Glory Planet

by A Bertram Chandler

  "Out!" I was shouting. "Out of the water—or you'll be boiled alive!"

  In that stretch of the canal directly in the spaceship's path, the screaming had already started. I kept Claire close to me, struggled with her to the bank down which we had stumbled. The Captain was shoving the Duchess up and clear from the water, then bending down and extending his arm to Adelie.

  Half the people, perhaps, were out of the canal when the wave of boiling water struck.

  It was the Old Man who was the first to stop running. He stood there, his uniform still white enough to reflect the glare from the sky, the nucleus around which a knot of survivors formed.

  "Joanna," he said. "Are the Phibians still here?"

  "Yes. You're not worried about them, are you?"

  He grinned crookedly. "I am. After all—they're people. But—they offer a means of escape for us, for the men, women, and children still left in Albany." He raised his voice. "Now, all of you, listen! Make your way to the lagoon! Everybody you see, everybody you meet—pass the word. Make your way to the lagoon!"

  Somebody pushed to the front of the crowd. It was Bean, his once-neat uniform bedraggled and filthy, the hair scorched from his head, bleeding from a cut over his right eye.

  "I'm with you, Captain. I've some men left. We'll pass the word and muster the survivors somehow."

  "Good man! Don't waste any time!"

  It was the Duchess who led us through the burning city. There was light enough, from the flames and from the spaceship's Venturis, but the smoke was thick, and the steam, and we could never be sure when we came to a canal that the bridge would still be standing or that the water would be cool enough to wade, we could never be sure that the street along which we were walking would not be blocked by blazing wreckage And over us all the time ranged the spaceship drawing her furrows of destruction with mathematical precision Had she not been so methodical it is doubtful that any of us would have survived. as it was we were able to anticipate her movements and so take evasive action.

  Bean and his men, and the volunteers were passing the word. With every minute our numbers grew. All were frightened yet there was disclipline. I liked Bean—but he and his Albany Marines, at the end, lived up to their own propaganda.

  It was a nightmare—the flames, and the smoke, and the charred, contorted bodies and, all the time, the thundering, screaming menace in the sky. Facades of burning buildings toppled and fell—but always it was where we had just passed, or just ahead of our

  time it was after we had crossed them. Frequently, finding the way blocked, we had to retrace our steps. The lagoon was impossibly far away . . .

  Claire, at my side, was staggering and stumbling. I kept my arm tightly about her, dreading the possibil-

  "It won't be long," I said.

  "It will be for always," she replied. "Why do we go on? Why can't we sit down and wait?"

  Briefly, the thought of sitting down and waiting— for anything—was attractive, too attractive. I half shouted, "No!" and dragged her along with me,

  using my free hand to slap her face as she tried to pull herself clear.

  Then, abruptly, we were clear of the city, sinking to our ankles in the blessed coolness of marshland. Ahead of us the ruddy light of the flames, the hard, blue glare of the rocket's exhaust, was reflected from water and from a myriad green eyes. And there was a rustling, a twittering, and a thin, creaking voice crying, "What you want? What you want?"

  "It is Beynon, Captain Beynon!" called the Old Man. "Help us and we give you rope, much rope! All the rope you want!"

  "What happen? Why starmen fight?"

  "Never mind now. These men—can you take on your villages? We help get villages out in river, drift down stream. Savvy?"

  One of the Phibians came up from the water of the lagoon, into the light. He was trembling, and his long, pointed nose was twitching. He squatted there before us on his haunches and his broad tail. "You good man, Beynon," he said at last. "Can do."

  "Thank you. Bean! Bean! Get the people moving on to the floating villages! Don't load 'em too deep. And send a party to clear the booms from the mouth of the lagoon!"

  "Make them take cover," said Claire. "If the Commandante sees us here—as she's bound to, any time now—she'll bring the ship over, and ..."

  "Safe enough now," said the Old Man. "The ship's over the north end of the city." He paused. "Joanna! Where are you going?"

  She shook off his hand.

  "To find John," she said. "I have led the people to safety. It's up to you, now. To you and your ... to you and Adelie."

  "Don't be a fool, Joanna!"

  "Am I a fool? You'll know the same kind of folly, Paul, at the end. My world has died—and I am dying with it."

  "But you're needed!"

  "By you? John needed me, and I was too blind to see it."

  She was a strong woman; she had one foot behind the Old Man's ankles, and she pushed with both her hands. He fell, sprawling, and she ran towards the flames. I let go of Claire and started to run after her, Claire following me. But she was fast, surprisingly fast, and we lost sight of her in the smoke and the wind-driven sparks.

  We followed her, all three of us—the Captain had caught up with Claire and me—running through the blazing street. We saw her again, then—a small figure, surrounded by flame, clothed with flame, keeping straight along the center of the roadway. Her pace had slowed to a walk. We would have overtaken her, we would have dragged her back to the life for which she had no further use, but we had forgotten the spaceship. We had forgotten her, I say—and then the column of dazzling flame swept across the roadway, and when it had passed there was something small and black and crumpled huddled, unmoving, in the middle of the ruined street.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We got all the survivors aboard the Phibian villages and started down the river. There was one hope for us. All rivermen—no matter what flag their ships wore—respected the gentle, inoffensive Phibian people. We knew that neither the Albany warships nor the Bishop's steam rams would ever, intentionally, ram or otherwise damage a floating village. And we knew, too, that Adelie's presence would be a guarantee of safe conduct once we got below the battle zone and among the Beulah Land transports.

  We had a brief glimpse of the Duke of Albany's last battle, with a thing that didn't look like a ship. It looked, at first glance, like one of those huge pseudo-saurians that infest the Equatorial Sea. But it was a ship—long and low in the water, and steel-plated from sharp stem to tapering stern. The only super-

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  structure was a little round, turret, placed well forward, in which we could see three men.

  This was the Sword of the Lord, one of the steam rams which finished Albany's fleet. The late Duke's ships were helpless; they could not bring their guns to bear upon craft so low in the water. We watched the Duke of Albany try to evade her, heard the crash as the sharp, steel prow drove in, the sharp hiss of escaping steam. Then, suddenly, the Duke of Albany was ablaze, and it was just a matter of picking up survivors. That was the pattern of Beulah Land's conquest of the river. Ram, and then turn flame throwers on the wreck.

  It was some time before Sword of the Lord came alongside our raft village to take us off. Meanwhile, with the coming of daylight, Sylvia Pankhurst had lifted herself into the overcast and vanished, leaving behind her a vast and dreadful column of black smoke that towered into the gray sky like something solid. The transports, with their escorting steam rams, were lying to in the river below the dense fog bank, and all of them had put out boats to rescue whatever survivors there might be.

  When, at last, the steam ram came alongside our grounded raft, a plank was thrown from the ship to the insecure platform upon which we were standing. Captain Barbee helped Adelie into his conning tower, the rest of us managed unaided. Barbee ignored us and turned at once to Adelie.

  "What happened, Your Holiness? I was too busy keeping the gunboats away from the transports to see what was going on. Was that one
of the spaceships? Did she use bombs? Did ..."

  "Albany is finished, Captain," she told him tiredly. "Albany is finished, all the airships have been destroyed, and the Duke and the Duchess are dead. You'll find transports up river, packed with refugees. Send somebody to make contact with them, to tell them that they have nothing to fear from us."

  "But the war, Your Holiness . .

  "The war's over, Captain, as far as we are concerned. Albany is nothing but burning ruins. You've sunk the Albany navy." She turned to Bean. "Those transports that I ordered up river . . . Are they armed?"

  "His Highness ordered them up river," replied Bean stiffly. "But they have guns. And rocket projectors."

  "Useful enough. We may be able to find some undamaged rocket projectors in the forts, and a supply of missiles. If we do, Captain Barbee, it is my intention to have them mounted aboard our own transports."

  "Your Holiness," he protested—but there was a sardonic edge to his voice—"wouldn't that be sinful?"

  "Sinful?" She raised her own eyebrows. "Frankly, Captain, my views on these matters have changed. I cannot see that a steam cannon or a powder rocket is the Devil's invention while a flame thrower, such as you used against Duke of Albany, has God's blessing. The spaceship, Sylvia Pankhurst, was used simply as a giant flame thrower—and if ever there was Devil's work, it was done last night . . ."

  "You can say that again," Barbee told her. "Meanwhile, Your Holiness, what are your orders?"

  "Sword of the Lord" she said, "shall be my flagship. Meanwhile, which is the largest transport under your command?"

  "Bishop Wyndham/' replied Barbee. "She has Under-Bishop Riverside aboard, and General Gil-more and his H.Q. Staff."

  "Ideal, Captain. Lay us alongside her, will you? We shall hold a conference aboard."

  Adelie stayed in the conning tower with Barbee and Beynon; the rest of us were told, in no uncertain terms, that we were getting in the way. So we went below and, exhausted as we were, made a brief tour of the unfamiliar innards of the steam ram. Bean expressed surprise that the mechanically backward Beulah Landers should be able to design both a forced draught system for the furnaces and screw propellers—and then, as the pistons ceased their plunging and the shaft its steady revolutions, a barely noticeable bump told us that we had come alongside the transport Bishop Wyndham. One of Barbee's officers came to say that all three of us were required aboard.

  Aboard the transport we were received by a Lieutenant of Mounted Archers, who escorted us to the main saloon. At the head of one of the tables Adelie was already seated, Captains Beynon and Barbee at her right and left hand respectively. I recognized Captain Corbin, Master of the transport, knew that the thin, sullen man in black robes must be Under-Bishop Riverside, and the military officer General Gilmore.

  "Your Holiness," Riverside was expostulating. "I protest. An alien, and an officer of the enemy's armed

  forces, both present at what is, in effect, a Council of War. Of course, the Earthwomen are allies, but even so . . ."

  "Were our allies, Under-Bishop. You weren't in Albany when it was burned. I was. I know—and Miss King will bear me out—that the Commandante of the spaceships hoped that I would die with the city. Her act was an act of war against Beulah Land as much as against Albany ..."

  "Is this true, Captain Beynon?" asked General Gilmore. Then—"I ask your pardon, Your Holiness, but I must be certain. My orders distinctly state that the Earthwomen are to be regarded as our allies."

  "Her Holiness has made a plain and accurate statement," said the Old Man.

  "Then," quibbled the Under-Bishop, "if we are, as v you seem to imply, at war with Earth—if these women are from Earth—why is this alien, this Miss King, invited to sit with us? Why is she not under close arrest?"

  "Claire," said Adelie to her, "you're with us, I know." She turned to the others. "Miss King, who is second-in-command of one of the spaceships, protested to her Commandante against the use of the technique employed to destroy Albany. Later, when the ultimatum to the Duke was delivered, we all gained the impression that Commandante Willis would be almost as pleased to hear of the death of Miss King as she would be to hear of my own."

  "Is this true, Miss King?" asked the General.

  "Yes. It is true." She got to her feet. "I wish, here and now, to renounce my Terran citizenship. I have

  witnessed the cold-blooded destruction of a city by my people, and I want no more of them."

  The Under-Bishop made a steeple of his hands and peered at Claire over them. "It may not be so easy as you seem to think, young woman. Don't forget that we have to accept you—and you are a self-confessed blasphemer."

  "A blasphemer?" asked Adelie.

  "Yes, Miss Dale. A blasphemer—if I may presume to instruct you in matters of faith and doctrine. By claiming to come from an Earth that we know to be dead and blasted, she has blasphemed. Furthermore, she is a spy."

  "And you," Adelie told him, "are a bigoted fool." In the shocked silence that followed, she fished in her filthy robes, produced a cheroot case, opened it, selected a dark brown cylinder with care. She asked the amused Captain Barbee for a light. "This," she said, studying the fragrant blue cloud that she had exhaled, "is no time for theological debate. But it is time, high time, for the exercise of a little authority on my part. Will you, Captain Barbee, as Naval Officer in Charge, pass orders to all Captains and Communications Officers that no—repeat, no—messages are to be sent to New Orleans without my permission? Have all the New Orleans birds put aboard one ship and kept under guard. As for the others—wring their necks. There must be no leakage, and no interference."

  "You are mad," whispered Riverside.

  "So you really think that?" She turned to the others."What do you think, gentlemen?"

  There was an embarassed silence

  Adelie said, her voice pleading, "We must forget these silly quibbles about ritual, dogma and all the rest of it. The Holy War is over. It should never— and I am far from guiltless!—have been started. All that we have accomplished is the destruction of those who could have helped us, with their aircraft and firearms, to drive two shiploads of invaders from our planet. So we're on our own now. The Holy War is over. But there's still the war for survival, for the freedom to run our own world our own way." She got to her feet and she was, once again, the old Adelie "Are you with me?" she cried. "Are you with me?"

  "No," said the Under-Bishop.

  "Captain Corbin," said Barbee quietly, "this is your ship. As your Commodore, I order you to place this man under close arrest." He rose slowly from his chair, bowed to Adelie with an odd, stiff formality Madam he said, "I neither know nor care what these other gentlemen have decided. But the Sword of the Lord I place in your hands. Use it, and me, as you will."

  Corbin said, "I am impressed by the Commodore's devotion, but the issues facing us are too serious to be decided bythe handful of people gathered here.

  Time is precious," whispered. Adelie

  "Even so, Your Holiness. But there are other things that are precious. Just suppose that we allow ourselves to be persuaded by you—by you and this young lady" —he nodded towards Claire—"who, as a deserter doubtless bears malice towards her Captain Suppose we launch an attack, an unsuccessful one . . .

  I have a wife and family in New Orleans

  Your Holiness—and should we declare war, then New Orleans will suffer the same fate as Albany. We should call a Captains' Conference."

  "This is a military operation, Captain," General Gilmore said. "Every Officer-Commanding-Troops from the transports should also be present."

  "Of course, General." Corbin turned to the Under-Bishop. "I have not given orders for your arrest, Your Reverence. That, too, is a matter to be decided by the Conference."

  "I am in full command!" flared Adelie. "I order you, Captain Corbin and you, General Gilmore, to make whatever preparations are required for the voyage up to Wyndham's Landing."

  "I must ignore those orders," said Corbin. "F
rankly, I have not been impressed by your bearing or your conduct, since you boarded my vessel. It is charitable to assume that your experiences in Albany have unhinged your mind."

  "Mutiny," Barbee told him. "Be careful, Corbin. I, your Commodore, order you to do as Her Holiness says."

  "And I, Captain Barbee, wish to make it quite plain that I take orders from no man—and no woman— aboard my own ship. Furthermore, in my opinion His Reverence is right, and Her Holiness wrong."

  "Don't be a bigger fool than God made you, Corbin," growled the Old Man. "I'm a riverman, like yourself, not a theologian—but I've seen the way that things have been heading ever since the spaceships made their landfall. We've a ruthless witch to deal with who'll stick at nothing to bring all Venus under her heel. She must be stopped. And even with Albany and the Albany air and river fleets destroyed, we may have sufficient force to stop her."

  "How?" asked Corbin.

  Adelie answered. "We make contact with the Albany transports. We convert such of them as we can into warships. And Bean can round up his Marines— some of them must have survived the burning and the fighting . . ."

  "And then?" asked Gilmore.

  "We proceed to Wyndham's Landing. We seize or destroy the spaceships."

  "How?" demanded Gilmore.

  "We attack in force. Oh, I know that the Earthwomen have guns, automatic guns, but their supply of ammunition is far from inexhaustible. We attack in force. It will be—expensive. But once the guns are empty the ships are ours, and they'll be well worth the price that we shall have paid."

  "And you'll tell the men that, Your Holiness, when you cheer them on to certain death?"

  "It is my intention," she said, "to lead the first attack in person."

  Claire broke into the discussion. She said, "The Jeanne d'Arc technique can be used against men as well as against cities . . ."

  "Then what would you suggest, Miss King?" asked Adelie.

  "Frankly, Miss Dale, I have no suggestions. I'm an astronaut. I can advise you of the strengths and weaknesses of our ships, our weapons, our personnel. I can offer my services as a saboteur. But that is all."