bomb.
CHAPTER 2
In the Space-Probe Control Center of the immense Space Research Laboratory just outside Megalopolis West, two men were standing, staring up at a small mock-up of the Four-Ess missile which had become something of a cause célèbre to the National Outer-Space Program.
One was a tall, muscled man with a long straight nose, curly black hair, and a fierce black beard. He could not keep still, but moved around the large room, glancing at the computer readout on the giant computer, then peering out the porthole at the immense electronic telescope on the balcony outside, then wheeling about and staring once again at the Four-Ess on the pedestal.
He was Dr. Hans Zarkov.
The man with him was Dr. Horace Martin, freshly returned by jetliner and helicopter from Washington, D.C., and his dialogue with the Secretary of Space Development.
“Well, at least you’ve done the intelligent thing,” Zarkov said finally, turning and staring at Martin.
“Beg your pardon?” Martin said, blinking rapidly. “My mind was a million miles away.”
“I said,” boomed Zarkov, “at least you’ve done the intelligent thing.”
Martin was puzzled. “What’s that, Hans?”
“You’ve brought me into the thing.” Zarkov turned and paced up and down. “Could have told me sooner, you know. I’m not completely new to these crises. I’ll never forget the time the Moon Probe went haywire and landed in Batej in the Lake Baykal Region of Eastern Russia. Saw the damned Russians looking in at the camera eye and figured the Reds had reached the moon before we even knew they had lifted off!”