The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

  Behind Simmons, in the shop, a radio coughed into sound. It had been on all the time, turned to the police band. This bulletin, Simmons remembered, was the first of the afternoon.

  He turned with a movement made sharp by sudden tension and peered into the gloomy interior of the shop. He didn’t swing his head around all the way, just enough so that he could see what he wanted to see from the corners of his eyes. A crafty fear shone in his gaze like a furtive light behind a dark window.

  The radio was a tiny compact portable that stood on one end of a wide oak desk. Overland was leaning toward the radio with straining eagerness, as though it were about to deliver a message for which he’d been a long time waiting. His stick-thin body trembled a little, and the white hair which sketchily covered his pink head seemed trying to stand on end.

  The voice of the police announcer came crisply into the quiet of the shop. “To all air and land patrols on routes 72, 6, and 45: On the alert for a maroon Nesley coupe, last seen speeding toward route 6. It is believed to have Illinois license plates. Approach carefully. The two men inside have just held up the Warren National Bank in Warren, killing a guard. They are armed and desperate, and will shoot to resist arrest.”

  The bulletin was repeated. Simmons relaxed, and the breath blew softly through his lips. Just a robbery in town. Nothing in that to worry about.

  * * * *

  Simmons’ lips tightened into a hard line. The possibility that news of Alfred Overland would turn up on the police radio was remote—but the possibility remained. Simmons decided it was a chance he could no longer continue to take. It wouldn’t do to have Overland’s son appear before he had everything under control.

  Simmons turned his head a little, so that his sidewise glance took in the vast bullet-shaped object which occupied the center of the shop, and all but filled it. The object was a ship. Not a seagoing ship, not an air ship, but a ship that had been built to cross the void between worlds.

  It was about fifty feet long and less than half that in diameter. It had a smooth silvery skin freckled in places by slit-like flush-set ports. Thick stubby wings projected from its sides. At the stern a group of wide thick-walled jet tubes bristled like a cluster of cannon barrels. It wasn’t slim, sleek, and pretty, the kind of ship shown in pictures where art is more important than science. It looked mean, tough, and competent, as though it really would do what it had been built for.

  A gleam came into Simmons’ eyes as he looked at the ship. The hungry gleam of avarice.

  To Simmons the ship represented wealth and prestige—and all that stood in his way was a missing kid named Alfred. Overland didn’t count. Overland was an obstacle easily got around.

  If Alfred Overland were to appear before Overland senior died, he would be given possession of the ship as an inheritance. Simmons knew, being nothing more important than old Overland’s assistant, that he could expect only mere crumbs from the feast of the proceeds. Which, he felt, was unfair, considering the fact that he’d spent seven years helping old Overland build the ship. He ignored the fact that he’d served merely as an extra pair of arms and legs, and that it was Overland’s engineering genius alone which had made the ship possible.

  If, on the other hand, Alfred appeared after his father died, Simmons could claim that the space craft had been built on a partnership basis. Thus it would be Alfred who would get the crumbs. To Simmons would fall a large fortune—and more, the glory of being co-inventor of the first successful space rocket.

  The growl of a car motor came through the patter of the rain. Simmons turned back to the doorway, craning his head so that the corners of his eyes could take in the road.

  It was the postman. He thrust a number of letters into the rural type mailbox, raised the flag, and got back into his car. It growled into motion and rattled along the road to the north, which would take it out of the valley and toward the next farm almost two miles away.

  Overland’s reedy voice sounded eagerly. “Was that the postman, Ted?”

  “Yes,” Simmons answered. “He brought some letters. I’ll go out and get them.” His tone was one of friendly courtesy. It did not match the stiff hostile set of his face.

  “Hurry, then,” Overland said. “There might be news of Alfred.”

  Simmons’ lips writhed back from his teeth in a snarl. “Damn the old fool!” he breathed. “Him and his Alfred.” He was careful to keep the whisper safely below the murmur of the rain. The blind have sharp ears.

  Simmons walked briskly to a spot near the desk, where his raincoat hung from a nail driven into the wall. Still briskly, he donned it, pulled a shapeless discolored brown hat over his lank streaky-gray hair. He was trying to give the impression of a man anxious to please, a good servant conscientious in the performance of his duties. And he knew he was getting it across. Overland’s sightless eyes, hideous with puffy pink scar tissue, were turned in his direction with the same trust with which a dog watches its master.

  “I’ll be right back,” Simmons said.

  Overland nodded his wispy pate quickly. “Fine, Ted.”

  Simmons swung out of the shop and down the path that ran along the side of the cottage. He followed this to the mailbox perched precariously on its post at the border of the road. The rain fell like cold tears on his face.

  Simmons swiveled his head around, darting sharp sidewise glances about him, as though it were important that he miss nothing of his surroundings. There wasn’t much to miss. There was just the cottage, dingy and tired-looking, sitting in the rain and hugging its warped gray boards about it like a homeless sick old woman shivering in a threadbare coat. Directly opposite, and some thirty yards away, was the shop. It had once been a barn. Overland had converted it into a marvelously complete and efficient machine shop. It had cost a lot of money, but Overland—when he’d started building the ship, at least—had had a lot of money. He’d made a small fortune as a designer of stratosphere rockets.

  The cottage and the machine shop were enclosed in a shallow valley formed by low hills. The valley had once been a large farm, but under Overland’s tenure the soil had been abandoned to weeds, grass, and trees. These had their spring underclothes on, but hadn’t got around yet to their summer finery.

  There were two letters in the mailbox, both addressed to Simmons. He was anxious to read them, but it would have taken time. According to the game he was playing, these letters weren’t for him.

  Thrusting the letters beneath his raincoat, Simmons hurried back to the shop. Overland had turned his chair to face the doorway and was leaning forward impatiently. At the sound of Simmon’s returning footsteps, he straightened tensely.

  “For me, Ted?”

  “Yes. Two letters.”

  “Any from the agencies I hired?”

  “Both. One’s from Argus Investigations, the other from Parkerton’s Confidential Service.”

  “Hurry, Ted, open them.”

  Simmons opened the first letter. “This one’s from Argus,” he told Overland. The letterhead read: “Trans-World Stratolines, Inc.” The body:

  Dear Mr. Simmons:

  I was very much interested in the description of the space navigating vessel which you have constructed. Can you call upon me at your earliest convenience with plans and details?

  It was signed by the president of the company.

  Simmons grinned in satisfaction. This was the third fish that had taken the bait. And so far it added support to the theory which he had held all along—that while a great fuss was being raised over the space rocket research then going on, Overland was the only inventor who had as yet produced a successful model.

  Simmons’ letters to the head executives of the various stratolines had been cautious and unrevealing, mere feelers. Yet they had drawn immediate interest. They showed that the different stratolines were practically falling over each other in their eagerness to be first to obtain an ext
ra-terrestrial rocket.

  Simmons’ grin became large and wolfish. By clever playing of one firm against the other, he could jack the price of the ship to fabulous heights—become a millionaire dozens of times over.

  Overland’s piping voice sounded querulously. “What does the letter say, Ted?”

  Simmons came back to reality with a scowl. He began a smooth improvisation.

  “The Argus agency reports that their operative traced Alfred to Los Angeles. He was registered for a week at a third-rate hotel called The Baldwin Arms. The registration date is from August 15 to August 22, 1956—over a year ago. The trail seems to have ended there.”

  “Blind alleys!” Overland muttered tiredly. “Always blind alleys.”

  “There are countless young men who answer Alfred’s general description,” Simmons pointed out. “And Alfred didn’t always use his real name. That makes finding him an almost impossible task.”

  Overland sighed, then bent almost double in his chair as a fit of coughing convulsed his emaciated body. He straightened again after a moment and waved a thin hand in a kind of weary irritation. He wheezed:

  “I know, I know! But if Alfred’s alive, he can be found. What does Parkerton’s report?”

  Simmons opened the second letter. It was from a strat-rocket pilot with whom he was acquainted. It was handwritten in an untidy scrawl and full of grammatical mistakes. But Simmons didn’t consider this important. What mattered was that the writer was a veteran pilot and willing to take risks.

  Dear Mr. Simmons:

  I got your letter about the new ship okay. Sure, I’ll come out there and give it a run for your money any time you say so. I ain’t doing nothing right now. Don’t worry about me. I tested new tubs before and know what to expect. I ain’t afraid of no ship that flies.

  Simmons didn’t doubt that the ship would fly. During the seven years he’d spent helping Overland build it, he’d become familiar enough with its operating principle and construction to know what it could and couldn’t do. But before he went any further with his plans, he had to be absolutely certain about the ship’s performance. The inept author of that second letter was not a regular test pilot, but he would pass. The controls of the ship, after all, weren’t much different from a stratosphere rocket. The only difference was that the ship had jets powerful enough to take it beyond the stratosphere—beyond the Earth entirely.

  Noticing that Overland was becoming impatient, Simmons quickly recited a fake Parkerton report. “The Parkerton agency seems to have a little more information on Alfred. They traced him to Tucson Arizona, and from there to nearby Lyttel Rocket Field. On September 14, 1956, he signed on a strat-rocket bound for Australia. He jumped ship in Sydney. Parkerton’s beamed the Sydney authorities, but were unable to obtain any further information.”

  A hand of coughing took hold of Overland and shook his roughly. He remained bent over in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. His voice was thin and brittle.

  “Blind alleys again. It…it’s maddening.” Overland put his hands on his knees and pushed his fragile torso erect. “Ted, you don’t think that Argus and Parkerton’s are just—fooling me? Just taking my money and giving faked reports?”

  “Hardly likely,” Simmons replied, through lips suddenly stiff and dry. “They’re reputable agencies.”

  “Then why can’t they give me something definite? Why can’t they tell me where Alfred is, instead of where he has been?”

  “They seem to be trying their best.”

  “It’s not good enough. They’ve wasted too much time without turning up anything. I can’t wait much longer. I haven’t much longer to live. Six more months at the most.” Overland broke off as another coughing seizure wracked him. “The only thing that keeps me hanging on is Alfred. I want Alfred to pilot the ship. And I want to go up there with him—beyond the Earth. I know the acceleration will kill me, but if I were able to ride the ship, with Alfred at the controls, I’d die content.”

  Simmons, wisely, said nothing.

  “It’s been ten years now,” Overland went on. “Ten years… Alfred was expelled from college because of some trouble he had gotten into. Gambling, I think it was. But he wasn’t a bad boy—adventurous, maybe, but not really bad. I don’t know why he never returned home. He probably thought I’d disown him or something equally as foolish.” Overland’s face was shadowed and sad. He seemed to have become lost in some place of dusty memories. In the silence the falling rain whispered softly.

  Overland abruptly straightened in the chair. “Ted, I’m going to make one last try. Argus Investigations can be dispensed with. Parkerton’s seems to have done much better, and so I’ll keep them on the case. I’m going to dictate a letter to them. I’m going to have them send an investigator to Sydney. But first I’d like to talk to him in person. I have a few ideas that may help. Get your notebook, Ted. I’m going to have Parkerton’s send one of their men here immediately.”

  Simmons walked stiffly to an adjacent desk which had a battered typewriter sitting on it. He pulled open a drawer, took out a shorthand notebook and a pencil, and returned to Overland. He sat down in a nearby chair, moving jerkily in sections, like a jointed figure of wood. He felt cold and trapped. Overland had unwittingly forced his hand. He had never corresponded with Argus Investigations or Parkerton’s Confidential Service, and now, whether an investigator arrived or not, Overland would find out.

  Overland began to dictate. Simmons scrawled meaningless pothooks in the notebook. It really wasn’t necessary to do more than make the ordinary scratching sounds of a pencil moving across paper, for Overland did not know the difference. An accident with a welding torch three years before had blinded him completely.

  Simmons’ mind was furiously at work. If Overland discovered the deception of long standing which had been played upon him, Simmons’ plans for obtaining possession of the ship would be ruined. Simmons came to the inescapable conclusion that Overland had to die. It would be murder, but it was the only solution.

  From the corners of his eyes, Simmons probed the shadows up near the roof of the shop, where a massive block and tackle hung from an overhead runway. He’d thought of murder before, and he’d considered the block and tackle before, too. He knew a method whereby how cleverly to rig the device, balancing it so perfectly, that the merest touch upon the tackle rope would bring the block down with pile driver force upon anyone standing below. It would look just like an accident. None would suspect. Blind men blunder into things…

  The sly gleam crept back into Simmons’ eyes as his self-confidence was restored. He’d set the trap—soon.

  * * * *

  Schwab lighted a fresh cigarette with the butt of his last one. He blew a plume of smoke at the windshield of the car, darted a quick glance at Norden, and settled back into his seat. He ran the tips of his thick fingers along the rim of the steering wheel, slowly, caressingly. He tried to keep the expression of sleepy indifference on his heavy whisker-shadowed face, but every so often his eyes wandered to the face of his companion. His eyes were a pale washed-out blue, hard and calculating. Killer’s eyes.

  Norden was slumped on his spine, knees propped against the dash board. He gazed steadily at the rain. Not once, while Schwab smoked down the cigarette, did he move. There was that about his stillness that suggested a smoldering fire, ready at any instant to burst into flame. His face was something carved from frozen bone, hard, white, and cold.

  The rain hung over the world like a curtain of dirty cellophane. It murmured softly on the roof of the coupe—a maroon Nesley coupe. The car stood beneath a copse of trees, some twenty feet from a narrow dirt road that ran toward and between a line of low hills. The trees were still in bud, but their thickly interlacing branches gave enough protection from searchers above.

  Schwab finished the cigarette, lowered the window on his side, and flipped the stub out into the rain. He raised the window ag
ain, started to caress the steering wheel again, then instead jerked his short heavy body around to face Norden.

  “Look, kid, what’s eating on you?”

  Norden spoke flatly, without turning his head. “I don’t like the way you fogged that guard, Mugger.”

  “But, the hell, kid, it was him or me!”

  “He wasn’t using his gun,” Norden said, still flatly. “You could have hit him over the head when he tried to grab you, instead of plugging him through the guts.”

  Schwab shrugged heavily. “What’s a guard? They come a dime a dozen. The John Laws got enough to burn us anyway. One more fogging won’t make any difference on the hot seat.”

  “Maybe not.” Norden’s voice was suddenly tired. “I just don’t like killing for the sake of killing.”

  “Lot of things you don’t like all of a sudden,” Schwab growled. “You didn’t want to come up to this part of the country. You didn’t want to pull that job in Warren—when any sap could see it was the easiest touch in a hundred years. And you didn’t want to make a getaway in this direction, even if the Johns were watching all the main roads. What’s got into you, kid?”

  “None of your business, Mugger.”

  Schwab’s thick lips drooped sullenly. He lighted a fresh cigarette and fell to staring at the rain. His resentment didn’t last long. Thought of the loot from the bank filling a leather satchel on the seat at his side restored him quickly to good humor.

  “The hell, kid, snap out of it! What we got to be down in the mouth about? We got almost two-hundred grand from that bank job. When we get back to the city, we’ll live like playboys!”

  “Damn the dough!” Norden grunted. “And I’m sick of the city. I’m sick of this kind of life—sticking up fuel stations and grocery stores, and hiding. Always hiding. I’m sick of everything.”

  Schwab drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. The kid was getting soft, he reflected. That was bad. No telling what a guy would do once he got soft.