Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Commander Wilson,” he barked. “I’m going to Ten. Call it a hunch or something equally silly, but I feel my job is there.”

  Commander Wilson’s features hardened into stern lines.

  “I gave you an order, Lieutenant Vickers,” he said, “and I intend that it be obeyed. If you leave this space field for Base Ten I will flash orders to our fighter ships to blast you out of the void on sight! You are dismissed.” A reckless fury was churning Vickers now, tipping the scales of caution and judgment in his mind.

  “Send your order,” he snapped. “But it will take more than a fleet of fighting ships to stop me from getting to Ten.”

  He turned and sprang to the door. “Stop!” Commander Wilson thundered. His hands dug for the service electron gun at his waist, but the door had banged shut behind Vickers before he could clear it from the holster. He stepped quickly to a tele-screen.

  VICKERS reached expulsion tube 22 in a half-minute of furious running. The mechanic was waiting for him.

  “Everything’s ready, sir,” he snapped. “All rockets firing at point two, course set dead for Base Ten.”

  “Fine,” Vickers said breathlessly. “Shove the firing pin the minute I seal the hatch. I’m in a helluva hurry.”

  He clambered up the narrow iron steps to the square platform of the expulsion tube. Opening the hatch of the trim single-seater set in the chamber of the tube, he was halfway into the ship when he heard the sudden shout below and behind him.

  Glancing back he saw a half-dozen land soldiers racing along the ramp toward him. One of them, a sergeant in the lead, was shouting at the top of his voice to the mechanic, who was standing before the control panel of the expulsion tube.

  “Shove that pin!” Vickers yelled. The mechanic paused indecisively, looking from the rapidly approaching soldiers up to Vickers.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said worriedly, “but there seems to be something wrong. I’d better wait and—”

  “Do as you’re told!” Vickers roared. “Shove that pin!”

  His voice acted as a stimulant to the hesitating mechanic.

  “Right, sir,” he snapped briskly. His hand slapped the firing pin into position at the same instant that Vickers decked into the ship and banged the hatch shut.

  With a rushing roar the slim single-seater flashed out of the tube and disappeared into the void, trailing sparks the indication of its swift cleavage of Earth’s atmosphere.

  Inside the bullet-like, rocketing ship, Vickers seated himself at the controls and breathed a sigh of relief. A tenth of a second delay then, and he would have been in the hands of Wilson’s land soldiers. He checked the controls with a quick, practised eye, glanced at the wide visi-screen, and then settled down for the long trip to Base Ten. He realized with sharp clarity that his actions would break him forever with the Earth space fleet, but he forced this thought from his mind. The only thing he wanted to think of now was Veya. As long as she was safe, everything else was ail right. If she wasn’t—He hunched his big shoulders forward, and jammed the auxiliary rocket lever into place. Under this emergency power the flashing ship shot ahead with a spine-jarring spurt . . .

  TWENTY-THREE hours later, Vickers moored at Base Ten. The red-and-gold insignia on the cowling of his ship gave him mooring preference over the pleasure and commercial ships which were waiting.

  When he climbed out of his ship and descended the ladder, two officers of the Base were waiting for him.

  For an instant a cold hand of fear closed over his stomach. If Commander Wilson had flashed a message to the base headquarters, it would be all over with him now.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant,” one of them said cordially. “Any special reason for the visit, or are you just gallivanting around for the fun of it?”

  “Hardly,” Vickers said easily. He was almost trembling with relief, but he forced his voice to disguise his emotion. “Just a routine trip. You haven’t heard from Commander Wilson lately, have you?” he asked, as casually as he could.

  The senior officer, a red-faced, stocky, second lieutenant, shook his head.

  “Not a word for the last two days. Suits us here. The quieter things are, the better we like it,” he smiled.

  Vickers smiled too. So far he still had a free hand.

  “By the way,” he asked, “has Miss Veya Mallon moored here today? I think she was expected up this way.” The second lieutenant nodded.

  “She pulled in about six minutes ahead of you, Lieutenant. Too bad that a nice kid like that should have a father who’d sell out to the enemy.”

  “Which way did she go?” Vickers asked, trying to cloak his impatience.

  The red-faced junior officer pondered.

  “I was standing here,” he said, scratching his head, “when she walked by me from the other mooring tower. I think a couple of guys met her, and she left with them.”

  “Did you know them?” Vickers asked quickly.

  The officer shook his head. “There’s too many bums here on Ten for me to remember all of them. But I think I saw one of the fellows hanging around the Interplanetary Hotel a few nights ago, but I can’t be sure. Every double-crossing saboteur and spy in the business hangs out there. It’ll be a fine day when we clean that place out for good.”

  “The Interplanetary Hotel,” Vickers murmured. “That’s third layer, south, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Why? You interested in somebody over there?”

  “I might be,” Vickers said grimly.

  “I just might be.”

  He nodded to the two officers and started off. They saluted as he passed them and strode down the ramp to the exit gates of the space field.

  WHEN he reached the Interplanetary Hotel an hour or so later, he ordered a drink of Saturn squeelah,[*] and did a bit of serious thinking.

  The officer had been sure that Veya had been met at the space field. No one could have known she was coming, but still, somehow, someone had managed to pick up the information and meet her as she arrived.

  A worried frown cut a furrow across his brow.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Veya had stumbled into something dangerous. The men who met her obviously would lull her suspicions with some plausible story until she was too deep to turn back. Why she had been picked up was a question he couldn’t readily answer. Neither did he have any idea of who had ordered her met at the space field. But he was sure that they had met her for a reason, and it was a million to one that that reason would explain a lot of the peculiar questions which were bothering him.

  He finished his drink and was turning from the automatic liquor dispensary when he saw a small, swarthy man hurrying past him, holding a handkerchief to his cheek. The man crossed the side foyer and disappeared through a small door that led, Vickers knew, to a first aid station.

  Curious, Vickers waited until the man reappeared. There was a strange tingling sensation at the base of his spine as he saw the long, thin scratch that ran down the man’s cheek.

  For a brief second he hesitated as the somberly dressed, swarthy man hurried back across the foyer and made for the elatubes. Then he turned and ambled carelessly after him. But when he reached the elatube the door had already clicked and the car had rocketed upward on its mile flight.

  Vickers waited impatiently for the car to return. Some sixth sense harried him, raised the hackles at the base of his neck. There seemed to be some vague pattern to everything that had happened, but the exact design of it eluded him. He felt as if he were in a labyrinth of strange motives and actions, and if he could find the right path to follow it would lead directly to the heart of the puzzle.

  And it was a puzzle. He appreciated that with greater force as each instant slipped past. Looking back he could see the puzzle. But he knew he would have to look forward and move forward to find the key.

  When the elatube car returned he called the operator to him.

  “A friend of mine got into your car, but the door closed before I could hail him,” he said easi
ly. “I wonder if you remember what level he got off on? He was a small fellow with a sallow complexion and a fresh scar on his cheek. Remember him?”

  The elatube operator scratched his head, then nodded.

  “Got off on the sixth level, twentieth floor. Seemed kind of mad about something. I guess he’s the one you mean.”

  Vickers thanked him and stepped into the elatube car.

  “Sixth level,” he said, “twentieth floor. I think I’ll surprise my friend.”

  THE elatube operator set the controls and the car ascended swiftly.

  It covered the trip in a half a minute. Vickers stepped out of the car and moved down the wide aluminum corridor, glancing at the doors on either side of him.

  Within a dozen feet he stopped. He had no way of knowing what room the swarthy man occupied. It would have to be discovered by trial and error.

  He selected a door and knocked sharply.

  A middle-aged woman answered.

  “I’m looking for my two friends,” Vickers explained to her questioning look. “But I don’t have their room number. I thought perhaps I could save myself a trip back down to the desk by inquiring for them. One of them is small and dark with short, black hair and narrow eyes. Do you remember anyone like that on this floor?”

  The woman jerked a thumb to her right.

  “Down two doors from me,” she said ungraciously. “And tell ’em not to be making such a fuss. A hour or so ago you’d think they was staging a wrassling match in there.”

  Vickers hands clenched.

  “Thanks,” he snapped. There was a tight feeling across his shoulders as he strode down the corridor past one door and stopped at the next.

  He knew there was no time for anything but direct action. He pounded on the door with the heavy palm of his hand.

  There was a complete silence inside the room for almost a minute, then Vickers heard cautious footsteps approaching the door. A bolt clicked and the door, opened a few inches.

  Vickers stared through the crack and recognized the swarthy man he had followed from the foyer peering out at him.

  “Whadda you want?” the swarthy man growled. But Vickers noticed his beady eyes moving furtively over the red tunic of the Earth space fleet he was wearing.

  “I want in,” Vickers snapped. He placed his palm against the door and shoved hard. The door swung inward under his weight and the swarthy little man flew backward almost sprawling to the floor.

  “What’s the idea?” he panted fearfully.

  Vickers shot a quick glance about the room. Another man was rising from a chair, a look of mingled surprise and fear stamped on his face.

  There was no one else in the luxuriously furnished room.

  “I just have a few questions I want answered,” he said softly. “First of all where did you get that scratch on your face?”

  “What business is it of yours?” the swarthy man snarled.

  “Maybe none,” Vickers said, still quietly. “But it might be just my business. If you’d rather talk without your front teeth just keep stalling.”

  “I fell,” the swarthy man said surlily. “My face got scraped on the edge of a chair. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Yes,” Vickers said. “Just one thing more. Where is Veya Mallon?”

  THE words had hardly left his mouth before he knew they had scored. Both men started convulsively, then their hands dug frantically for their pockets.

  Vickers sprang forward, his right fist smashing into the swarthy man’s face with the force of a pile-driver. The man went flying backward, his face broken beyond recognition by the power of the sledge-hammer punch. He crashed to the floor, twitched once and was still.

  Vickers wheeled and charged for the other man, whose electron gun was just clearing his pocket. The gun exploded with a vicious kiss as Vickers’ heavy shoulder slammed into the man’s stomach.

  The force of his tackle hurled the man backward into the wall. His head snapped into its steel-hard surface with a sickening crunch. The gun slipped from nerveless fingers as the man doubled and dropped to the floor, a soggy red ooze plastering the back of his head.

  Vickers scrambled to his feet and strode to the closet. The door was bolted, but he snapped the lock with a powerful drive of his shoulders. The door swung inward and Vickers heard an inarticulate moan from the darkness of the closet.

  Dropping to his knees he found Veya’s bound form doubled up in a corner. He lifted her in his arms and carried her carefully to the bed.

  There was a nasty bruise on her pale forehead, but she was not unconscious. He ripped the gag from her mouth, with fingers that trembled with rage.

  “I prayed you’d come,” she gasped weakly. “It was a trap, but I didn’t realize it soon enough.”

  “Don’t talk,” Vickers said soothingly.

  He untied the bonds from her wrists and ankles and then chafed her arms until the circulation was restored.

  “Tom,” Veya said faintly. “I’ve discovered everything I needed. In the drawer of the desk here are the papers that my father was bringing back to Earth when he was killed. That was why he was killed. Because of what those papers and documents would mean when they were presented on Earth.”

  Vickers stepped to the desk and opened the drawer. A folio of papers in a leather case was inside. He removed it and sat down again beside Veya.

  For fifteen minutes he pored through the documents in the leather case, and when he finished there was an incredulous look on his face.

  “It’s positively incredible,” he muttered. “Now I can see the whole scene. Your father discovered these and started back to Earth with them. The Martians discovered their absence and started after him. Your father decided to run for it, rather than fight, because he didn’t want to take any chances with these documents in his possession. But they caught him, crippled his ship, boarded it and killed him. Then they recovered these papers and planted other ones on your father to make it look as if he were the traitor.”

  “It’s all horribly clear,” Veya said shuddering. “But why did they have to plant the other papers on him? He was dead and beyond hurting them then. They had these papers back in their possession. Why was it necessary to make him appear to be a traitor?”

  “It was a devilishly clever move,” Vickers said slowly, “to invalidate and discredit any of your father’s papers which might subsequently have been brought to light. They didn’t know but what he might have had other data and records of a damning nature hidden in his own files. If anything like that turned up they were prepared for it. Because a convicted traitor’s records would have little or no weight in any military court. But these records in this leather case are absolutely conclusive. You’re father’s name will be cleared and the real traitor will face a firing squad.”

  “I don’t think so!” a muffled voice said behind them.

  VICKERS wheeled and saw a tall, masked figure standing in the doorway, an electron gun held unwaveringly in his hand. A black cloak completely concealed the masked man’s body, down to the knees.

  “Without those papers,” the curiously muffled voice went on, “your case will be declared ridiculous. So I’ll trouble you for the leather case.”

  “You can’t get away with this,” Vickers said bitterly.

  “I’m the best judge of that,” the muffled voice said mockingly.

  Vickers stood up, the leather case in his hands. He stepped forward and extended the case to the masked figure, who reached for it avidly, his eyes glitteringly triumphantly behind the concealing mask.

  His hand touched it, and at the same instant a spiteful hiss cracked through the room. The masked figure turned slowly and Vickers saw a round, black hole burned through the cloth of his cape, just below his heart. For an instant he staggered in the doorway and then he collapsed to the floor.

  Vickers wheeled and saw Veya sitting up in bed, an electron gun clenched tightly in both her hands. Her face was white with horror.

  “I did it,” sh
e whispered. “When he reached for the case he wasn’t watching me. There was a gun lying on the floor. I picked it up and shot him.”

  “It’s all right, honey,” Vickers said tenderly. He put his arm around her shoulder and held her close to him. “He deserved it if any man ever did. He had your father murdered and framed to appear a traitor, while all the while he was directly in the pay of Mars, as these papers here prove beyond a doubt.”

  Vickers stood up and stepped to the masked figure, lying sprawled in death on the floor. Reaching down he ripped off the mask, exposing the face of the dead man.

  It was Commander Wilson.

  “I should have been suspicious,” Vickers said, “when he refused to let me follow you here to Ten. When I left anyway, he flashed his agents here to meet and get rid of you. Then he followed himself to make sure that nothing slipped up. But everyone slips sometimes, and he was no exception. His death will clear your father’s name.”

  “It’s terrible,” Veya said softly, “that any man could betray his own planet like that.”

  “The reward of the traitor is always death,” Vickers said grimly.

  “Not always,” Veya said shyly. “I was a traitor to our love when I lost faith in you, wasn’t I? And I’m still alive.”

  Vickers grinned and took her in his arms and kissed her emphatically.

  “You missed the death sentence,” he said, “but you’re convicted to life imprisonment in my arms.”

  [*] Squeelah—a potent drink fermented from the carnivorous plant forms that exist in great abundance on the dank planet of Saturn. It is green in color, bittersweet in taste and TNT if imbibed in quantity.

  REHEARSAL FOR DANGER

  First published in the January 1942 issue of Amazing Stories.

  The idea was to make a man out of young Harker, but not with a stunt as real as this one was . . .

  “MY SON is a worthless, yellow-bellied young scamp!” Bull Harker thundered. “And it’s all my fault, y’hear? All my fault!”

  I was sitting in Bull Harker’s magnificently furnished main office as he strode up and down the thick carpet, his big body jarring the floor with each step. Looking at his powerful, dynamic features it was easy to understand how he had battered and fought his way to the supreme control of Interspace Transport Co, But it was difficult to understand how this man had raised a son whose only interest in life seemed to be the quantity of Venusian rum he could put away at one sitting, and how many space ships he could burn out every month.