Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Rog smiled blandly.

  “Too bad you two don’t get along better.” He turned smoothly to Terry.

  “Please observe your brother’s arms. His extreme obstinacy irritated us so much that we were forced to be equally extreme. They were broken, one at a time, but unfortunately he still couldn’t see the light. Now he is going to watch very unpleasant things happen to you and it is our hope that that will have the desired effect on his tongue.”

  “Go to hell,” Bats roared. “I’ll never tell you anything you’ll want to hear.”

  “Remember that,” Terry said, calmly, looking straight at his brother. “It doesn’t matter what they do to me. The only important thing is for you to keep that big mouth of yours shut.”

  Bats looked at him strangely.

  “I’ll keep it shut,” he said grimly. “I’m not anxious to save your hide from anything.”

  “See that you don’t,” Terry said. Rog had listened with a polite smile to this exchange.

  “Touching patriotism,” he murmured. “Shall we put it to the test now?”

  The words were a signal. Two soldiers grabbed Terry and led him out of the room. The last thing he saw was Bats looking after him, a queer, troubled look in his eye.

  He was led down a winding set of steel steps into a large underground chamber and then through a series of narrow channels that led finally to a large, leaden door. The guards stopped, opened the door and shoved him into a dark vault-like chamber. Then the door slammed behind him with a little dry click of finality.

  Almost instantly the room was flooded with strong light. Terry peered about in amazement. The roof of the room in which he found himself was formed of domed glass. The floors and walls were of what looked to be heavy lead. Looking through the glass roof he could see mechanisms of all sorts grouped about. The primary instrument seemed to be a huge beacon light which was set on a huge universal joint enabling it to be turned to any desired direction.

  TERRY heard voices then and a second later he saw the Martians Rog and Gonor ascending to the platform upon which rested the beacon light. Soon other Martians were visible peering down at him from the edges of the glass-domed roof, and among them he could distinguish the massive figure of his brother.

  “This interesting experiment,” it was Rog speaking—evidently the room was equipped with a public address system, “will now get under way. I might add that when Mr. ‘Battering’ Mason is tired of it he can stop it by merely mentioning the position of Earth-fleet!”

  “Go to hell!” Bats snarled.

  “I won’t,” smiled Rog, “but pray observe your brother. In a figurative sense he will soon be obeying your dictum.”

  The big beacon light was flashed on and its beam was directed into the lead-lined room in which Terry was confined.

  Terry realized then with sudden horror that the domed roof was merely a gigantic lens. The stabbing finger of red hot light was moving toward him. Like a cat toying with a mouse, when it was within a few feet, it swung away and described a rapid circle about him. The heat was becoming unbearable.

  Terry backed into a corner but the finger of heat followed him inexorably. He realized sinkingly that there was no place in the room where the beam could not reach him. He moved out of the corner and the beam flashed past his legs. Instantly the smell of smoking cloth assailed his nostrils. Glancing down he saw that his trousers had been singed brown. He heard Rog’s gentle chuckle.

  “We are only starting now,” the voice was blandly cheerful, “in a few hours when you are no longer able to stand on your feet, aha! that is when the fun begins.”

  Terry heard Bat’s rumbling cursing then, growing in volume and intensity.

  “Take it easy, Bats,” he yelled, “these penny ante hoodlums aren’t worrying me.”

  Before the words had left his mouth the beam had risen swiftly and flashed across his face. Terry fought back a scream and sank to the floor, his whole body seemingly bathed in liquid fire. The beam played back and forth across his form and he could smell his clothes singeing and burning on his back.

  With desperate strength he sprang to his feet and dodged out of the beam’s focus. He dreaded to think of what would happen when his clothes were burned from his body and he had not even their flimsy protection against the scalding heat of the beam.

  The hot finger of light was poking at him again, stabbing him with excruciating pain and then flicking away before he was blinded by its unbearable glare. The lead-lined chamber was like an oven now as heat from the walls and floor beat at him in heavy oppressive waves.

  Then through the murky heat of his chamber he heard an enraged voice bellow,

  “I’ll tell you, you inhuman hounds. Turn that light off.”

  Terry clenched his fists.

  “Don’t, Bats,” he screamed, “don’t tell them, don’t! It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

  LOOKING up he could see Bats’ heavy figure being led through the room to the low platform upon which the beacon light rested. Rog was smiling triumphantly at him and then, suddenly, things started to happen.

  Terry saw Bats lunge forward and with his braced, outstretched arms sweep Rog and Gonor from the platform. There was a wild babble of voices and Terry saw Bats, a grotesque figure illumined by the reflected glare from the beacon, lash out with his foot and send the beacon spinning, deflecting the light from the lead-lined chamber.

  Terry was instantly in darkness. Off to his right he heard a familiar click and he saw the door to the chamber swing open. A cautious head poked itself inside.

  “Come on,” the owner of the head called to someone over his shoulder, “the show’s over. They must’ve burned the guy right into the floor.”

  Terry pressed himself flat against the wall and inched toward the open door. Two figures entered the room, passing within six inches of him. Without drawing a breath, Terry slipped from the room and slammed the door after him. He raced along the narrow corridor, one thought in mind, to get up and help Bats.

  Rounding a corner he stumbled into an amazed Martian guard. His very speed saved him. They tumbled to the ground, the Martian beneath him. Terry’s fist rose and fell savagely, again and again, until the figure beneath him was still. Then he appropriated his gun and hurried on.

  He could hear sounds of confusion and battle above him and as he turned into a winding stair-case he realized that he was on the right track. At the top of the stairway was a heavy steel door, standing ajar.

  Terry kicked it open and leaped into the room directly above the torture chamber he had just left. Rog and

  Gonor were standing with their backs to him, facing Bats, who was held by one of the Martian soldiers.

  Rog wheeled as he heard Terry enter the room. His hand streaked toward his gun but he was too late. Terry’s gun coughed twice in his hand and Rog turned slowly, a funny bland smile on his face and pitched to the floor, holes burned through his forehead and body.

  The soldier holding Bats dropped his gun nervously to the floor and Gonor made the last mistake of his life diving for it. Terry’s third fiery pellet hit him just as his long hand curved over the butt of the gun. He sprawled to the floor a grotesquely twisted heap.

  “Good work,” Bats snapped. “But we’re not through. Keep these other monkeys covered while I give you the set-up. The building that houses the radio apparatus that controls the planes blockading MX is just off to the left of us. We can’t leave without destroying that.”

  Terry glanced in the direction indicated and saw a low squat house, set in a vast network of wires and conduits. Four sentries patrolled back and forth before it. Terry realized then, what he had taken for granted when he first entered this room. That is, its dome and walls were made of heavy glass, obviously for observation purposes. He snapped his fingers suddenly.

  He waved his gun menacingly at the few cowed Martian soldiers and then jumped to the big beacon light, flicking the switch on, he swung it around until its brilliantly strong beam cut throu
gh the heavily glassed walls and focused on the squat house which was the heart and pulse of the blockade of MX.

  Almost instantly he could see wisps of smoke rising from the wires and connections that led into the radio rooms.

  “That’ll do it,” he said grimly. “In about twenty seconds that fleet of ships will go smack out of control. This beacon, magnified and concentrated will burn that whole group of buildings to the ground in an hour.”

  Bats was grinning broadly. “I’ll bet that’s one use they didn’t figure on it being put to.”

  TERRY turned to the three remaining soldiers.

  “If you boys want to see tomorrow’s sunrise,” he snapped, “you’ll do as you’re told. Take us to the space ramps or mooring tower and don’t make any detours. Get moving.”

  Outside the build they could see dozens of guards and soldiers swarming about the burning radio building.

  “That might keep ’em occupied for a while,” Bats said hopefully. “Anyway, let’s move.”

  They moved. The three soldiers, with Terry’s gun prodding their backs, moved swiftly through the labyrinthine buildings until they emerged on a small mooring platform, to which was moored one Martian fighter craft.

  Terry turned his guns back on the soldiers.

  “Back into the building,” he said grimly. “If I didn’t have a kind heart I’d leave pieces of you from here to there. Now get!”

  The soldiers had barely turned their backs when Terry shoved Bats into the fighter-craft and dove in after him, slamming the inner-lock door behind him. Miraculous luck had been with him at every turn, but he could hear the soldiers screaming for help in the building and he knew that seconds were precious. Racing to the pilot’s room he nudged the reverse levers just enough to clear the nose of the ship and then he shoved the acceleration lever all the way forward. The ship blasted off the void in a zooming, whistling arc.

  “Here comes company,” Bats yelled, from a side visor-glass.

  Terry peered into the visi-screen and saw a Martian black fighter flashing from a tower and arcing about to meet his own ship. The scene was hauntingly similar to his first combat in space. But Terry was not thinking of this. He was merely thinking of doing a job. His hand on the control lever was steady as he whipped the ship into a dizzy side-spin.

  As he passed over the back of the enemy fighter his free hand tripped the tommy cannon release. A blistering barrage blasted from the nose of his ship almost melting the other ship in two with its intensity. In the visi-screen he followed the flight of the damaged ship as it side-slipped and plunged back to the Planetoid.

  “Neat,” Bats cried enthusiastically. “Who said you couldn’t handle one of these babies?”

  Terry set the automatic landing gear and passed a hand over his eyes. Everything was blacking out before his eyes.

  “I guess nobody did,” he muttered foggily, and then he rolled off the pilot’s seat and onto the floor.

  WHEN Terry Mason came to again, he was shrouded in bandages and plastered with ointment and salves. He was lying on a precariously narrow hospital cot, in the officer’s ward on MX. Eileen was holding his hand and his father was standing at the foot of his cot, looking as stern and judicial as usual.

  “The blockade broke about six hours ago,” his father said quietly. “The entire ring of steel collapsed. Everyone on MX owes you their lives, son.”

  Terry looked up at Eileen and winked.

  “As a sick man,” he said soberly, “I insist on one prerogative. Namely one hour alone with my future wife.”

  “Can’t be arranged,” a heavy voice at his side said, “unless you get a couple of horses to move me.”

  Terry turned and saw Bats propped up in the bed to his right, a six-inch smile decorating his face.

  “Family reunion, eh?” he said.

  “You said it,” Bats cried. He looked up at his father and winked solemnly. “If the younger Mason keeps it up he’ll be a darned good addition to an already good combination.”

  Which, Terry realized complacently, was about the highest accolade he would ever receive.

  [*] Tommy cannons: A slang term for Atomic cannon.

  THE PERFECT HIDEOUT

  First published in the October 1941 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Nothing could have been better to hide in than this weird castle far off the highway. . .

  THE heavy black touring car slewed to a stop before a roadside gasoline station, and a small man with dark hair and eyes climbed out. He looked cautiously about and then opened the screen door and stepped into the wooden shack erected behind the gas pumps.

  “Got the late papers?” he growled to the overalled youth who rose from a chair and looked inquiringly at him.

  “Yeah,” the kid answered.

  The dark haired man fidgeted impatiently as the attendant gave him the paper and made change for the dollar bill he handed him.

  “Didja hear anything about the big bank robbery in the next town?” the kid asked, handing him his change.

  For a second a tight white line circled the customer’s mouth, and then he grinned thinly.

  “Not a thing,” he answered.

  “The way I got it doped,” the kid said importantly, “them bandits are hundreds of miles away by this time.”

  The thin grin spread.

  “Maybe,” the dark haired man answered. Then he turned and left. Seconds later the car roared away down the road.

  “Gabby kid back there,” Blackie Nolan said over the smooth humming roar of the car. “Had a lot of ideas about a certain bank robbery.”

  His companion, Sledge Scarpetti, let his breath out harshly.

  “Was he suspicious?” he asked quickly.

  “Nah,” Blackie said, “just a gabby punk.” He spread the paper out in his lap. “Let’s see what kind of reviews we got this time.” He read aloud: “Daring bandits rob Mid-western bank. Another daylight robbery shocked the citizens of this town as two armed thugs held up the Citizens Bank and escaped With notes and currency valued at fifty-five thousand dollars. Police report that they are working on an inside tip and are expecting an arrest within twenty-four hours.”

  Blackie made a snorting noise and tossed the paper out of the car. “Whadda they mean calling us thugs?” he asked plaintively.

  Sledge Scarpetti laughed without mirth. He was a tall, thin man with a narrow, evil face and hot, deep-brown eyes. There was something predatory in the hook of his nose and in the talonlike clutch of his bony hands on the steering wheel.

  “For fifty thousand bucks, it won’t matter,” he said.

  “Fifty-five thousand,” Blackie corrected softly.

  SLEDGE didn’t answer. They drove on in silence for a while.

  “We’re in a kind of a tight spot y’know. If these coppers get smart and find out where we switched cars we’re in for it.”

  Blackie looked over his shoulder. “Everything’s clear,” he grunted, “but you’d better step on it. We can’t get too far too fast to suit me.”

  The powerful super-charged car began to pick up speed immediately. The road and the trees flankling it flashed past them at a dizzying pace. The steady hum of the motor crescendoed to a roaring drone.

  Blackie loosened his collar slightly. “Take it easy,” he warned, “I didn’t mean for you to cut loose.”

  Sledge grinned tightly.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “I could handle this buggy with my eyes shut.” The speedometer needle continued to creep forward. It hovered for an instant at 75, and then moved inexorably to 80-85. The road stretched ahead of them like a shining black ribbon. The throbbing laboring sound of the motor was a clamoring din that pounded painfully against their ears. Blackie opened his mouth to shout something, but suddenly his eyes dilated with horror.

  “Sledge!” he screamed wildly, “there’s a detour sign—”

  The sentence was never completed. It was drowned out in the tortured, protesting screech of the brakes as Sledge fought futilel
y with the careening car. He twisted the wheel frantically to avoid the unpaved rutted road and the car plowed through the shoulder and plunged into the ravine that flanked it.

  Trees snapped like match sticks and shrubs and brushes were rooted up as the two-ton car dug its snout into the floor of the valley. The rasping, hideous sounds of crackling, straining metal ceased as the car turned turtle and flopped on its back like a battered animal. It was in a quiet hidden glen and soon everything was quiet again.

  BLACKIE NOLAN opened his eyes cautiously. It was dark everywhere he looked and as he crawled cautiously to a sitting position his body ached and creaked horribly. Rain was falling, a heavy oppressive rain that had already soaked him to the skin. A rumble of thunder drifted to him on the wind and then the scene was illuminated by a brilliant jagged flash of lightning.

  He saw the battered car resting on its top. He didn’t seem to be badly hurt. Just dazed and shaken up quite a bit. He climbed groggily to his feet. His shoes squished with each step and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his body. He groped his way toward the car, but after a few steps, collided with a recumbent figure and almost sprawled to the ground.

  “Watch where you’re goin’,” a voice snarled at his feet.

  “Sledge!” Blackie cried unbelievingly. “Are you all right, too? It just don’t seem possible.”

  Another fork of lightning split the black heavens and Blackie saw Sledge in its glare, sitting on the ground, miserable looking and cold, but otherwise quite all right.

  Sledge straightened his lean length and crawled to his feet. “I feel like I’ve been put through a wringer with spikes in it, but other than that I’m okay,” he said weakly.

  Blackie looked apprehensively about. “We’re in a sweet spot now,” he muttered. “We might as well give ourselves up as try and make town now. On foot we’d be picked up in no time at all.”

  Sledge was feeling his arms and legs experimentally.

  “I still can’t get over bein’ in one piece,” he said dazedly. “I was doing eighty-five, at the least, when we went off the road.”