“That wasn’t an evasion,” Waring insisted patiently. “It’s true, Sally. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I don’t care! I’ve reached the point where I’d almost welcome getting my neck broken, Dean Haslip offered to take me out to East Section, but I thought I’d ask you first. Since you’re so very busy, I’m going with Dean.” Sally strode angrily to the door, and it slammed behind her.
Waring hesitated as he debated going after her. Then he shrugged tiredly. Argument would avail nothing. Sally refused to see the danger. He knew she would interpret his protests on the basis that he didn’t want her to have any fun—that he was jealous of Haslip. And, anyway, Waring thought, Sally would be safe enough if she returned before dark.
Waring’s thoughts refused to struggle further against the bitterness which rose up within him. He limped back to his desk, slumped listlessly into the chair. “A cripple!” he whispered. “A cripple good only for a desk job. Of all the people in the System, why did it have to happen to me?”
He buried his face in his hands. He did not know how much later it was when the buzzer of the televideo sounded behind him.
Waring pulled himself to his feet. It was almost dark. Sirius was setting behind distant towers on the horizon.
He touched a switch and the office became lighted. Then he turned to the televideo set, flicked it on.
The features of a man took shape on the viewscreen. Waring recognized him as Dr. Wal Harding of City One Hospital. Dr. Harding looked pale and shaken.
“Waring—thank the powers!” Harding gasped. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Glad you were still at your office.”
“What in space is wrong?” Waring demanded, alarmed at the other’s appearance.
“Plenty! Waring, there’s something in East Section—something that practically wiped out an archaeological party an hour ago!”
Waring was stunned. “How did you learn of this?”
“Through the guide of the party. He was brought here, to the hospital—a first aid case. From what I’ve pieced together of his story, he was waiting in the car for the archaeologists. It was growing dark, and they were preparing to return. Then lights of some kind appeared, attacked the party. The guide saw them wiped out—four men and two women.” Harding licked his lips. He went on:
“The guide was the only one who managed to get away. He was horribly burned, but I’m sure he’ll recover—though I doubt if his mind will ever be the same again. Waring, he raved about ghosts! Ghosts of the Aliens!”
The significance of Harding’s last words penetrated only dimly into Waring’s mind. One thought rose with livid prominence from his horror.
Sally! Sally had gone to East Section!
CHAPTER II
Terror in East Section
For a moment Waring stood as though frozen, thought and motion congealed by an overwhelming dismay. Then flaming cross-currents of apprehension and remorse seared through him. With harsh clarity, he realized how his pride and stubbornness had exposed Sally to terrible danger. Even as he stood here now, it might be too late.
An urgent sense of need for action took bold of him. His anxious mind quested desperately for some plan.
No time could be wasted, he knew. Whatever he did would have to be done at once. He rejected immediately the idea of calling out the tiny police force of City One to aid him. Widely dispersed at points about the city, precious minutes would be lost in assembling them.
In a flash of decision, Waring knew what he must do. He was going after Sally alone.
With a curt nod to Harding, Waring flicked off the televideo set. He whirled back to his desk, movements swift and purposeful. From a drawer, he pulled a huge, service model blast-gun. Then, snatching up an atomo-flash, he limped quickly from the room.
An elevator took Waring down to the garage where he kept his rocket car. It was a sleek, speedy job, capable of traveling well over 400 miles an hour. He slipped behind the controls and with a roar of the drive rockets, started off.
Waring knew sightseers almost invariably took a certain route to East Section. This was a vast boulevard which ran straight as a rule through the heart of the district, terminating at the lake. It was chosen chiefly because it afforded scenic vistas of awe-inspiring splendor. Waring felt certain that Sally and Dean Haslip had chosen the boulevard.
He fretted impatiently as he inched his car through the traffic of the inhabited section of the city. Then, after aeons it seemed, he reached the outskirts of the deserted portion. He pressed his foot down upon the accelerator, while the rockets roared in a rising crescendo of power.
The discs of Sirius was almost gone behind the tower on the horizon. Waring knew it would soon be dark. Night came suddenly on Faltronia, in almost the same way the flick of a switch darkens a lighted room. In anticipation of this, he turned on the headlights of his car.
Waring turned down the boulevard, and now the accelerator went down as far as it would go. The car leaped like a spurred horse, rockets thundering.
Building after giant building rushed past, blurred with speed. In the gathering gloom they were gray and featureless, for all the world like huge tombstones in a Titan graveyard.
There was something hypnotic about the steady drumming of the drive rockets. Without his quite being aware of it, a portion of Waring’s mind detached itself from the operation of the car. The thoughts thus disassociated went back to that fatal day on Terra—the day on which, in Waring’s opinion, his world had literally ended.
The accident… Just two years ago—two years that were like two centuries.
He had come to Terra on leave…Captain Lon Waring of the Interstellar Rangers, very straight and trim in his green and gold uniform. On his breast he had worn the distinguished service ribbon of the Rangers, awarded him for his work in exposing the leaders of a pirate ring which for several years had terrorized shipping from Pluto clear out to Alpha Centauri.
He remembered the impatience which had burned within him. He hadn’t seen Sally for over a year while engaged in that deadly game of plot and counterplot which had led eventually to the downfall of the piracy ring. He had ached for sight of her blue eyes and the brown hair that clustered in soft, thick curls about her shoulders. Almost like hunger had been the desire to see her smile again, hear the silver tinkling of her laughter.
He had urged the driver of the air taxi to greater and greater speed. Faster, man, faster! And the driver, eager to please a representative of the Rangers, had complied.
Waring could not remember exactly how the accident had happened. The scream of braking air-flaps had given only an instant’s warning. The next thing he had known, a lumbering air van went hurtling toward his taxi. He had felt a split-second rush of horror—then had come blackness, utter and complete.
When he had finally left the hospital, he had found himself with a lame leg. Though the doctors had performed a miracle in patching him up, they hadn’t possessed the divine powers necessary to restore him entirely. No longer having the complete fitness of body essential to continued duty in the Rangers, he had been retired, and sympathetic officials had offered him the position as Chief of Police of City One on Faltronia.
A desk job…to Waring, after his active and adventurous life in the Rangers, nothing could have been more distasteful. But because it would take him far from the pity he was too proud to tolerate, he had accepted.
Three months after he had been on Faltronia, Sally had come to join him, having managed somehow to secure a position as his secretary. Waring had been dismayed rather than glad, for he had become so steeped in bitterness that he could not bear sight of anyone connected with his former life. Especially Sally, whom he had been trying rigorously to exclude from his thoughts. He had convinced himself that he was a cripple good only for a desk job—no longer worthy of Sally.
And the expression of shock and commiseration which had
come over her face when she had first seen him hadn’t helped the situation any. If her appearance on Faltronia had enclosed him within a shell of resentment, that harsh reminder of her pity had hardened it beyond all hope of cracking.
Life for him had settled down to a maddening routine of avoiding Sally, avoiding that look of pity in her eyes. A daily shame had grown within him that she should be present to witness the futility of his existence on Faltronia; that she should see how petty and inane were the duties which he carried out under the august title of Chief of Police of City One. Almost he had come to hate her that she should know.
But now that Sally had been exposed to danger, he realized that his feelings for her hadn’t changed. He still loved her the way Captain Waring in his green and gold uniform had loved that girl with the blue eyes and the soft brown hair.
The knowledge hurt within him. Even if he found her now—as he desperately hoped—nothing would be changed. He would still be Chief of Police of City One, embittered, futile, without purpose or hope.
Waring forced his aching thoughts aside. He saw now that the headlights of his car pierced through the darkness of night. He cut speed, peering about him. Certain familiar details of the surrounding buildings became apparent. He was in East Section.
Waring cruised along slowly, the drive rockets reduced to a throbbing murmur. With intently narrowed eyes, he searched for the spurts of flame which would indicate Dean Haslip’s rocket car. Down the length of the boulevard he probed, scanning each branching avenue he passed.
Minute after slow minute dragged away? The boulevard seemed to unroll endlessly into the night. The darkness closed over him like a shroud, menacing, alien.
Almost Waring was becoming prepared to give up his quest in despair. And then his tired eyes caught a faint flicker of light far up the boulevard. Heart leaping with hope, he sent the rocket car thundering forward.
At about the spot where he judged having seen the light, he slowed. Eagerly, he searched the darkness for some further sign.
And then—far up an avenue that branched off at right angles to the boulevard—he glimpsed a bobbing cluster of lights. As he stared at them, a scream reached his ears. It was a human scream. A girl’s scream. And it was familiar—filled with terror.
Sally! The lights had Sally!
Waring jerked at the wheel of the car, sent it hurtling forward with reckless speed. The cluster of lights separated, grew. And then Waring saw that the lights were not mysterious entities at all. They were torches. Torches held in the hands of—
He gasped in disbelief. It was incredible, impossible—but he found himself gazing at tall, spindling monstrosities whose great domed heads swayed on wrist-thin necks. Involuntarily, he braked the car.
The Aliens! Prentis and Stevens had been right, then. For these apparitions could be nothing more nor less than ghosts!
For seconds the chill of the unknown held Waring motionless. Then he remembered that, ghosts or not, these things had Sally. The thought spurred him into abrupt action. Gripping his blast-gun, he leaped from the car.
The specters watched him with great glowing eyes. Waring noticed that those nearest him held strange cylindrical weapons like oversized, ancient flashlights.
It happened with stunning rapidity. There was a sudden, shrill command. Simultaneously, the things raised their cylindrical weapons. Pale yellow rays stabbed out at Waring.
Agonizing pain gripped his body. His muscles seemed to turn to jelly. Then blackness flooded through and over him like an ebony cloud.
CHAPTER III
Ghosts of Faltronia
Waring struggled back to consciousness slowly like one swimming up through dark ocean depths to sunlight. He became aware gradually that someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes, found himself looking at the anxious, tear-streaked face of Sally Rhodes.
Sight of her brought him to completely. Wonder flaming within him, he pulled himself erect.
He saw that they were in a small, luxuriously furnished room, lighted by what seemed to be a great many-faceted jewel hanging from the ceiling. Exquisite tapestries covered the walls, and there were carven tables and deeply upholstered couches. Waring saw it was one of these latter that he occupied.
“Lon—are you all right?” Sally asked urgently.
He nodded slowly, staring at her. Knowledge that he and Sally had not been harmed had come as a shock. But where were they? What was to become of them? And—Waring glanced about the room, struck by a sudden thought.
“Where’s Dean Haslip?” he questioned.
Sally looked away, biting her lip. “He…he’s dead, Lon. They killed him.”
Waring sucked in a breath. “How did it happen?”
“Dean and I had gone as far as the lake and were on our way back when the car suddenly stopped. It had run out of fuel. Dean had forgot to check the car over before we started. As we sat there in the car, wondering how we were going to get back, lights appeared all around us. We saw…the ghosts. Dean fired at them—and they killed him. There was a flash of green light from something one of the Ghosts held, and Dean vanished.” Sally covered her face as though trying to shut the scene from her mind. She went on:
“Then a second group of Ghosts appeared and drove off the first group. I guess the fight was too much for me—I fainted. When I woke up again, I found myself being carried by the Ghosts. It was then that I screamed. And then you came, Lon. Were you looking for me?”
Waring nodded and recounted the incident which had led to his search. He finished, “It was your scream that led me to you. I didn’t get a chance to fire, as did Haslip, but even so my intentions must have been plain. I don’t know why I wasn’t killed.”
“I think I know why,” Sally said thoughtfully. “We’re captives of the second group which took me away from the first. It was the first group of Ghosts that killed Dean. For some reason, the second group is opposed to the first and didn’t want us killed.”
Waring shook his head in bewilderment. “This Ghost business doesn’t make sense to me. When the first explorers landed on Faltronia they found no trace of the Aliens. Neither did the colonists, who have lived in their cities for twenty years. Then where in the world have the Aliens come from? Are they actually ghosts?”
“I wish I were certain about that myself,” Sally rejoined. “But I do know that they carried me, and…well, I doubt if ghosts could do that.”
“Anyway, know where we are?”
Sally shook her head. “No, Lon, I fainted again after they turned that ray on you. I…I thought you were dead.”
“I see.” Waring glanced down at his hands and was silent.
“Look here, Lon, in spite of what happens I want to know one thing,” Sally said abruptly. “You have been avoiding me since I came to Faltronia, haven’t you?”
Waring nodded reluctantly. “I’m afraid so, Silly. I’m sorry.”
“And why, Lon?”
“I’d rather not tell you. It’s psychological stuff that isn’t good to hear.”
“But you must tell me. We’ve got to have this out once and for all. Especially now, before…before—”
“I know,” Waring said gently. “Well, I’ll tell you, then.” His voice low and faltering in the deep silence of that bizarrely exotic room, he told her what the accident had done to his pride and his hopes. He told her—with a superb effort of will—how the pity in her eyes had blighted his love. And he told her how his inconsequential desk job as Chief of Police of City One had embittered him.
There was no longer pity in Sally’s blue eyes, only an aching sadness. “Why didn’t you tell me this before, Lon? Can’t you see how our present position could have been avoided? And couldn’t you have guessed that my pity wasn’t at all for what had happened to your body, but for what had happened to your mind? Didn’t you realize I knew about your hopes and ambitions after you talked
about them so much?”
“I guess I was a fool,” Waring muttered. “A blind fool.”
“But perhaps it isn’t too late,” Sally went on quickly. “If the fact that we’re still alive in any indication, perhaps the Ghosts will let us go. Perhaps they don’t intend to harm us.”
“That would be a miracle,” Waring said. He made a gesture of sudden hopelessness. “But, Sally, even if they did let us go, don’t you see it would change nothing? I would still be Chief of Police of City One—a dummy with a title, tied down to a job with utterly no future. How could I make you happy? How could I expect you to spend the rest of your life with me in a dreary place like City One?”
Sally’s lips twisted in a wan smile. “A woman will bear anything for her man if necessary,” she reminded gently.
Waring could find nothing to say—nor was it required, for abruptly she was in his arms, and he knew he could never let her go. Almost he was glad that events, regardless of their peril, had led to this reconciliation.
A clicing sound broke the silence of the room. Waring glanced at Sally with sudden tenseness. A moment later a tapestry adorning the wall was pulled aside by someone or something behind it. A square, door-like opening was revealed. And then, through this, two grotesque spindling Ghosts strode into the room. Between them they pushed forward a weirdly intricate machine mounted on rollers. Several guards showed in the doorway, cylindrical weapons held at the ready.
Waring stared at the machine, his mind racing with grim speculation. There seemed to be a glittering deadliness about the complex device. He wondered if it was some kind of scientific torture apparatus.
He felt Sally grip his arm with fear-taut fingers. Together they waited for what was to occur.
For long minutes the two nearest Aliens busied themselves over the machine, adjusting various strange switches and dials. And watching them, Waring decided that these beings were not ghosts. They were every bit as solid and substantial as himself. He felt the mystery of their reappearance on Faltronia grow within him.
The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK Page 36