by Alex Raymond
Flash laughed grimly. “Well, Doc, we’re going to do one of two things.”
“Such as?” Zarkov was flushed and sweating.
“We’re either going to crash on the gypsy planet—”
“—which won’t be a bed of roses any way you look at it,” growled Zarkov.
“Or we’re going to burn up on the way down. Which way do you want to go, Doc?”
Zarkov didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 5
A stunned silence settled over the Space-Probe Control Center. Dr. Horace Martin moved quickly over to the Ground Control communications console, now manned by Dr. Paul Henning. Henning was a short, round man with a red fringe of hair on his almost bald, round head. He had blue eyes and a spade goatee of bright red.
Henning glanced over his shoulder at Martin. “It’s no use, Horace. We’ve lost them.”
Martin stared helplessly. “Lost audio communications?”
Henning shrugged. “Completely. And I think we’ve lost touch with all aircraft functions too.”
Martin sucked in his breath. He wheeled and moved quickly over to the Communications Computer Bank. To the young man seated at the console, he said:
“I want to hear that tape over again, please.”
The operator nodded, typed the request into the computer bank, and sat back. The voices of Zarkov and Flash Gordon as they had spoken to one another replayed slowly.
Martin listened with his eyes closed. When he was through, he turned and saw that several of his assistants were standing around him. Henning had gotten up from the Ground Control seat, now filled by a US Space Force captain who was calling Pandora, and was listening with Martin.
“Well, that’s it,” said Henning, flicking his finger over his sharp little red goatee. “Robots.”
Martin nodded. “Strange. You know, those symbol pictures—they did look mechanical. You know?”
“True. Have you got those here?”
Martin led him over to a big table along the side of the room. An air of business-as-usual prevailed over the Space-Probe Control Center, with the Space Force operator continuing to try to raise Zarkov and Flash Gordon. Other technicians were checking their instrumentation carefully to see that no local shorts had fouled out the equipment.
Henning picked up the first of the three photographs. “Well, we studied it before, and we figured it was the representation of a human being of some kind.”
“Possibly a cybernaut,” said Martin.
“Right. And as such it simply says, ‘I am,’ ”
Martin nodded. “The second one looks like lightning bolts, the old Zeus-power-god-thing.”
Henning frowned. “Or simply the delineation of an explosion of some kind.”
“Or war,” said Martin, as his mind roamed at will. “Or catastrophe.”
“There’s no question about the third. It’s a dead man.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Or a man sleeping.”
“Well, possibly. So what do you make of it?”
Martin shook his head. “In view of what we’ve just heard on the tapes, and the fact that we’ve lost all communication with the Pandora, I could say that the so-called ‘message’ has changed in value.”
Henning nodded. “I originally thought it meant, ‘I’m a person,’ ‘I have power, or god-like control,’ and ‘I am human and live and die.’ ”
Martin picked up the first picture again. “Right. An attempt of one living race to establish contact with another living people.”
“Exactly.”
“Now,” Martin said thoughtfully, “maybe the message means something else. Like this: ‘I am the man who lives on the gypsy planet.’ ‘I have power, I make war on my enemies, I control this planet.’ And the third picture: ‘I kill enemies, I kill those who try to hurt me.’ ”
Henning sighed, “I’m afraid that’s the kind of thing I’m coming up with now.”
“Robots,” said Martin patiently. “I got the impression they weren’t humanoids exactly, but some kind of mechanical units. Cybernauts, actually, controlled by programmed memory banks.”
“That’s it. If Colonel Gordon was able to physically kick them off him, and melt them with his disintegrator ray—”
“—they don’t seem to be very ‘human’ at all,” Martin finished.
“Then what are they?” Henning asked with a frown.
“We can’t even begin to guess,” said Martin. “We have so little data to go on. But I’m beginning to think about those three satel-lights floating around the gypsy planet.”
“You think they’re some kind of robot devices, too?”
“Possibly they are robot controls that provide light and heat for the gypsy planet. And the eyelike probes must be mechanical electronic devices sent into space just like we sent out our original Four-Ess probes to investigate the UMO.”
“I concur, Horace.”
“Look, Paul, we’ve forgotten one thing, you know?”
“What’s that?”
“The anatomical resemblance between that almost human eyeball and the weird probes thrown up by the gypsy planet.”
Henning flicked at his sharp little goatee. “That implies the control of some human agency whose appearance is closely akin to earthman.”
“Unless it’s an entirely unearthmanlike organism that has eyes resembling a human being’s.”
“Not really likely, given the manner in which creative evolution operates,” Henning muttered carefully.
“On the other hand, we have the shapes of the stick figures in the computer message via our Four-Ess probe.”
“Yeah. And they look plenty human.”
“Possibly the machines are humanoid in appearance.”
“Not according to Colonel Gordon’s words.”
“But I mean the machines in the control of the cybernauts.”
“Humanoid cybernauts in the control of these small mechanical power units?” Henning speculated.
“Possibly.”
“Have you any more acceptable idea?”
“None whatever,” Martin said with discouragement. “Well.” He straightened. “We’ve certainly got to do something about this.”
Henning looked around the room where the operators and technicians were all going about their duties in a kind of programmed routine. He and Martin walked over to the communications console and stared at the dials and buttons. There was no sign of activity.
“Come in, Pandora,” the operator was saying over and over again. “Come in, Pandora. This is Space-Probe Ground Control Earth. Space-Probe Ground Control Earth calling Pandora. Come in, Pandora.”
Nothing.
Martin growled in his throat. “I’m going to send up a satellite probe.”
“Another Four-Ess?” Henning asked in surprise as the two scientists wandered over to the wide window and stared out at the Space-Probe blast pads and the desert beyond.
“It’s the only answer, isn’t it?”
Henning shrugged. “I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, Horace.”
Martin smiled grimly. “Well,” he said. “Here goes nothing.”
“Washington?”
“Certainly. I’ve got to get permission from the Secretary.”
“Lots of luck,” muttered Henning, his blue eyes twinkling.
Martin nodded philosophically and moved quickly over to his office, a glassed-in section at the corner of the big Space Probe Control room.
“Mr. Secretary,” Martin began after the preliminaries were finished and he was finally in direct contact with the Secretary of Space Development. “We’ve got a problem . . .”
Five minutes later, his ears still burning from the sounds that had emanated from the telephone in his hand, Martin came out of the glass-enclosed office and beckoned to Henning.
“It’s A-Okay. Let’s send up Number Nineteen.”
“How did he take it?” Henning whispered.
“Not well,” said Martin with easy understatement.
; Henning smiled faintly.
“When I suggested we send up another Pandora with two astronauts aboard, he allowed that it would be an excellent idea.”
Henning was surprised.
“Sure. If you and I went.”
Henning tried to laugh.
“Come on,” Martin rallied. “It was only his feeble attempt at a joke. Let’s get on with Number Nineteen.”
CHAPTER 6
Zarkov was peering out the porthole at the blazing sky.
“Fascinating,” he said. “You see what they’ve done, Flash. They’ve actually constructed artificial suns and sent them into orbit around the planet. Ingenious!”
Flash was peering at the control console. “What kind of controls do we have on this cabin ejection unit, Doc?”
“What do you mean? Oh, self-contained, I think. Why?”
“What’s the point of crashing onto the planet? Why not blast ourselves out and settle in gracefully?”
“Well, yeah, we could do that,” Zarkov tugged at his beard. “At least, I think those cabin ejection controls are self-contained. We should ask Space-Probe Ground Control.”
“Come on, Doc! We’re cut off.”
“I know we’re cut off,” boomed Zarkov with annoyance. “I was just thinking it out.”
“There’s no time for thinking,” snapped Flash. “We’re just about to smash into the planet.”
“All right,” Zarkov growled. “Let’s get cracking, then.” He peered out the porthole. “You know, it’s a blinding kind of light, actually. I wonder how they make it? You see, the planet itself becomes a self-contained unit. It has its own solar system, carrying the light system right with it. Most interesting. Shows a readiness to adapt.”
“Doc, if you don’t get onto that cabin ejection panel and start punching those buttons while I hold this ship in stability with manual control, I’ll—”
“Sure, Flash. Sorry. It’s just that the scientific demonstrations here are absolutely fascinating.”
“Doc—”
Zarkov reluctantly sat down at the console and studied the buttons. “Okay. Seven. Two. Nine.” He turned around and stared at Flash. “Are you hanging on, buddy?”
“It’s as stable as I can get it in a free fall.”
“Right. When I count down, I’ll flip the toggles.”
“Three, two, one.”
The cabin of the space ship suddenly shot out the side of the rocket, in much the same way as a test pilot jettisoned his seat in an old-fashioned jetplane that was traveling at supersonic speed and could not be brought out of a free fall.
Immediately the two of them and the cabin were catapulted head over heels into space outside the gypsy planet.
Flash peered through the porthole, but could see only the spinning and wildly gyrating heavens. Then suddenly he made out the gypsy planet’s small sun, smaller now, in the distance, and then the huge mass of the planet, and then a brilliant explosion nearby and—
“Doc!”
Zarkov was trying to regain his balance, gripping the panel in front of him.
“Would you look at that? An explosion!” Zarkov cried out.
Suddenly the free-falling cabin jerked to a stop in the atmosphere of the gypsy planet and the rapid fall decelerated.
“The drogue parachute has opened,” said Flash with a sigh.
“We’re home free!” cried Zarkov in elation.
“Home?” growled Flash.
“Just a figure of speech,” muttered Zarkov.
“At least the planet has atmosphere of sorts.”
“Right. Or the parachute wouldn’t slow us at all.”
Flash stared out the porthole and could see the dark hulking shape of the planet coming closer and closer as they settled down in the sky from the space in which they had been traveling. There was a kind of reddish tinge to the atmosphere about them.
“Hey!” Flash shouted involuntarily. There was a tremendous explosion in the air outside the cabin. Flash’s eyes were blinded for a split second, and then he could see again.
“That’s a bomb,” snapped Zarkov. “Or some kind of explosive device.”
Flash nodded. “And would you look at that?” He pointed through the porthole.
Zarkov crouched over his shoulder. “I’ll be damned.”
A triangular-shaped wing-like aircraft zoomed up suddenly from below, sweeping by them and heeling over on its back, to vanish out of sight beyond.
“That’s a tactical maneuver,” snapped Flash. “Somebody’s flying that ship. You can’t fool me! It’s a military craft—”
There was another blinding flash, and an explosion that rocked the cabin as it sank through the air.
Flash could see another flying craft of the same type as the first, diving on them from above. A stream of bright orange flashes emanated from the nose of the ship, apparently trying to cut down another craft somewhere out of sight.
Then, before Flash could recover from that, an enormous missile zoomed up from the gypsy planet, past them, and struck one of the triangular fighting ships. The target blew up in an air-shaking explosion. Pieces of burned metal hurtled past them.
Zarkov gripped the porthole and stared down toward the gypsy planet. He could barely croak the words, he was so agitated. “They’re blowing up the Earth down there!”
“It’s not Earth,” laughed Flash.
“I mean, the planet.”
Flash was beside Zarkov, staring down. There were brilliant flashes from the surface of the planet, which was now very much closer than it had been. The two of them watched a flash, followed by great gouts of rock sent up into the heavens. Small and large ships flashed through the air below them, zooming at one another.
“Are they out to get us?” Zarkov asked thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “We’re small potatoes, aren’t we?”
“Who knows?” Flash said. “It looks more like that old earthly pastime of the last century—global warfare.”
Zarkov’s eyes widened. “You think—you think we’ve gone and parachuted down into somebody else’s war?”
“Why not?”
Suddenly the space cabin was bobbled about in the air like a toy airplane. Neither Zarkov nor Flash could see a thing for a moment. Then, when the cabin righted itself again, they realized they were shooting through the air at an incredible rate of speed.
“What’s taken over control?” Flash wondered.
Zarkov crawled to the porthole and stared out. “My God. We’re apparently fouled up with a huge aircraft that’s carrying us right into battle with a group of other ships!”
Flash peered out. He could see only part of the ship which had tangled up the shroud lines of the chute, but he could tell it was a very large one, and he could see that it was designed with many ports for launching warheads and missiles.
But that was not the most frightening thing. Ahead of him he could see a large squadron of flying saucers, from which flashes of light and heat seemed to emanate. The bank of saucers was heading directly for the enormous craft that had snagged them.
Now missiles seemed to zoom past them everywhere in the air. Metal whirled by at white heat, continuing on out of sight. The craft carrying them slammed toward the waiting cordon of saucers with blazing speed.
Flash watched as one of the ports opened in the ship and a missile shot forward toward the saucers. Then another, and another.
Then, with a tremendous shaking of the air about them, the saucers opened up. Missiles peppered the atmosphere. Flash could see one metallic shape strike the nose of the ship that carried them. It bounced harmlessly off.
But another struck nearby, and then a third and fourth. In the midst of a hush in the activity, another missile slammed directly into one of the airship’s ports. There was an instant of uneasy humming, and then with a fantastic roar the entire ship blew up above them, sending metal and flames everywhere.
The cabin of Pandora lurched away from the explosion, tumbled over and over, and separated itself compl
etely from the destroyed ship.
Down and down they fell, slamming toward the surface of the dark planet.
Then, suddenly, the parachute took hold again.
“Doc!” cried Flash. “Our chute wasn’t burned at all.”
“Of course not,” snapped Zarkov. “Those chutes are made of anti-phloxon, an invention of mine. Flames can’t burn it, vibration can’t hurt it, force can’t tear it.”
“You’ve saved our lives again,” Flash said.
“I rarely get credit for the things I do in the name of science,” boomed Zarkov. “Now that the crisis is here—”
Flash sprang to the porthole. “Hey, we’re not out of trouble yet. We’re getting closer and closer to the surface of the planet.”
Zarkov grabbed his shoulder and peered out with him.
The darkened ground was very close now, and Flash could see that it was not a ground covered with trees or vegetation of any kind, nor was it ground covered with water. No habitation was in sight. It was, in effect, a large rocky plain from end to end, without any kind of break.
But as they stared, suddenly at one end of the plain, a huge metal tank appeared, surrounded by a group of smaller units resembling wheeled cannons. These forces were moving very fast toward the center of the plain.
Flash jumped to the other porthole. At that end of the plain, an opposing group of metal tanks and cannon appeared, rolling quickly over the rocks. In the air, small jetcraft were zooming about, aiming missiles at one another and occasionally dumping blockbuster bombs on the land below.
It was a nightmare of activity.
“We’re going to make a safe landing,” said Zarkov calmly.
“That’s great,” snapped Flash. “Then what? Two men in no-man’s-land?”
Zarkov shrugged. “At least we didn’t crash-land again.”
Flash stared at him.
With a heavy jarring thump, the cabin landed, and the parachute sank gently down over it.
Flash cracked the escape hatch and crawled out. Zarkov was right behind him. They fought the entangling cover of the parachute of anti-phloxon and eventually succeeded in crawling out from under it.