by Alex Raymond
Zarkov stared. “You think—”
“Hey,” Flash said. “The portside vidscreen scanners are out, too.”
Zarkov stomped over to the vidscreens and stared at them with a jaundiced eye. “What in the devil is going on around here?” he boomed out. “A moment ago all systems were go, and now—” He growled. “Two systems out completely. And no sign—”
“What do you think about the forward vidscreens? If they go out we can’t tell where we’re headed.”
Zarkov was standing bemused over the vidscreen readouts of the electronic telescope.
“Now it’s the damned electronic telescope!” he bellowed. “We were just about to use it to view our friend the UMO, but now we can’t.”
“It’s out?”
“Completely,” snapped Zarkov.
Flash frowned. “Doc. The outer detectors haven’t flashed an alert yet, you know. Why not?”
“I don’t get it,” Zarkov said. “You’d think they’d be the first to react!”
Flash stared at the console where the detector buttons were located. There was no signal at all. “Doc, do you think these are out? I mean, if the power isn’t flowing through them, the sensors won’t detect a thing!”
Zarkov shrugged. Then suddenly, as he stood there, his eyes focused on something outside the starboard porthole.
“Flash!” he managed to say, although his voice was hoarse.
Flash was flipping switches on the antennas and probing devices mounted to the outside skin of the rocket.
“No sign of any current moving through these circuits, either, Doc. What’s going on, anyway?”
“Out there!” Zarkov gulped.
“What?” Flash asked absently, staring down into the array of suddenly worthless equipment—millions of dollars worth of it.
“Look! It’s a nightmare. An impossible nightmare. Tell me—” Zarkov hesitated.
Flash turned slowly, still frowning, and glanced out the starboard porthole. His eyes widened and he could feel his breath choke off.
He was staring out into the blackness of space, with the gypsy planet in the background, its three moons circling it in spatially stable positions, but in the foreground, very near to the spacecraft Pandora, was an enormous sphere of luminescent white composition resembling nothing so much as a terribly enlarged human eyeball! And, past it, there was another—and another—and yet another!
“My God,” gasped Zarkov.
“Amen to that,” said Flash in a soft voice.
“They’re enormous—enormous eyes—”
“Or detector devices from our friend the gypsy.”
“There are dozens of them,” Zarkov croaked, peering out the porthole and counting. “Fifteen, sixteen—”
Flash quickly slid the transparent visor of the helmet over his face and flipped on the portable life-support system inside his astrosuit. He could feel the oxygen blowing coolly on his face.
“I’m going out,” he told Zarkov.
“You’d better be damned careful,” snorted Zarkov in Flash’s earphone.
“I will be,” Flash assured him.
“Do you think you can scare them away?”
“It’s reconnaissance. I want to find out if those things have something to do with the fact that all our electronic circuits are out.”
“Okay. I agree it’s necessary at this point in time.”
Flash nodded grimly and pressed the button on the space lock. There was a moment’s hissing outside, and then the bulkhead parted and a metal panel slid aside.
Zarkov held up his right thumb. “Luck.”
Flash stepped through the hatchway into the space lock, and the metal panel slid closed behind him.
There was a hissing around him in the lock as the air was sucked back into the rocket’s internal system. The space lock was empty of air now. A red light blinked behind Flash. He pushed the large button on the outer hatch panel and waited. There was a pause and the panel slid aside, leaving Flash in the space lock with nothing between him and empty space.
He moved through the hatchway and found the ladder rungs mounted to the outer skin of Pandora beside the hatchway. Gripping each rung tightly, he climbed upward over the side of the rocket until he was on Pandora’s topside dermal layer, adhering to the metal with his magnetic space shoes.
He heard a loud buzzing in his ear and turned to one side, trying to isolate the source of the sound. What he saw made him freeze in his tracks.
In the light focused on the outer skin of the spaceship by one of the huge luminescent eyes, a small electronic machine was busily engaged in sawing through the outer skin of Pandora!
“Cybernaut!” Flash said aloud. “A crazy-looking little cybernaut!”
It was no more than two feet long, with a body of rocket exhaust pipes bundled together, a jointed head on top of the metal body, and mounted on top of that a buzz-saw. Separate mechnical devices resembling arms and hands extended from the side of the cybernaut’s body, and these were gripping the outside layer of the spaceship for support as the buzz-saw in the cybernaut’s head continued to grind through the metallic skin, sending slivers of aluminum and steel flying into space.
As Flash stared, the mechanical thing stopped cutting through the outside of the ship and suddenly seemed to detect Flash. It then moved upward through space toward Flash, its tiny bundle of exhaust pipes popping like a toy motorboat.
As it zoomed at Flash, the buzz-saw continued to whirl, its tiny but efficient teeth whirling closer and closer to Flash Gordon’s space suit. Another six inches and—
CHAPTER 4
Flash’s foot had already left the metal covering of Pandora in a fast vicious kick, which struck the little saw-headed robot square in the rocket exhaust tubes. The robot sailed through space away from Flash before the buzz-saw could touch his astrosuit.
He watched the little mechanical unit fly through space, slowly emitting exhaust from its burners and righting itself some twenty feet away. Then it turned and seemed to stare at Flash through some kind of eyeless antenna probes.
Now it occurred to Flash that the small drawings he had studied from the readouts in the Space Lab might indeed have been drawn by robot hands—depicting the presence of a race of cybernauts on the gypsy planet. If the planet was inhabited entirely by cybernauts, then the enormous eyes which were casting light on the skin of Pandora might well be a form of sensor probes that would not only light up the area and object to be scrutinized, but would transmit back to a control center on the planet a picture of such an object.
Flash imagined an enormous computer sitting somewhere in a control lab, in turn scrutinizing the pictures from the plastic eyes and digesting the visual images on a vidscreen. Then what would happen? Flash wondered. Was the entire planet one gigantic cybernaut?
He shivered at the thought of it. Life on earth had become a great deal less human because of machinery and electronic devices, but at least the machine was the work unit of man. Without man to control machinery, where did the mechanics and the electronics end?
“Doc,” snapped Flash. “I just found a cybernaut trying to saw into the bulkhead of the rocket.”
“What!” cried Zarkov, instantly alert. “A cybernaut? You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Not at all,” said Flash easily. “It’s a classic work tool, self-propelled, with gripping aids and sensors of some kind that can cause it to react. It’s floating out there in space right now, thinking about what to do to me.”
“What did you do to it?” Zarkov asked in a very practical way.
“I kicked it in the—in the rocket pack,” said Flash with a smile.
“What about those damned floating eyes?”
“They’re obviously plastic and metal and glass sensors of another type, Doc. Also, they cast light rays on the outside of the ship. I’d say they’re observation cybernaut systems that send an image back to some control.”
“On the gypsy planet?”
“Right on, Doc. It c
an’t be anything else.”
“Well, what’s the next move?”
Flash had been thinking about that. “You wait right there, Doc. I’m going to try a little experiment.”
“Be careful, Flash!” cried Zarkov. “You’re too damned eager—”
The nearest of the spherical sensors had floated a little closer to Flash during the brief dialogue with Zarkov. When it was within range, Flash moved in on it in exactly the same fashion he had moved in on the little sawing machine. He kicked straight at the enormous sphere and gave it a hard boot in what appeared to be the lens aperture of the big eye.
The plastic eye moved back in space. Flash could not make out how it propelled itself at all. He stared at it, and allowed himself a smile of triumph. Both the mechanical saw and the probe now knew that he would not stand for their interference in the flight of Pandora.
“Okay, Doc,” said Flash. “I’m coming back in.”
“Hurry up,” said Zarkov. “I see more of those damned eyes.”
Flash glanced around. It was true. The area around the spacecraft was crowding up with the big spheroid eyes. He moved quickly, gripping the rungs of the ladder and started down toward the craft’s space lock.
It was then that he saw something which made his heart leap into his throat. There were actually dozens of them, clinging to the sides of the space ship. Cybernauts! Dozens and dozens! He blinked as if he might be going mad.
No. His eyes were not betraying him. They came in varying sizes and shapes: metallic units quite like the buzz-saw cybernaut he had kicked off the skin of the ship. It was as if the outside of the ship had magnetically attracted a madman’s chest of power tools. There were long screwdrivers attached to rocket packs, wrenches attached to robot bodies, hammer heads and saws of varying kinds, steel brushes, buffers, and all different kinds of power tools—each independent and each able to move through space and cling to the metal hull of the craft by some elaborate system of programming.
“Doc! There’s something out here you won’t believe!”
“I see them,” Zarkov cried. “Dozens of robots. Get in here, quick!”
Flash needed no prodding. He sped down the rungs and stepped in through the hatchway of the space lock. The little robots were apparently watching him with electronic probes rather than with eyes, and they did not move while he jumped down to the floor of the lock.
Now as he stood there punching the outer panel control button, he could see them moving around to the edge of the hatchway, the tiny metal “hands” clasping the edges of the metal, and the quivering wire probes moving inquisitively about in space.
The panel started to close.
“They’re all over the forward porthole,” Zarkov yelled in Flash’s ears. “Get in here quick, and let’s blast through them!”
“I’m on my way,” Flash answered, frantically pushing at the button to speed up the closing of the outer hatch panel.
The panel began moving again, sliding past the edge of the hatch opening. Then, abruptly, the panel stopped.
Flash stared in horror.
A dozen of the metal robots were holding the edge of the panel and preventing it from closing. The little robot machines were forcing the panel open again by burning their rocket tubes against the force of the panel.
Flash kicked at them, dislodging one, and then another. As one was removed, another took its place, and the panel slowly vanished within the recess of the outer skin of the ship, leaving the hatchway wide open.
“Hurry up,” snapped Zarkov’s agitated voice. “We’ve got to get out of here. Those damned metallic eye probes are coming closer.”
“Doc, I can’t get the space lock shut! They’ve jammed the outer hatch panel!”
“My God,” gasped Zarkov.
“Try a retro burn,” Flash ordered through the helmet’s headset. “If we back up, these monsters may leave us alone.”
“I can’t risk it with you out there in the space lock,” said Zarkov. “There’s a chance you’ll be blown out by the force of the thrust.”
“Forget that,” snapped Flash, his face covered with perspiration. “It can’t be helped. You’ve got to get away from these little monsters.”
“Can’t you kick them off?”
“I’m trying!”
Flash had half the panel free, but as soon as he began on the lower part, more tiny metal hands would grip the panel above, and force it back into the hull. Kicking wouldn’t do it. Reluctantly, Flash reached in his space suit for the disintegrator ray gun packed there. When he had it, he backed against the inner hatch panel and aimed at one of the creatures.
There was a brilliant blue flash, and a clot of burned-out metal plummeted into space.
Flash aimed again.
Another brilliant explosion. A second robot went into space, burned to a crisp.
Now suddenly, the nearest enormous eyeball moved just outside the hatchway of Pandora’s space lock and focused its rays inside on Flash.
He lifted the weapon and aimed at the aperture and stalled to pull the trigger.
Suddenly the panel behind him slid quickly open and he fell backwards into the cabin of the space ship.
The hatch slid closed immediately.
Flash stood, frowning in bewilderment. Zarkov came around and grinned at him.
“I got into my own life-support system and blew the air out of the cabin. Come on. We’ve got to figure some way out of this before those little monsters and those eyes destroy the rocket thrust packs.”
“Right!”
Zarkov turned to the forward porthole and gestured with his gloved hand. “Would you look at that?”
Flash stared. Big eyes were peering in, and the varied mechanical-tool robots were crawling over the glass.
“They’ve got saws and drills and cutters of all kinds,” Flash said hurriedly. “If we let them stay on the spacecraft any amount of time at all, they’ll tear it apart.”
Zarkov flipped the switch and filled the cabin with air once again. “Let’s blast through them—full speed—total burn. That should shake them off.”
Flash nodded. “In view of the problem, it’s the only thing we can do.”
Zarkov switched on Space-Probe Ground Control. “SpapGroc,” he called. “This is Zarkov in Pandora. We’ve got a problem.”
Ground Control came on immediately. “We’ve got a tape of your last dialogue, Pandora. We agree fully with your plan. Try to blast your way through the robots and we’ll keep you in the scanners and give you burn instructions when you’ve shaken them.”
“Right on,” said Zarkov.
Flash was settling himself at the control module. “Give me those burn readings, Control,” he said.
The monotonous but slightly tensed voice of Space-Probe Ground Control read out the readings for full blast and Flash and Zarkov manipulated the switches for a full minute.
“Ready to go,” said SpapGroc.
“Roger,” said Flash. He flipped the switches one by one and told Zarkov, “Hang onto your helmet, Doc.”
The space ship stirred, trembled, and suddenly shot ahead through space with rapidly accelerating speed.
Zarkov yelled out in triumph. “That’s doing it!”
Flash turned. He could see the tiny monsters at the forward porthole suddenly flying out into space in all directions. When he peered through the port aperture he could see the great luminous probe-spheres pulling away from the craft.
“That’s done it for the electronic eyeballs,” said Flash.
Zarkov leaned back in satisfaction. “Great day!”
Flash nodded and flicked the switch to Ground Control.
“A-Okay,” he said. “We’ve shed our passengers.”
“Good! Now cool the burn and—
There was static.
“I didn’t quite get that, Control,” said Flash.
They shot through the atmosphere at maximum, but there was nothing on the communications panel or in their headphones.
&n
bsp; “Hey!” said Flash. “Come in, Control. SpapGroc!”
Nothing.
Zarkov got up and stared over Flash’s shoulder at the communications panel. “You lost them?”
“I lost them,” said Flash, staring in consternation at the panel.
Zarkov twisted his beard in his fingers. “That’s a real bad can of worms, pal.”
“Indeed so.”
Zarkov banged on the switch. “Come in, Control! Space-Probe Ground Control!”
Nothing.
Flash turned to stare at Zarkov. “We’ve lost them for good. What do you think of that?”
Zarkov shook his head. He glanced up at the porthole and made a sudden exclamation. “Hey! Look at that! Did you cut off that burn?”
“Nope,” said Flash. He stared, himself. “You’re seeing the same thing I’m seeing—we’re not moving!”
Zarkov turned and hunched over the power panel. “There’s no power at all, Flash. We’ve lost everything now. We’re not even able to control our direction.”
Flash sank back and shook his head. “No contact. No power. No control.”
Zarkov passed his finger around through the inside of his helmet. “Hey, it’s getting hot in here. You feel that?”
Flash rose and took a turn around the cabin. “Very hot,” he murmured. He glanced out through the forward porthole. “And that’s what’s making it, Doc.”
“What?”
Flash pointed at the gypsy planet. It was much nearer now. The luminous satel-lights around it were enormous, the size of miniature suns. And the heat was obviously coming from them.
“We’re moving again,” said Zarkov. “How can that be? Have we got power back?”
Flash frowned. He glanced at the instrument panel and blinked. “The gyroscopes show movement. But no, we haven’t any power and—”
“Maybe we’re drifting,” said Zarkov shakily.
“Drifting? No way, Doc. We’re—we’re—falling!—falling toward that gypsy planet! It’s got us in its magnetic field and it’s drawing us right toward it.”
Zarkov ripped off his helmet and closed his eyes. His face was bathed in perspiration. “It’s too hot in here to this astrosuit.”