“Where’s Major Mastiff?” Albert asked with some of his old caution.
“In bed,” George answered. “He wuz tired.”
Albert stretched out luxuriously. “George,” he said gratefully, “you saved my life. By getting rid of all that evidence you did me and Major Mastiff a real big favor. If there’s anything I can do for you, just name it.”
“How about a steady job?” George asked breathlessly, “I yam handy in the house and I got good refrunces. How about keeping me on?”
Albert frowned.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, George,” he said thoughtfully, “if you can fix up the little squabble Miss Margot Mastiff and I had some time ago, you’re on. If she’s here in my arms in fifteen minutes the job is yours.”
“Okay, Boss,” George said and lumbered out of the room.
P.S.—He got the job.
[*] Science has made things invisible, by means of reflected light rays, bending them around an object until no light is reflected back to a certain point, where the observer is stationed. Thus, an object may be made invisible. However, in this instance, it is obvious that the reflective properties of the surface of the lamp were such that all light was bent around the lamp and not reflected back at all. Thus, with no light turned more than momentarily from its course, no object could have been visible.
When Albert Addin dropped the lamp, this perfect, non-reflecting, light-bending surface was dented enough to totally destroy the delicate balance of curving surface and reflecting angle. Thus, the lamp snapped into visibility. In photographing with an infra-red light filter, it seems that Albert unwittingly captured the only rays which were not by-passed around the lamp, which in normal color range, are invisible to the eye.
PLANET OF LOST MEN
First published in the December 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.
Dirk Temple saved his life by landing at this strange spaceport—but when he found out what faced him there . . .
DIRK TEMPLE stared woozily at the intricate indicators on the visa-board of his sleek speeding space ship.
Through an alcoholic fog of three days density his brain tried vainly; to make the necessary deductions from the graphs and charts and meters that pitted the surface of the shiny chrom-alloy control panel.
It was no go. The indicators bounced crazily before his blood-shot eyes confusing him hopelessly.
He leaned helplessly back in the pilot’s chair of the trim single seater and came to a profound decision.
“I am drunk,” he said aloud.
Pleased by his astuteness in figuring this out for himself he smiled genially and reached for the square bottle of Martian brandy beneath his seat. He lifted the bottle to his lips but only a few drops of the fiery liquor dribbled over his chin.
“Empty,” he said profoundly. “Can’t fool me.”
He dropped the bottle and kicked the deceleration lever with his foot.
As long as he didn’t know where he was going there wasn’t any particular hurry.
For three days he had been saturated with liquor and boredom. This particular binge had started at the swanky summer resort on Jupiter’s cool side. It had no rhyme or reason, but then, few of Dirk Temple’s actions ever did. Too much money, too much leisure, and too few responsibilities had turned him into a carousing, wasteful interplanetary playboy.
The stamp of his excesses was apparent in his blood-shot eyes, his flabby muscles and the petulant cast of his mouth and jaw.
The nose of the ship was dipping fast now, but Dirk was almost dozing in his seat. The ship continued to drop, and it was not until it had hissed into the atmosphere of the planet again, that Dirk’s head snapped up.
A glance downward showed him the green sprawling expanses of Jupiter’s unexplored areas, a vast plain of desolation and death. Cursing furiously Dirk manipulated the controls frantically. One rocket sputtered and missed and the ship lurched about in a wild arc as the remaining tube’s off-balance bursts slewed the ship around.
For minutes Dirk fought the ship, trying to level it out and straighten its course. Sober, he might have accomplished something, but his drunken, confused efforts did more harm than good.
The ship continued its circling spin unchecked.
Dirk Temple decided his number was up. He didn’t give a damn anyhow. Twisting in his seat he glanced out the pilot’s sideview window, curious as to the exact terrain he had picked to honor with his last remains.
He stared downward, then shook his head and blinked. It wasn’t possible—he peered downward again incredulously.
For spread out below him was a wide clearing containing a number of dwellings that looked about the size of toy blocks from his altitude. But more incredible than this—and more heartening—was the gleaming length of a mooring tower rising toward him. Two of the mooring sockets he saw were occupied by late style space craft, but several of the sockets were invitingly empty.
DRUNK as he was, and as unpredictable as his ship was, he brought it about in a fast circle and headed its nose for the nearest socket.
His timing and speed were off. As the nose of the ship plowed into the mooring socket he kicked the deceleration bar and slammed home the reverse rocket levers at the same instant. But not soon enough. The ship crashed hard and metal grated against metal with a crunching, rending noise.
Dirk’s head snapped back with the impact, and a thousand firecrackers seemed to explode in his liquor-sodden brain. He slumped to the floor of the ship under a blanket of darkness.
“TOSS the drunken bum into a bunk. He’s not hurt.”
Dirk heard these words, heard the cold brutal voice of the speaker as if it were coming from a great distance. Through the black fog that blanketed his brain, a faint light was beginning to creep. He felt hands on either side of him, heard scuffled footsteps vaguely.
Weakly, he attempted to press his hands to his aching head.
“He’s comin’ around, Boss,” a voice said next to him.
The footsteps stopped. Dirk realized that it had been his own footsteps as they led him along that he had heard. He shook his head and then opened his eyes.
A huge, powerfully built man was standing in front of him, staring at him with an expression of sullen anger stamped on his coarse features. He wore boots, breeches and a leather shirt. Heavy, business-like atomic revolvers were strapped to his thick waist. His hands propped on his hips were the size of battered hams and his bare arms were like the limbs of a gnarled tree.
Beside him, Dirk noticed two other men, smaller, but equally villainous looking. They also carried guns strapped to their waists.
Strength was finding its way back into his numbed legs, and his head was clearing a little from the shock of the landing and the after effects of the Martian brandy. The men on each side of him were not holding him up any longer. They were just holding him.
“Start talking,” the big man snapped. “What the hell do you want here? How’d you happen to moor here?” Dirk passed a hand over his forehead and smiled.
“It was quite accidental, I assure you. I—I’d been drinking and my ship was out of control when I spotted your mooring tower. A lucky thing for me that I did.”
“Maybe not,” the big man said ominously. “We aren’t hospitable to visitors here.”
The smile faded from Dirk’s face. “What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled. “I’m sorry about smashing your mooring tower, but I’ll make it right with you. My name is Dirk Temple. I’m good for any reasonable amount you say.”
He glanced up to the top of the mooring tower appraising the damage done by his faulty mooring.
“A couple of thousand tipecs[1] should take care of the damage,” he said.
“So you’re Dirk Temple, eh?” the big man said musingly. He flashed a quick meaningful glance at the two men who stood beside him. “In that case we’ll do our best to accommodate you. You need sleep right now so I’ll have you taken to a bunk. In the meantime we’ll get your ship ready so that you
can take off when you feel up to it.”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” Dirk said, smiling. “I suppose I have been acting like a fool, trying to pilot a ship half drunk. A few hours sleep will fix me up though.”
“Sure thing,” the big man said. He turned to one of the men, a short, stocky blond with a broken nose. “Buck, take Mr. Temple to one of the rooms with a clean bunk. We’ll let you know when we’ve got the ship in shape, Mr. Temple.”
“Do that, will you?” Dirk said pleasantly. “And thanks a lot.”
“Don’t thank me,” the big man said.
DIRK followed the man called Buck across the clearing. Houses made of tough, mahogany-like wood from the swamps of Jupiter were erected in a semi-circle, meeting at a huge, steel gate which led, Dirk guessed, to the open, unexplored regions of this section of the planet. The entire cleared stockade was surrounded by a high steel fence, and over its top Dirk could see tall rambling buildings. Except for the wooden dwellings in the stockade the only other object was the tall gleaming mooring tower. Long freight ramps connected with it and led off to a side gate in the stockade fence.
There was one wooden building larger than the rest, that was obviously some sort of office. Dirk wasn’t particularly interested however, in anything but sleep.
His guide led him to one of the dwellings, opened the door and motioned him inside.
“There’s a bed there,” he said surlily. “Use it.”
Dirk stepped into the room, saw a bunk in the corner and headed for it. His head was aching, and the effects of the Martian brandy had not completely worn off. Stretching out on the bunk he relaxed completely. He wondered idly for an instant about the peculiar place he had landed. The fences, the air of unfriendliness, the armed guards all added up to a big question mark in his mind. But he was too tired to worry about it. Even if he had been perfectly fresh, it is doubtful whether Dirk Temple, billionaire playboy, would have bothered about it. In a few seconds he was asleep.
TWO things awakened him. The first was a burning thirst, the result of his three-day binge on Martian brandy. The second was a dull thumping noise that seemed to be a part of the ground itself. It was rhythmic and unchanging, jarring slightly the supports of the bunk on which he was lying.
With some difficulty he struggled to a sitting position. Although his head still ached, it had cleared of the fuzzy alcoholic cobwebs. Except for a general muscular stiffness, he was as good as new. Which didn’t signify much, he told himself wryly.
He stood up and walked to the door, wondering where he could get a drink. It was dark outside, but floodlights situated at the corners of the stockade provided adequate illumination.
Stepping through the doorway he became aware that the pounding noise emanated from out the stockade. The heavy steel main gate was open, he noticed. Hands in his pockets he strolled across the stockade and peered curiously through the gate.
He saw then what caused the throbbing, tramping noise.
It was a group of men; row after row, slowly moving on the march. They passed silently past the stockade gate moving like robots. Dirk saw that they were shackled together by four-foot lengths of chain at the ankles. He was within twenty feet of the slowly moving lines of men, but not one man glanced in his direction. Their heads drooped forward, their shoulders slumped, they shambled along like walking dead men.
Somehow the spectacle gave Dirk a strange chill. If they had looked at him, or spoken, it might have been different. But their expressionless faces and silent, machine-like strides brought the hackles up on the nape of his neck.
For several minutes Dirk watched the rows of silent men file past him. Then he scratched his head and shrugged. It looked funny, but after all, it wasn’t any of his business.
Turning he retraced his steps. He had not traveled more than fifty feet beyond the rows of wooden dwellings when a low, urgent voice sounded suddenly in his ear.
“Please! Please help me!”
Dirk halted abruptly, staring about.
“Here. Over here,” the soft voice said anxiously.
DIRK turned, and following the sound of the voice, cautiously approached a darkened one-room dwelling which he had just passed. The building was somewhat in the shadow of the stockade lights but in the dim light he could make out a figure at the window of the dark hut.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Please believe me,” the figure at the window said imploringly, “you’re in serious danger. You must get away from here at once. Send the Federation Police back here, if you can. It’s the only chance for any of us.”
DIRK started in amazement as the voice reached him clearly. For it was a feminine voice, throaty and soft, but charged with terrible earnestness and fear. He stepped closer and saw a pale, delicately chiseled face turned toward him, and two dark eyes meeting his imploringly.
“What the devil!” he said explosively.
“Please be careful,” the girl whispered frantically. “One of the guards might hear you.”
“Somebody’s going to hear from me,” Dirk said grimly. “The idea of keeping a lovely girl like you worried and scared. What’s wrong, anyway?”
“There’s no time for that,” the girl said breathlessly. “Just get away from here. Now. This instant. Send help back if you can.”
“If you want to leave,” Dirk said decisively. “I’ll take you with me. I’ll see that nobody shoves you around. I’m going to give the big slob that runs this joint a piece of my mind as it is.”
“Please!” the girl’s voice was desperate. “Don’t go near him. Get away while you can.”
“I wish you’d tell me what’s up?” Dirk said.
“There’s not time,” the girl said desperately.
Dirk stepped closer to the girl. He noticed that she had light blonde hair, a big mop of it shoved back from her high, pale forehead. He could smell its subtle perfume on the dark air of the night.
“Don’t worry,” he said. His hand closed reassuringly over her small fingers. “When I’m ready to go I’ll go. And I’ll take you with me.”
“Maybe!” a harsh voice snapped behind him.
Dirk wheeled, but a hard object jammed into his ribs.
“Behave,” the owner of the voice said ominously. Dirk saw that it was the stocky, broken-nosed fellow called Buck who had surprised him.
“If this is your idea of a joke,” he said angrily. “I don’t like it. Take me to the person in charge of this place.”
The atomic revolver jammed into his ribs.
“That’s just what I was goin’ to do.”
The girl was looking at Dirk, a dull hopelessness in her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” he said confidently. “I’ll have this whole business straightened out in a few seconds. Then I’ll be back.”
“This way,” Buck snapped.
Dirk followed the man across the clearing to one of the larger rooms in which a light was burning. Buck opened the door and allowed Dirk to enter first.
Seated at a desk in the middle of the sparsely furnished room was the big man whom Dirk had seen on arriving.
“Found him talking to the girl,” Buck explained. “From the looks of it she’d been singing. I guess he also saw the men leaving for work.”
“That’s too bad,” the man behind the desk said cryptically.
“I demand to know what’s going on here,” Dirk blazed. “Who has been intimidating that young girl? What are all these men doing out here? There’s something here that smells and I’m going to report it to the Federation the minute I get back.”
“No,” the big man said softly, “you aren’t going to do any such thing. Because you aren’t going back. Ever.”
“ARE you crazy?” Dirk shouted.
The big man shook his head.
“I don’t think so. I did intend to fix your ship up and let you leave. Because the unexplained absence of Dirk Temple would be looked into. And I don’t want anybody looking into things here. So I thought the t
hing to do would be to let you clear out of here, trusting on your drunken condition to prevent you from remembering much of the place. But since you’ve snooped around you know too much. My original charitable intentions have been changed. You stay here now for the rest of your life.”
“The hell I do,” Dirk exploded. “You can’t get away with this. My disappearance won’t go unnoticed.”
“I’m going to risk that. If anyone did show up however, it is improbable that you’ll still be around and kicking.”
Dirk paled.
“Do you plan to murder me?” The big man smiled.
“I have something better in mind. That soft flabby body of yours is going to be chained with a line of other slaves and made to work. You won’t last long. Strong men last a year at the most. You’ll cave in a few weeks. That will save me the bother of killing you and I’ll also get some work out of your soft carcass.”
“You can’t do this,” Dirk cried. “It isn’t f—fair.”
The big man stood up, stepped around his desk. His face was as hard and square as a ragged piece of granite.
“My name is Skarack,” he said. “There’s only one law here and that’s me. You’re my slave, body and soul, from this minute on. I’m going to work you to death and I’m going to enjoy doing it. Your money and your position and your fine friends will never help you now. You’re a walking dead man from now on.”
“You can’t get away with this,” Dirk cried.
Skarack smiled thinly. Then his heavy fist lashed out and slammed into Dirk’s jaw. Dirk staggered back, crashed into the wall and slid to the floor. He was still conscious, but his head felt as if a mule had kicked it. Every muscle in his body seemed paralyzed. He tried to climb to his feet, but Skarack’s heavy boot crashed into his ribs, drove the air from his lungs.
“Here I can get away with anything,” Skarack said. He turned to Buck. “Put him in line and see that he learns how to work.”
Buck grinned wolfishly.
“You bet,” he growled.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 55