The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

  Schwab decided that something would have to be done about the kid. He glanced at Norden’s brooding profile, then at the satchel between them. His pale eyes narrowed in abrupt cunning. If something were to happen to the kid—if he stopped a couple of slugs, say—there would be nobody to split with. Schwab imagined himself in the city, with all the money his. It made a nice picture. And to Schwab the best part of it was that nobody would ask questions about what happened to the kid. In his part of the world nobody asked questions like that.

  A thin buzzing sound broke into Schwab’s thoughts. He jerked toward the windshield of the coupe, aware that Norden was moving, too. Together they stared up at the gray sky.

  Flying low, a gyro dipped and circled through the rain. Blue-painted—a police gyro. It was coming nearer, bobbing toward them like a cork drawn along by a current of water. The thin buzz of its motor became a low drone.

  Schwab watched the gyro, holding his breath. If the Johns sighted the car—But the gyro did not descend low enough for its occupants to glimpse the coupe through the trunks of the trees whose branches screened it from above. The obscuring effects of the rain might have helped. The gyro banked while still some distance away, bobbed off beyond sight and hearing.

  Schwab released his breath, but the tight feeling inside him remained. The Johns knew they were somewhere in the vicinity. They would return.

  Schwab glanced uneasily at Norden. “Maybe we better get a move on, kid.”

  “Not until dark,” Norden said. “The Johns won’t be back this way for a while.”

  The rain gradually slackened, finally stopped. The gray sky darkened. A wind sprang up and made the branches rattle and scrape on the roof of the coupe like bony fingers knocking for admittance. Star began to appear one by one as the sky slowly cleared.

  Norden said, “All right, guess we can make a run for it now. Turn the car around and head back for the highway.”

  “What’s wrong with this road?” Schwab demanded.

  “It’s slow, and it’ll take us out of our way.”

  “So what, kid? It’s safe. They’ll have Johns posted on all the highways around here.”

  Norden was silent a moment. “We’ll use this road, then—but no stops, Mugger. Understand? We go straight through.”

  Schwab said nothing. He started the coupe and ran it to the road. He didn’t turn on the lights. Hunching over the wheel, squinting his eyes, he headed for the line of night-shrouded hills.

  It was rough going. The road was just so much mud, and in places-hub-deep in water. And in the dark the coupe lurched and swayed like something blind or drunk.

  The road climbed as it cut through the hills. On the slopes the water had drained off, and the wind had made the ground comparatively dry. The traveling was easier. Made short-tempered by the enforced slowness of their progress, Schwab seized eagerly at the opportunity offered by the smooth stretch. He gunned the motor of the coupe, and raced it over the crest.

  Norden jerked erect in his seat. “Take it easy!” he protested.

  Schwab grunted, but did not slacken speed. The coupe plunged downhill into a pocket of black shadows. Only then did Schwab touch the brake. But it was too late. At the bottom of the rise the water had drained into muddy pools, slick as oil. The coupe splashed into one of these, and still traveling fast, slewed around in a great half circle. One of the rear wheels struck a sharp rock with vicious force. There was a loud pop as the tire let go. The wheels still churned, but the coupe remained motionless.

  Norden took a deep breath. “That did it,” he said tonelessly.

  Muttering curses, Schwab bore down on the accelerator and twisted furiously at the wheel. Mud flew boiled beneath the wheels, but the coupe stayed where it was. After a while Schwab gave up, and cut the engine.

  “Looks like we walk,” he growled defiantly.

  Norden said nothing. He sat perfectly still a moment, then climbed slowly from the car. Clutching the satchel of money, Schwab followed.

  They stood at the entrance to a broad valley. Night lay heavy over its expanse.

  Norden said, “There’s a farmhouse down there. They’ll have a car. But get this, Mugger, we’re not going to steal that car.”

  “Not steal it?” Schwab gasped. “But, kid, how are we—”

  “We’re going to take the car—and we’re going to leave enough money to pay for it.”

  Schwab choked back a protest. The kid had gone soft, all right, he thought. He decided that the sooner Norden met with his “accident” the safer it would be. He gripped tighter at the handle of the satchel and licked his lips.

  “Come on,” Norden said.

  Night had covered the farm buildings with a thick blanket of shadows. There were no lights. The cottage and the barn bulked in the gloom like monsters huddled in sleep. In the silence came the chirping of crickets, mingled with the intermittent croaking of frogs.

  Norden whispered, “There’s no garage. The car’ll be in the barn.”

  Schwab glanced at the cottage. “I’m hungry,” he muttered.

  “Forget it,” Norden advised. “We’re leaving these people strictly alone. Come on,” he ordered again. He strode quickly toward the barn.

  The sliding doors were not closed. They were open a little in the middle, enough to permit of squeezing through.

  Inside the barn it was pitch black. Schwab produced his cigarette lighter and snapped it aflame. He drew in his breath sharply.

  “I’ll be damned, kid, look!” he whispered hoarsely. “A strato ship, of all things!”

  In the feeble light, Norden’s eyes were narrowed. “That’s no strato ship. I’ve flown them on bootlegging runs, and I know. Look at those jet tubes. They’re too big, and there’s too many of them. This is a space rocket.”

  “But what’s it doing here?” Schwab demanded.

  Norden shrugged as though the question irritated him. He turned to the doors and pushed them shut. Then he strode to where a light bulb hung between two desks. He wrapped his handkerchief around it, switched it on. He looked around, frowning.

  “No car,” Schwab said softly. “Nothing.”

  “They probably have their stuff delivered,” Norden muttered. “And travel to and from town by air taxi.” His questing glance fell upon one of the two desks. There was a typewriter on it, and nearby a sheaf of papers. Norden picked them up. “Instructions on how to fly the ship…”

  Schwab asked, “Think you could fly it, kid?”

  “Probably—if the controls aren’t too different from a strato rocket. But I don’t see what good that dough from the bank would do on the Moon.” Norden’s eyes held a glitter as though a light had been turned on behind them. He looked at the ship, then at the sheaf of instructions in his hand. A smile smoothed the tired lines from his face.

  “We got to have a car,” Schwab growled. He snapped his fingers. “Say, maybe they got a car, but it’s parked outside somewhere. I’m going to take a look.”

  Norden seemed not to have heard. He had seated himself on the desk and was reading the sheaf of instructions. They seemed to fascinate him.

  When Norden reached the last sheet, a muffled report broke the stillness. His eyes jerked from the page, and a startled awareness of his surroundings crept back into them. He put the papers back on the desk and got slowly to his feet. He reached into the V of his jacket and loosened his automatic in its holster. Then he watched the doors, his eyes tired again.

  The sound of approaching footsteps became audible. Schwab squeezed through the doors, his thick lips stretched in a grin. He brandished a large bundle wrapped in a green-checked tablecloth.

  “Look, kid, grub!”

  Norden did not look at the bundle. He said quietly, “What was that shot, Mugger?”

  Schwab’s grin faded. His washed-out blue eyes shifted evasively. “Aw, just an old guy. I knocked ove
r a chair, and he come busting in.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “It was him or me.”

  “He had a gun?”

  “Yeah, a shotgun,” Schwab answered quickly. “I’d of got both barrels if I didn’t let him have it first.”

  “You lie, Mugger. He didn’t have a gun. And I told you to keep away from the house.”

  “But, hell, kid, we didn’t have anything to eat since noon. Look here’s grub.” Holding out the bundle and grinning placatingly, Schwab advanced toward the desk.

  “Back!” Norden’s voice cut the air like a whip. Muscles bunched whitely in his jaw. “I told you to keep away from the house. I told you I’m sick of your killing. That old guy you fogged might have been my father.”

  “Hell, kid, I didn’t know! Why didn’t you tell me that’s why you—”

  “You know now, Mugger. Now we’re quits. You going to go for your gun, or do I have to give it to you this way?” At the first note of warning in Norden’s voice, Schwab had started moving backward, getting himself killing room. Now he judged he had enough. He rested his weight lightly on his feet, crouching a little, all poised, alert, and ready for business. His confidence came from a knowledge of superiority. He know he was faster on the draw than Norden.

  Schwab laughed softly. “You’re making this too easy for me, kid. I was going to give it to you in due time for the bank dough, but if you want it now, I’ll give it to you now.”

  Schwab’s hand flashed into the opening of his jacket, moving so fast it was only a blur. His elbow hit a tackle rope which hung from an overhead runway. There was a hiss of sound, a stomach-wrenching thud. Schwab hit the ground like a nail driven by a hammer. He lay very still. There wasn’t much left of his head.

  Norden, gun in hand, stood swaying on his feet, staring dazedly. There was a nightmarish unreality about Schwab’s instantaneous death.

  Shock slowly left Norden. He holstered his gun and stood motionless, listening, his head cocked toward the cottage. The night was very still—for a moment. Then came the thin buzzing of an approaching gyro.

  Norden stiffened, but still he did not move. Something about the sound puzzled him. He kept listening. After some seconds had passed, he knew what was wrong. More than one gyro was moving through the night. There seemed to be a squad of them, in fact. And there was something purposeful about the sound of their approach—as though they knew just where they were going and what they would find when they got there.

  Norden thought of the old man in the cottage whom Schwab had killed. He had probably lived long enough to put in a call to the police. For a moment Norden considered going to the cottage, but reluctantly abandoned the thought. There wasn’t enough time.

  He roused into activity. He took the sheaf of instructions from the desk, folded them lengthwise, and stuffed them into the inner pocket of his jacket. From the floor he lifted Schwab’s bundle of stolen food. Then he strode quickly to the ship.

  The entrance port was open. Norden swung inside and pulled the port shut, turning the sealing wheel which rendered it airtight. There was a second port just a few feet beyond the first, the space between forming an airlock. Norden sealed shut the second port also, and moved toward the control room. There were lights there. He decided that the closing of the ports had automatically turned them on.

  Settling into the pilot chair, he took out the sheaf of instructions. He read the first few pages a second time, then studied the control board before him. Within a few minutes he knew just what to do. He pressed a row of studs, advanced a lever one notch in its calibrated slot, and flicked a switch. The ship began to vibrate to a muted roar from outside.

  Norden knew that flame from the jets would ignite the barn. But the fire would serve its purpose by keeping the police at a safe distance when the ship took off.

  The jet tubes warmed up. Everything was ready. Norden reached for the lever again, and moved it four notches down its slot.

  The ship should have taken off easily, gradually built up acceleration. But there was a flaw in the fuel lines—one of those minor flaws that happens to be in an important place—and the terrific heat didn’t help it any. The fuel let go with a tremendous roar. The ship was hurled heavenward at incredible speed. Norden’s mind blanked out as a giant hand of pressure grabbed him and squeezed him mercilessly.

  Norden awoke to a steel-bound world of utter silence. His head throbbed with pain, and every muscle of his body ached unbearably. Slowly, sweat beading his forehead at the effort, he forced himself erect in the chair. A glance at the forward viewport showed him that the ship was in space.

  Norden moved the lever up and down in its slot, but got no results. Neither was there any response from the various switches and studs. Norden faced the realization that the ship was plunging away from the Earth, entirely out of his control. There was no going back. He had given himself a one-way ride to nowhere.

  He tried to feel dismayed, but found he actually didn’t care. This was better than jail. He grinned and reached for the bundle of food beside him.

  The sound of stumbling footsteps stopped Norden in the act of biting into a slice of cheese. He whirled in the chair, a hand flashing inside his coat.

  The door to the control room opened. A man crept in, an old man whose sightless eyes were hideous with puffy pink scar tissue. He swayed on his feet, his thin lined face very pale. Blood from his nose and mouth had dried in long brown stains on his face and clothing.

  “Who…who is that? Alfred? Alfred—is that you?” His voice was a thin dry husk of sound. He swayed a moment more, then seemed to fold up on himself.

  Norden crossed swiftly to the old man and slid an arm beneath the wispy white head. After a while the blood-caked lips moved.

  “Alfred?”

  “Yeah,” Norden said. “Yeah.”

  “Son! You…came back?”

  “Sure… Dad. I came back.”

  “But who told you where—”

  “They told me. They told me everything.”

  The white head nodded a feeble nod of understanding. Peace came into the gaunt lined face.

  “I… I’m sorry I wasn’t at the house when you came, Son. I thought I’d sleep better…on the ship.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “We’re in space?”

  “All the way out in space, Dad. I wish you could see it. Beautiful, full of stars.”

  The old man started to say something further, but a spasm of coughing choked off the words. Blood frothed to his lips. He became quiet again. The breath left him in a long sigh of contentment. His dying smile cracked the blood which caked his face.

  Norden stood up slowly. He looked musingly down at Overland.

  “Must be the guy who built this ship,” he muttered. “Mom and Pop probably sold him the farm…”

  HAPPINESS IS NOWHERE

  Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, November 1946.

  He knew he couldn’t keep driving much longer the way he felt. The old fever had really rot him this time. His body flamed with it, his head was a balloon buffeted by a storm of pain, the road was a great gray worm that writhed and twisted before his eyes.

  But Ross Downing set his lips stubbornly and gripped the steering wheel of his maroon roadster tighter in his sweating palms. He had to make it. He had to reach the city. “I’ve got to tell them,” he thought. “I’ve got to tell them I didn’t pull that robbery.”

  A buzzing sound filled his ears. The night kept getting in his eyes. The advanced stage, Downing realized bitterly. The dangerous stage. The stage where he ought to take a dose of that miracle drug whose name he could never remember it was so long, and rest, hope this time wouldn’t be the last. But he had forgotten the box of white pills in his haste. And there was no time to rest. He had to reach the city. He had to tell them…

  The roadster lurched and sw
ayed down a road that dipped and curled like a road in a nightmare. Which wasn’t far from the truth, for Downing’s dimming perceptions warned him that the dividing line between reality and delirium was wearing very thin.

  The old fever again. A deadly souvenir of his days as a soldier in the South Pacific. Downing tried to remember the name of it, and failed. He decided it didn’t matter. The doctors he’d consulted had a name for it—a fancy Latin name—but that was all. The fever was one of those rare tropical things new in medical experience. The doctors knew that one of the miracle drugs for which they had another fancy name would temporarily knock the fever for a loop, but that was as far as they’d got.

  So Downing had it again. The old fever had got back to its feet, and there was no gong to signal the end of each round. He’s down! He’s up! Over and over, on and on like that.

  It was during one of his recurring attacks that Downing took a brief vacation from the business which he owned in partnership with Harris Ogden. The rest had done him good, and Downing had felt a gradual return to some semblance of his normal self. Then he’d learned from a week-old newspaper that he was being sought for questioning in a robbery which had taken place at the firm.

  Ogden had been cautious in his statement to the reporter, but even so the finger of suspicion pointed rigidly at Downing. The combination to the safe had recently been changed, and the new one was known only to Downing and Ogden. And Downing’s vacation, coinciding with the robbery, made it seem as though he had opened the safe and skipped with its contents. Nor had Downing helped matters by the abrupt way in which he had left. In the throes of a latest attack of fever, he had given no thought to details. Just a brief telephone call to Grace, a terse note to Ogden, and Downing had gone without telling either where he intended to stay.

  Downing hoped fervently that his tardiness in learning of the robbery had not done him irreparable harm in the eyes of Grace and Ogden. He didn’t care what other people thought. But Grace Winters was the girl he hoped to marry, and Harris Ogden was his best friend. What they thought mattered a lot.