The 13th Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by Lester Del Rey

  “What about Ecthinbal?” Pat asked.

  Ptheela spread her arms. “The same, in reverse. The air rashes in, builds up pressure to break the capsule, and then rushes out—in a balanced stream, fortunately, so there’s no danger of crowding two units of matter in one unit of space.”

  “Then I guess we’d better call the Galactic Envoy,” Vic decided. “All he’s ever done is to sit in an office and look smug. Now—”

  “He won’t come to help. He is simply an observeer. Galactic Law says you must solve your own problem or die.”

  “Yeah.” Vic looked at the cloud of dust being whirled into the transmitter building. “And all I need is something that weighs a couple dozen tons per cubic foot—with a good crane attached.”

  Pat looked up suddenly. “Impossible. But how about one of the small atom-powered army tanks—the streamlined ones? Flavin could probably get you one.”

  Vic stamped on the pedal, swinging the little tractor around sharply toward the office. The wind was stronger already, but still endurable. He clicked the televisor on, noticing that the dust seemed to disappear just beyond the normal field of the transmitter. It must be starting to spread out.

  “How about it?” he asked Ptheela. “If it spreads, won’t it start etching into the transmitter and the station?”

  “No. Betz II construction. Everything they built in has some way of grounding out the effect. We don’t know how it works, but the field won’t touch anything put in by the Betzians.”

  “What about the hunk of glass that’s causing the trouble?”

  For a moment she looked as if she were trying to appear hopeful. Then the flowerlike head seemed to wilt. “It’s inside the casing-protected from the field.”

  Pat had been working on the private wire to Chicago, used for emergencies. She was obviously having trouble getting put through to Flavin. The man was a sore spot in Teleport Interstellar. He was one of the few political appointees; nominally, he was a go-between for the government and the Teleport group, but actually he was simply a sop to bureaucratic conventions. Finally Pat had him on the screen.

  He was jovial enough, as usual, with a red spot on each cheek which indicated too many luncheon drinks. A bottle stood on the desk in front of him. But his voice was clear enough. “Hi, Pat. What’s up?”

  Pat disregarded the frown Vic threw her and began outlining the situation. The panic in her voice didn’t require much feigning, Vic guessed. Flavin blustered at first, then pressed the hold button for long minutes. Finally, his face reappeared.

  “Peters, you’ll have full authority, of course. And I’ll get a few tanks for you, somehow; I have to work indirectly.” Then he shrugged and went rueful. “I always knew this sinecure would end. I’ve got some red slips here that make it look as if you had a national disaster there.”

  His hand reached for the bottle, just as his eyes met Vic’s accusing look. He shook his head, grinned ruefully again, and put the bottle away in a drawer, untouched. “I’m not a fool entirely, Peters. I can do a little more than drink and chase girls. Probably be no use to you, but the only reason I drink is boredom, and I’m not bored now. I’ll be out shortly.”

  In his own field, Flavin was apparently good. The tank arrived by intercity teleport just before he did. They were heavy, squat affairs, super-armored to stand up under a fairly close atomic bomb hit, but small enough to plunge through the portals of the transmitter building. Flavin came up as Vic and Pat were studying them. His suit was designed to hide most of his waistline, but the fat of his jowls shook as he hurried up, and there was sweat on his forehead, trickling down from under his toupee.

  “Two, eh? Figured that’s what I’d get if I yelled for a dozen. Think you can get in—and what’ll you do then?”

  Vic shrugged. He’d been wondering the same thing. Still, if they could somehow ram the huge shard of glass and crack it where it was wedged into the wiring inside the shielding, it might release the shorted wires. That should effect an automatic cutoff. “That’s why I’m with the driver. I can extemporize if we get in.”

  “Right,” Pat agreed quickly. She caught a hitch in her coveralls and headed for the other tank. “And that’s why I’m going with the other.”

  “Pat!” Vic swung toward her. But it wasn’t a time for stupid chivalry. The man or woman who could do the job should do it. He gave her a hand into the compact little tank. “Luck, then. We’ll need it.”

  He climbed into his own vehicle, crowding past the driver and wriggling into the tiny observer’s seat. The driver glanced back, then reached for the controls. The motor hummed quietly under them, making itself felt by the vibration of the metal around them. They began moving forward, advancing in low gear. The driver didn’t like it, as he stared through his telescreen, and Vic liked it even less from the direct view through the gun slit. Beside them, the other tank got into motion, roughly paralleling them.

  At first it wasn’t too bad. They headed toward the north portal, traveling cautiously, and the tank seemed snug and secure. Beside him, Vic saw a tree suddenly come up by its roots and head toward the transmitter. It struck the front of the tank, but the machine went on, barely passing the shock through to the two men.

  Then the going got rough. The driver swore at the controls, finding the machine hard to handle. It wanted to drift, and he set up a fixed correction, only to revise it a moment later. The tank began to list and pitch. The force of the wind increased by the square inversely as they cut the distance. At fifty feet, the driver’s wrists were white from the tiny motions needed to overcome each tilt of the wind.

  Vic swallowed, wondering at the nerve of the man driving, until he saw blood running from a bitten lip. His own stomach was pitching wildly. “Try another ten feet?” the driver asked.

  “Have to.”

  “Not bad guts for a civilian, fellow. Okay, here we go.”

  They crawled by inches now. Every tiny bump threatened to let the force of the wind hit under them and pitch them over. They had to work by feeling, praying against the freak chance that might overcome all their caution. Vic wiped his forehead and wiped it again before he noticed that the palm of his hand was as damp as his brow.

  He wondered about Pat, and looked for her. There was no sight of the other machine. Thank God, she’d turned back. But there was bitterness in his relief; he’d figured Pat was one human he could count on completely. Then he looked at the driver’s wider view from the screen, and sick shock hit him.

  The other tank had turned turtle and was rolling over and over, straight toward the portal! As he looked, a freak accident bounced it up, and it landed on its treads. The driver must have been conscious; only consummate skill accounted for the juggling that kept it upright then. But its forward momentum was still too strong, and it lurched straight toward the portal.

  Vic jerked his mouth against the driver’s ear, pointing frantically. “Hit it!”

  The driver tensed, but nodded. The shriek of the insane wind was too strong for even the sound of the motor, but the tank leaped forward, pushing Vic down in his webbed and padded seat. The chances they were taking now with complete disregard seemed surely fatal, but the driver moved more smoothly with a definite goal. The man let the wind help him pick up speed, jockeying sidewise toward the other tank. They almost turned turtle as they swung, bucking and rocking frantically, but the treads hit the ground firmly again. They were drifting across the wind now, straight toward the nose of the other tank.

  Vic was strained forward, and the shock of sudden contact knocked his head against the gun slit. He hardly felt it as he stared out. The two tanks struggled, forcing against each other, while the portal gaped almost straight ahead. “Hit the west edge and we have a chance,” Vic yelled in the driver’s ear. The man nodded weakly, and his foot pressed down harder on the throttle. Against each other, the two tanks showed little tendency to turn over, but they seeme
d to be lifted off the ground half the time.

  Inch by slow inch, they were making it. Pat’s tank was well beyond the portal, but Vic’s driver was sweating it out, barely on the edge. He bumped an inch forward, reversed with no care for gears, and hitched forward and back again. They seemed to make little progress, but finally Vic could see the edge move past, and they were out of the direct jet that was being sucked into the portal.

  A new screen had lighted beside the driver, and Pat’s face was on it, along with the other driver. The scouring of the wind made speech impossible over the speakers, but the man motioned. Vic shook his head, and indicated a spiral counterclockwise and outward, to avoid bucking against the wind, with the two tanks supporting each other.

  They passed the south portal somehow, though there were moments when it seemed they must be swung in, and managed to gain ten feet outward on the turn. The next time around, they had doubled that, and it began to be smoother going. The battered tanks lumbered up to their starting point eventually—and a little beyond, since the rising wind had forced everyone farther back.

  Vic crawled from the seat, surprised to find his legs stiff and weak; the ground seemed to reel under him. It was some comfort to see that the driver was in no better shape. The man leaned against the tank, letting the raw wind dry the perspiration on his uniform. “Brother! Miracles! You’re okay, mister, but I wouldn’t go in there again with the angel Michael.”

  Vic looked at the wind maelstrom. Nobody else would go in there, either. Getting within ten feet of the portal was begging for death, even in the tank—and it would get worse. Then he spotted Pat opening the tank hatch and moved over to help her out. She was bruised and more shaky than he, but the webbing over the seat had saved her from broken bones. He lifted her out in his arms, surprised at how light she was. His mind flickered over the picture of her tank twisting over, and his arms tightened around her. She seemed to snuggle into them, seeking comfort.

  Her eyes came up, just as he looked at her. She lifted her face, and he met her lips in a firm, brief contact. “You scared hell out of me, Pat.”

  “Me, too.” She was regaining some color, and motioned him to put her down. “I guess you know how I feel about what you did in there.”

  Flavin cut off any answer Vic could have made, waddling up with his handkerchief out, mopping his face. He stared at them, gulped, and shook his head. “Lazarus twins,” he growled. “Better get in the car—there’s a drink in the right door pocket.”

  Vic lifted an eyebrow and Pat nodded. They could use it. They found the car and chauffeur waiting farther back. He poured her a small jigger and took one for himself before putting the bottle back. But the moment’s relaxation over cigarettes was better than the drink.

  Flavin was talking to the tank drivers, and a small roll changed hands, bringing grins to their faces. For a political opportunist, he seemed a lot more of a man than Vic had expected. Now he came back and climbed in beside them. “I’ve had the office moved back to Bennington—the intercity teleport manager offered us space.” The locally owned world branches of intercity teleport were independent of Teleport Interstellar, but usually granted courtesy exchanges with the latter. “They’ll be evacuating the city next, if I know the Governor. Just got a cease-and-desist order—came while you were trying to commit suicide. We’re to stop transmitting at once!”

  He grunted at Vic’s grimace and motioned the chauffeur on, just as a call reached them. Vic shook his head at the driver and looked out to see Ptheela ploughing along against the wind, calling to them. The plant woman’s skin was peeling worse than ever.

  Flavin followed Vic’s eyes. “You aiming to have that ride with us? The way Plathies stink? Damned plants, you can’t trust ’em. Probably mixed up in this trouble. I heard…”

  “Plathgol rates higher in civilization than we do,” Pat stated flatly.

  “Yeah. A million years stealing culture we had to scratch up for ourselves in a thousand. So the Galactic Council tells us we’ve got to rub our noses to a superior race. Superior plants! Nuts!”

  Vic opened the door and reached for Pat’s hand. Flavin frowned, fidgeted, then reached out to pull them back. “Okay, okay. I told you that you were in charge here. If you want to ride around smelling Plathies—well, you’re running things. But don’t blame me if people start throwing mud.” He had the grace to redden faintly as Ptheela came up finally, and changed the subject hastily. “Why can’t we just snap a big hunk of metal over the entrances, to seal them up?”

  “Too late,” Ptheela answered, sliding down beside Pat, her English drawing a surprised start from Flavin. “I was inspecting those two tanks, and they’re field-etched where they touched. That means the field is already outside the building, though it will spread more slowly without the metal to resonate it. Anyhow, how could you get metal plates up?”

  “How long will the air last?” Pat asked.

  Vic shrugged. “If it keeps increasing, a month at breathing level, maybe. Fortunately the field doesn’t spread downward much, with the Betzian design, so it won’t start working on the earth itself. Flavin, how about getting the experts here? I need help.”

  “Already sent for them,” Flavin stated. They were heading toward the main part of Bennington now, ten miles from the station. His face was gray, and he no longer seemed to notice the somewhat pervasive odor of Ptheela. They drew up to a converted warehouse finally, and he got out, starting up the steps just as the excited cries of a newsboy reached his ears. He flipped a coin and spread the extra before them.

  Word had spread quickly. It was all over the front page, with alarming statements from the scientists first interviewed and soothing statements from later ones. No Teleport Interstellar man had spoken, but an interview with one of the local teleport engineers had given the basic facts, along with some surprisingly keen guesses as to what would happen next.

  But above everything was the black headline:

  BOMB TRANSMITTER SAYS PAN-ASIA!

  The ultimatum issued by Pan-Asia was filled with high-sounding phrases and noble justification, but its basic message was clear enough. Unless the loss of air—air that belonged to everyone—was stopped and all future transmitting of all types halted, together with all dealings with “alien antiterrestrials,” Pan-Asia would be forced to bomb the transmitters, together with all other resistance.

  “Maybe…” Flavin began doubtfully, but Vic cut him off. His faith in mankind’s right to its accidental niche in the Galactic Council wasn’t increasing much.

  “No dice. The field is a space-strain that is permanent, unless canceled by just the right wave form. The canceling crystal is in the transmitter. Destroy that, and the field never can be stopped. It’ll keep growing until the whole Earth is gone. Flavin, you’d better get those experts here fast!”

  III

  Vic sat in the car the next morning, watching the black cloud that swirled around the station, reaching well beyond the old office. His eyes were red, his face was gray with fatigue, and his lanky body was slumped onto the seat. Pat looked almost as tired, though she had gotten some sleep. Now she took the empty coffee cup and thermos from him. She ran a hand through his hair, straightening it, then pulled his head down to her shoulder and began rubbing the back of his neck gently.

  Ptheela purred approvingly from the other side, and Pat snorted. “Get your mind off romance, Ptheela! Vic’s practically out on his feet. If he weren’t so darned stubborn, this should make him go to sleep.”

  “Romance!” Ptheela chewed the idea and spat it out. “I’ve read the stories. All spring budding and no seed. A female should have pride from strong husbands and proven seeding.”

  Vic let them argue. At the moment, Pat’s attention was soothing, but only superficially. His head went on fighting for some usable angle and finding none. The men who were supposed to be experts knew no more than he did. He’d swiped all the knowledge h
e could from Ptheela, without an answer. Plathgol was more advanced than Earth, but far below the Betz II engineers, who were mere servants of the top creatures of the Council.

  No wonder man had resented the traffic with other worlds. For centuries he had been the center of his universe. Now, like the Tasmanians, he found himself only an isolated island of savages in a universe that was united in a culture far beyond his understanding. He’d never even conquered his own planets; all he’d done was to build better ways of killing himself.

  Now he was reacting typically enough, in urgent need of someone even lower, to put him on middle ground, at least. He was substituting hatred for his lost confidence in himself. Why learn more about matter transmitting when other races knew the answers and were too selfish to share them?

  Vic grumbled to himself, remembering the experts. He’d wasted hours with them, to find that they were useless for anything but argument. The names that had been towers of strength had proved no more than handles for men as baffled as he was. With even the limited knowledge he’d pried from Ptheela, he was far ahead of them—and still farther behind the needs of the problem.