Doomsday Planet

by Harl Vincent

  Or had Apdar believed this? Randall had said not. And Daila had used the word “claimed” in connection with it. Donley would have bet that she knew all of the truth about the harmless conceit.

  “Anyway,” Randall was saying, “that cinetape brings us up to the time I started working with Apdar. Watch what follows.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Randall appeared briefly on the screen, scratched his bald pate, then started off in his best lecture-room manner. His image faded and merged into another and clearer view of the starry heavens.

  “This is not on tape but is an actual view you are seeing through the telescope up here,” he announced. “In the upper right area of the screen you will observe an extremely bright star, which is Sirius. The pale blue ribbon of light that originates near Sirius and arches to the center of the screen, which is our position and point of view, is the energy stream that carries Ormin, and, I believe, the measured beat we have encountered, both here and aboard the Meteoric. The selfsame energy stream which carried our ship here willy-nilly. It is now propelling Ormin to its tryst with another heavenly body that is being carried toward the meeting place by a similar beam of energy which comes from a direction almost directly opposite—from the vicinity of our solar system. The other ribbon of energy is reddish of hue but can not now be seen because the other body is so near to us as to block the view. I checked and rechecked Apdar’s computations, which show that the two bodies will meet in forty-six minutes, fifteen seconds—as of a few minutes ago when the second check was completed.

  “The two are of about the same physical size but the mass or weight of the other body is amazingly less than a tenth that of Ormin.”

  The scene now swept dizzily across the screen during the time it required to bring in a closeup of the lightweight planet. At close range, for it was very near indeed, its appearance was that of a spinning orb showing bands of horizontally alternating luminescence and darkness. These belts varied in width from pole to pole and Randall opined that they could only be gaseous in nature. He added that he was now about to receive from the computer the resultant angle and velocity of the two forces carrying the orbs. This would determine their course and destination following the impact.

  How calmly Randall envisioned it all! How glibly and unconcernedly he spoke in terms of mathematics and the remaining time. But Donley could see that this planet of doom was drawing nearer by the second; its alternate bands widened as you watched. And then he saw Lantag had slid to the floor and was living-dead already. Others in the row of seat’s, five now beside himself, were getting panicky, rising up to start for who knew where. Donley remembered suddenly and confusingly, Mera. Less than forty-five minutes now. He must get to her and take her to Daila!

  But the pulse was getting to him. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Insistently, Maddeningly. But Mera’s only chance, he was certain, was to get to the western city. He fought the beat of the cosmos with all his might, getting Daila’s communicator from his pocket awkwardly. Then he flogged his misting brain into recalling the proper sequence in which to press the buttons. His first try brought no response. Must have used the wrong order. Two, five, six, one, three. He had it right this time and Daila replied at once, instructing him swiftly to bring Mera to the level where they had first encountered the drylander. She would have some of her men there to bring him to her with his precious burden. Jal Tarjen was now sagging forward—going—as he left.

  Donley had little knowledge of his actions, the throb in his consciousness overpowering everything else. He just wasn’t with it, no matter how hard he struggled against the living-death. He must get Mera to safety. Must get, must get, must get. A blank space as far as ordinary surroundings were concerned; he drifted into a world of bright fluttering light, blinding him after intermittent plunges into blackness. And then he realized dimly that he had found Mera, that she was in his arms, that he was staggering in search of the hall of the coffins. He never did make it. There were endless vistas of corridors and stairs and ramps, a gravity lift that would only go “up,” and always the location of the hall of coffins eluded him. The pulse had him in its grip once more and this time it was not so unpleasant. The beat seemed to be soothing, lulling him to a sense of security and compliance with identical cadence but proclaiming not lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub but what registered in his turbulent mind as let-down, let-down, let-down. If only he could let down completely, let the thing take over, nothing else would matter. But here was Mera in his. arms, delectable Mera had come through so much to save. Must get her to Daila. He managed to recover partly, staggering oh, but with mind wandering and senses dulling.

  In his growing weakness and confusion, he cried out loudly several times but was answered only by mocking echoes. He had completely forgotten Daila’s communicator. The pulse took hold once more and this time it conveyed to him the words give-up, give-up, give-up. In the end he did just that, slipping easily to his knees, then toppling backward and lying flat with Mera draped across his body.

  There came a stupendous jolt, a screaming, roaring crash. Whether it was the prodigious slam of world against world or merely the feeling that accompanied sinking into the living-death, he could never be sure.

  At least .he had been catapulted into a nirvana of blessed darkness and freedom from cares and fears.

  From his point of vantage on the tall seat facing the viewplate of the galactic scanner, the Keeper of Records watched intently as he brought in to closer view a phenomenon not having been duplicated for many aeons past. According to records, that is. Shalag, wraithlike m his gossamer robes and his lined face more deeply furrowed than ever by this concentration, most expert of all scientists of the planet Vloreg, particularly in the fields of galactic astronomy and the programming of computers in celestial mechanics, was intent upon the convergence of two bodies of comparative brightness that bore faint resemblances to comets although not in any sense orbital to any of the major stars of the Milky Way. Although one of the speeding bodies trailed that faint slender tail of barely discernible blue and the other a similar tail of pink. Bringing these into close focus, he saw that the computer was printing out a solution of his previous question. Yes, the two bodies were to collide—at precisely the location designated as 27148a—9a, 66b, 12c.

  Shalag manipulated the controls of the galactic scanner, bringing the speeding bodies into extremely close view. One was obviously a dead world, if indeed it had been populated, the other was a poser for the moment. Of similar size to the first, this apparently was a ball of gases. He fed a tape into the computer after punching it with the request for analysis of these gases. But it was too late for the machine to give him the answer, for already the bodies were almost in contact.

  Heavy tides were being raised on the gaseous body as the two neared impact. Then, streamers of what seemed to be flame but was undoubtedly only luminescent gases leaped from the near side of the body toward the other—like the corona of a hot sun when eclipsed by an orbiting planet. Excepting it was on the one side only. Gravity pull.

  Shalag blinked his old eyes as these two space wanderers closed in for the rendezvous. He ruminated on the possible causes of it all, his beliefs in the controlling force of a central intelligence telling him that this was a contrived meeting. For what purpose, he could not at the moment conceive. Possibly for the purging of a world contaminated and a menace to some solar system. Shalag had known of such a circumstance within the century.

  The blue and red tails, he observed, extended far off into space in almost opposite directions. Quite likely, he ruminated, these were the force streams set up by the central intelligence to carry these two to their fate. Like two arteries in the living organism that was the universe. Arteries that might carry such supplementary palliatives or energies as would be required to effect the desired purging or healing.

  Stretching out toward the dead body, the luminescent streamers now licked its surface as they leaped triumphantly from the gaseous orb. And then the two had collided
!

  The display of pyrotechnics was like nothing Shalag had ever seen in his century of presiding here. Momentarily it was similar to the burst of a nova, with particles thrown off and for the space of a breath outshining the multitude of stars in that area of the firmament. Like fireworks used in some of Vloreg’s celebrations. Yet Shalag knew that insufficient heat could be generated in this impact, mighty though it must be, to bring the solid dead body to incandescence. These then were certain of the gases comprising the other body, flammable and explosive. He knew not why but somehow Shalag received the impression that this was all for the good of the dead world. Possibly there was even some form of intelligent life hidden beneath its broken surface.

  A single body resulted from the crash, a body that had been without rotation now spinning on its axis and hurtling off at an angle that was the resultant of the two propelling forces toward one of the solar systems. Referring to his chart, Shalag learned that this was the system designated as Vastar 181-x. A quickly taped question brought from his computer the intelligence that this apparently rejuvenated body would orbit with the other plants, in a safe path around Vastar 181-x.

  Astonished by his own shaky reaction to the ferocity of the creative encounter he had just witnessed, Shalag took stock of himself and came to the reluctant conclusion that it was time for his successor to be appointed and for him to step down. For he ought not to have been so affected. He reflected that nothing in the universe is bom without travail and pain, that no great good is accomplished without some intense hard work and usually many disappointing efforts in advance.

  Shalag was aging and should be content to rest on his record.

  When consciousness returned to Jack Donley, he opened his eyes with extreme caution, not knowing what they might first see. He lay on his back, blinking in the light of—it couldn’t be—yes, it was, the sun! A soft burden, if this could be called a burden, snuggled contentedly on his chest. Mera—at last! He moved her with infinite tenderness so he could sit up, then cradled her head on his knees. Her color was rising with her body temperature and soon there came a flutter of the long lashes. Her incredibly blue eyes opened, took in Donley with a long fond gaze and then, half crying, half laughing, she rose up only sufficiently to reach his lips with her own, to cling to him with desperate abandon. It had been so long!

  “Jack, Jack darling. It’s really you,” she was murmuring as he kissed her neck, her ears, even the tip of her pert nose, then returned to her lips for more of their nectar.

  “And it’s you!” he marveled. “What I’ve dreamed about, searched for.” He drew her closer, forgetting all else.

  “I love you, Jack.” She tossed back her glossy brown hair.

  “And I you—dearest.”

  Time stood still for these two as their emotions rose to fever pitch and took complete charge. Where they were or how they had come there was of no concern. Neither was anything else but this conjoining of two ecstatic mortals, miraculously alive and together—for keeps.

  Ultimately returning to the commonplace from their private paradise, they rose up and took stock of their surroundings.

  They stood on a slope which Donley recognized as the one he and the others had soared above when leaving the Meteoric, although it now gave mute evidence of the upheaval which had brought Mera and him to the surface of Ormin. There was wreckage here and there; beside them were what was left of the walls of one of the corridors below, distorted and lying in heaps. The floor and ceiling had vanished. Apparently a sideslip of rock strata deep down had been their salvation, unaccountably heaving them to the outside, unharmed. What had led Donley to that precise spot in his last semi-conscious down there, he could not comprehend. But he was more than grateful for the result. He did wonder fleetingly about the side effects of the cosmic pulse which was now no more.

  Looking further, what they saw was incredible. There was their own familiar sun overhead, glowing somewhat less bright than on Terra and yet brighter than on Mars. The air was fresh and cool, and down-slope from where they stood was the shore of a great body of water, a sea or an ocean. Up the slope was Apdar’s plastic dome, a gaping hole in its side and a wide crack extending vertically from the airlock door.

  “I don’t understand,” said Mera. “We were brought up here from the wreck of the Saturnia—oh, ages ago. But it wasn’t like this. It—”

  “Don’t try to understand it. I don’t either. But I do understand that we’re here—”

  “—together,” Mera supplied, hugging his arm. “Right.” Looking up toward the damaged dome, Donley saw that other survivors were beginning to emerge from the lower regions. “Let’s go up and join them, honey.”

  Together, they picked their way over the ruins, ancient and new. As they drew near, Donley saw Apdar among the group gathered outside the dome, but no one else he recognized. These survivors were some of the formerly living-dead easterners and the others coming up from below were swelling the group rapidly.

  Seeing Donley and Mera, Apdar wormed his way through the press and held out his hands. “So glad you saved your lady,” he smiled. “And, lady, I tell you this man never gave up. He loves you very much.”

  Mera’s eyes were starry. “I know, Apdar. And I’m glad you’re okay, too. You were good to me, I remember.” She smoothed back her hair.

  Looking around, Donley saw only two or three survivors from the Meteoric. “Where’s Randall?” he asked Apdar.

  Apdar pointed to the top area of the dome. “I supplied him with a protective metal disc on its chain. Like one I wore. This was to postpone living-death till last possible time. He must be up there among the instruments. But the door jammed and I could not break it down.”

  It was then that Jal Tarjen hove into view and Donley pushed his way through the crowd to collar him. A jammed door, was it?

  “Look after Mera!” he called back to Apdar.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  But Mera was right there at Donley’s heels. And, by the time they had reached the big Martian, others from the Meteoric were with him. Lantag was there, Fred and Doris, Phil and Amanda—the survivors from the second ethership were doing all right.

  The two honeymoon couples, the Lunarian and the Martian, were all delighted to meet Mera, particularly Jal Tarjen who had seen her under far less happy conditions. They all went into the damaged dome and the two gals, Doris and Amanda, took Mera in hand while the men raced up the spiral stairway. Obviously the three women hit it off at once.

  “Get Apdar inside, somebody,” Donley called back.

  Lantag and Jal Tarjen, rushing it together, broke in the door to the astronomical laboratory which was a shambles. The other three men skittered around the crashed tube and mount of the electron telescope and found Randall pinned under one of the structural members of the-assembly. He was unconscious and bleeding but his pulse was strong and his breathing regular.

  It took the combined strength of the five men to pry the heavy scope assembly up sufficiently to slide Randall out from underneath. His injuries, it seemed, were similar to those of the man they had brought from the ship, but less extensive. At least Donley hoped that the latter was true.

  By now, Apdar had joined them and he soon confirmed Donley’s unprofessional diagnosis. “There is a sling,” he told them, “and a cable and pulley. Usually used to bring up supplies.” As he talked, he moved to a cupboard that had not been damaged, took out the rig he spoke of, then opened a trapdoor in the floor.

  “Stand back,” he warned. “Very long drop through there.”

  Using the plastic sling itself as a stretcher, they carried Randall carefully into the operating room as soon as he had been lowered to the floor of the dome. By now the rotunda was crowding with new arrivals from below and the noise of their gay chatter was music to the ears. It had been a long time since such high spirits had pervaded an assembly here. Mera was having the time of her life; some of her friends from the Saturnia cruise had evidently joined her little group. Mr. Standish w
as there and, on seeing the stretcher bearers, he followed into the operating room to assist Apdar as he had done before. Being unable to reach Mera, Donley trailed him in.

  He had been deeply concerned about Randall, but now that Apdar had him in hand he felt better. As he had done with the Meteoric victim, the amazing leader of the eastern territorials worked swiftly with his very effective instruments. The skull was fractured and this was accompanied by a concussion. But Randall had nothing in addition that was serious, three broken ribs and a couple of smashed toes. In not much more time than it takes to tell, Apdar had completed the brain surgery, healed the ribs and smashed toes, and had Randall awake and ready to get on his feet.

  “Hi!” Donley greeted him as he turned his head.

  “Donley,” he said, “it’s good to see you. You too,

  Apdar—and Mr. Standish.” He sat up and hung his legs over the edge of the operating table. “Let me get outside,” he begged. “I want to see just what happened to Ormin.”

  “Incredible things,” smiled Apdar. “It’s all right to get on your feet.”

  “I want you all to know,” grunted Randall as he slid to the floor, “that I was not living-dead at any time.” He fingered the medallion where it dangled on his bare chest. “I was wide awake when the gaseous body crashed into Ormin. But knocked out when the scope crashed. It was something!”

  “It did plenty,” Donley assured him. “Wait till you get outside.”

  The slope was now dotted with survivors, almost down to the water’s edge. All milling about and gesticulating. Some mouthing their wonder, many shouting their glee. Breathing deep of the life-giving air. Not questioning the source of their good fortune. That would come later.

  “Randall, what do you think?” Apdar asked him.

  “It’s even better than I’d hoped. And any of my contemporaries back home who try to denounce my theories can go to—the foot of the class.”