The shock cleared his numbed brain. He rolled painfully to his side and saw Mortain’s body grotesquely sprawled on the soggy ground, a hideous scorched hole burned through his middle.
Macy was scrambling in the mud for the gun. Blake climbed to his knees and lunged at him, his right fist chopping down at his jaw in a vicious axelike stroke.
Macy sprawled to the ground, a hoarse gasp of horror tearing from his throat. His eyes were wild with fear as he scrambled to his feet and started to run.
Blake caught him in three strides. His hand fastened in Macy’s coat, jerked him about with a savage wrench.
Macy fell to his knees, slobbering in his fear.
“Please—please—” he gasped.
Blake jerked him to his feet and struck him with all his strength across the jaw. Macy’s head snapped back and he fell to the ground in a queer twisted position. A horrible gurgle sounded in his throat; froth flecked his lips; then he was still.
Blake looked down at him and, as the red mist of rage drifted from his brain, he realized that the blow had broken Macy’s neck.
He stood there for an instant and he felt no pity or sorrow for the thing that lay sprawled in the slimy muck before him.
The clearing was completely quiet. Blake took a deep breath and glanced around and it was then that he saw that the snub-nosed space ship had moored. A door had opened in its black side but there was no evidence that the ship was occupied.
Blake walked over to where Mortain lay, found the electric gun and stuck it in his belt. He looked grimly at the two bodies sprawled in the clearing and then headed for the mooring tower.
Cautiously, he ascended the iron ladder that led to the boarding ramp.
A quick inspection of the main body of the ship convinced him it was unoccupied. The door leading to the control room was locked. He noticed then that the automatic visilights were glowing from the ceiling and he realized that the controls of the ship were set for a return trip.
But to where?
CHAPTER V
Time for Action
BLAKE had a feeling that he hadn’t yet completely uncovered the mystery and corruption on the prison planet. For an instant he stood irresolute in the center of the small cabin, then he made a quick decision. He slammed the cabin door and adjusted the device that hermetically sealed the ship. Almost instantly he heard a faint hum as the rear propulsion rockets throbbed into life. The tiny space craft shuddered as the hymn of power built slowly into a mighty symphony of pulsing sound.
Blake sat down on the only chair in the small cabin and waited. There were no port windows in the body of the ship. He was completely enclosed.
A minute passed and then the nose of the ship tipped from the mooring socket and with a sudden burst of power the tiny space ship blasted upward and outward, void-bound.
For an hour the ship roared through the trackless depths of outer space and Blake was as helpless as a blind man. He hadn’t the slightest idea where the ship was taking him. And he couldn’t guess. That he was heading for trouble he felt sure, but how and when were unanswerable questions.
An hour later the throbbing roar of the rockets diminished slightly, and a few minutes after Blake noticed that, he felt the jarring impact of the fore repulsion rockets.
The ship was slowing and braking for a stop. Soon he heard a banshee screech as the nose of the ship slashed through heavy atmosphere. Blake knew that the ship was nearing its destination. His hands balled into tight fists and he stood up and faced the cabin door of the ship.
The forward motion of the ship stopped completely and Blake heard a faint scraping sound, as if the side of the craft were brushing a metal wall. He waited, tense, hardly breathing.
The sealing cylinders released with a gasp of pressured air, and the side door of the ship slid back with a clang. Blake stepped forward uncertainly. He was facing a smooth steel surface, but even as he took another step forward, he saw it was sliding back, revealing a short, lighted corridor.
Blake stepped from the ship into the corridor and paused. The corridor was only a narrow passage, hardly six-feet long, leading to another steel door.
With infinite caution he approached this second door. When he was within a foot of its gleaming surface it swung suddenly open, revealing a spacious, luxuriously furnished office.
THERE was a figure seated at the massive desk but his back was to Blake and in the deepening gloom of the office it was impossible to see more than the outlines of his bulky form.
Blake stared at the office and a numb feeling of horror caught at his throat. It couldn’t—
“Is that you, Macy?” the figure at the desk asked. He did not turn his head. “Is Richardson out of the way for good?”
The sound of the voice crystallized Blake’s half-formed suspicions. Suddenly he seemed to see a complete picture, bits of the puzzle fell into place with magical rapidity and he knew suddenly who was responsible for the corruption on the prison planet Venus.
He drew a slow breath.
“No, it’s not Macy,” he said softly, “and Richardson is far from being out of the way.”
His voice loud in the still quietness of the room. The figure at the desk wheeled and stared at the door in which Blake stood.
“God!” he whispered. His hand touched a light on the desk and the room was bathed in sudden white brilliance from two overhead lights. He stared at Blake’s bleeding, mud-grimed, figure as if he were seeing a ghost.
“You’ve been very clever, Commander Evans,” Blake said harshly. He stared at the white-faced figure of his chief and his eyes were like hot pools of blazing fire.
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” Commander Evans said, almost hysterically.
“No I haven’t,” Blake said quietly, “I’ve just got the right idea. You were expecting Macy here tonight. That accounts for your night work these past six months. You had to meet Macy for the split, didn’t you? I don’t know why you bothered to give me the money at the prison. Maybe that was your idea of a joke.”
SOME of the color was seeping back into Commander Evans’ face.
“It’s a good story you’ve cooked up,” he said, “but who do you expect to believe it. It will be my word against yours and as an escaped convict your word isn’t worth a damn. Supposing I was running the escape racket on Venus? You can’t prove it and you’ll only cause trouble for yourself if you try. Now if you’re smart I can fix it so you’ll do all right for yourself. It’s a sweet business and there’s room for another clever—”
“Stand up, Evans,” Blake said.
A fleeting gleam of panic brushed the officer’s eyes. He moistened his lips with his tongue.
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill you,” Blake said, without a quaver of emotion in his voice.
“Y—you can’t,” Evans said hoarsely. He started to rise from his chair. “I’m unarmed. You can’t shoot a man in cold blood.”
“There’s a gun in your desk,” Blake said, “Use it.”
The commander’s voice broke,
“No! I can’t. Listen to me. I—” His voice trailed off as he read his doom in the cold, implacable fury in Blake Richardson’s eyes.
With a sudden lunge he jerked open the drawer of his desk and whipped out a gun.
Blake reached for the gun at his belt with icy deliberation.
The commander swung around and the gun in his hand blasted twice. Both shots were wild. The commander fired again, hysterically, and then Blake raised his own gun and shot him twice through the head.
There was no expression on his face as the commander swayed and pitched forward across the desk, arms and legs sprawled grotesquely.
He shoved the gun back into his belt and walked over to the desk. A five minutes search revealed the secret drawer in which the commander had kept a complete record of his nefarious dealings with prison officials on Venus.
When he had flipped through the incriminating sheaf of papers, he picked up the radio phone
and flashed HQ on Earth. When the connection was established Blake spoke.
“You’d better send a delegation here.” He paused and glanced at the lifeless body of the commander and he thought of Macy and Mortain.
“There’s been a little trouble on Venus,” he said thoughtfully. Then he replaced the transmitter.
CONVOY IN SPACE
First published in the September 1942 issue of Amazing Stories.
Earth and Venus were at war, and it was vital that Space Lane 7 stay open; it was Earth’s only lifeline!
CHAPTER I
MACE McALLISTER was a big, deep chested man with a hard square face and an unruly thatch of brick red hair. Seated at the desk in his tiny dusty office with his big fists resting like mallets on the arms of his chair, he looked grim and angry.
As agent for the Intra-Planetary Space Freight Co. his job was to keep the vital flow of materials moving to the Earth troops marooned on Asteroid Belt—the first line of defense against the hordes of sub-human creatures from Venus. The only route to the all-important defense belt of asteroids was Space Lane 7—and keeping Lane 7 open and the supplies moving was Mace McAllister’s headache.
He looked up as the office door banged open and a tall, lean dark-haired man entered and jerked off a leather helmet.
“There’re not here yet,” the new arrival announced.
“How the hell do they expect me to operate ships without pilots!” Mace exploded. He banged a heavy fist on the desk top. “The brass hats have been promising me five replacement pilots for the last three months, and they’re not here yet.”
The dark-haired man shrugged and sat down on a chair near the wall. His face was thin and seamed with wrinkles; his blue-black eyes were inscrutable. He looked at Mace in silence.
“Reese,” Mace addressed the other man quietly, and there was hint of weariness in his voice, “you’ve been blasting through Lane 7 for three months now, delivering the goods to the men on the Belt. The fact that you’re still alive is a major miracle. None of the pilots who were here when you arrived are still alive.”
Reese shrugged. “I’m a pretty good space pilot,” he said quietly.
“You’re a damn good pilot,” Mace said. “The best I’ve ever had here. But without replacement we can’t last much longer. You know that as well as I do.”
Reese lit a cigarette, then said, “the replacement pilots are due today, aren’t they?”
“Sure,” Mace growled, “they’re supposed to be here today, but they were also supposed to be here three months ago. All we get from Earth is promises.”
“It’s a long haul from Earth,” Reese said. “Pretty hard trip in these times.”
Mace stood up impatiently and started pacing.
“I know, I know,” he said. “They’ve got just as tough a job as we have. This planetoid is midway between Earth and Venus and it’s no snap when the fighter planes of every planet are blasting on sight at everything in the void. And why the hell should pilots volunteer to run the gauntlet of Lane 7?” he said with sudden bitterness. “It’s a suicide trip, nothing else.”
“I’m still alive,” Reese said.
Mace looked at him. “You know your business,” «he said. “Some of these raw kids I get haven’t even had combat training.”
“They’ll get it in Lane 7,” Reese said.
“They’ll get it in the neck,” Mace said. He sat down again and jammed a pipe between his teeth. “We haven’t sent any U-235 to the Belt for months,” he said.
Reese put out his cigarette. “I noticed. What are you saving it for, the fourth of July?”
MACE shook his head and stared at his big fists.
“Can’t take a chance on losing it. We have to be damn sure that stuff gets through, In another few weeks the men defending the Belt won’t be able to fire their guns or operate their rocket ships. We’ve got damn near ten tons of U-235 here but it’s all we’re going to get for a while. If that gets blown up in Lane 7 it’s curtains for the boys on the Asteroid Belt.”
Reese nodded. His dark eyes were alive with interest.
“Why don’t you let me take a crack at it? Load up the fastest ship you’ve got and I’ll blast through alone. The Venusian scout ships won’t be expecting a thing. I think it’s worth a chance.” Mace shook his head. “Too risky,” he said. “I’ve got another idea but it’s no good unless I get some pilot replacements.”
“Okay,” Reese shrugged and lit another cigarette. “You’re the boss.”
“It’s a nasty situation,” Mace said. “If we don’t keep Lane 7 open and supplies moving the men on the Asteroid Belt are as good as dead right now. In another few months Earth can get troop and space ship reinforcements out there—but if we don’t get that U-235 to the Belt soon, reinforcements won’t do any good.”
“You’re right,” Reese said quietly. “There won’t be anybody left to reinforce.”
Mace sighed and moodily regarded the scarred top of his desk.
“It’s quite a responsibility,” he said heavily. “It gets you at night when you try to sleep.”
“Why don’t you chuck it?” Reese asked.
Mace smiled wryly. “You can’t run away from a thing just because it’s tough. I learned that lesson in the void years ago.”
“I didn’t know you’d been a pilot,” Reese said.
“I was commander of a Federation squadron for six years,” Mace said. “Put in ten years with the Feds all totogether.”
“A desk job must seem pretty tame after that,” Reese said. There was a new glint of respect in his eyes as he looked at the other man. “The Federation patrols are damned exciting, I imagine.”
Mace grinned reminiscently.
“And a lot of fun, too.”
Reese said, “why did you leave?”
“Eyes and hands were slipping,” Mace said heavily. “I didn’t want to wash out so I resigned.” He grinned wryly. “At thirty you’re an old man in the Federation. That was three years ago.”
REESE started to speak, then stopped and listened. A faint humming sound was barely audible in the warm office.
“There’s a ship coming in,” he said. “Might be our replacements.”
Mace sprang to his feet and strode toward the door. There was an excited spark of hope in his eyes.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.”
He jerked open the door and stepped outside onto the flasky soil of the planetoid. He saw that several men were standing by at the single mooring tower.
In the hazy dusk he could see the slim shape of a ship slicing through the planetoid’s atmosphere. The bright sparks from its rocket exhausts left a trail of fiery streamers in its wake.
The repulsion rockets of the incoming ship blasted suddenly and the speed of the ship diminished perceptibly as its nose veered slightly toward the looming bulk of the planetoid’s mooring tower.
Mace peered upward and tried to make out the ship’s insignia.
Reese standing behind him said quietly, “that’s your ship, all right.”
“Can you see the markings?” Mace asked.
Reese said, “Yes.”
“You’ve got better eyes than I have,” Mace growled. “Well thank the Lord they’re here at last. We can use ’em. You’d better go over and take charge, Reese. Send the pilots here as soon as possible. I want to talk to them. And by God if any of them are still using teething rings I’ll lose what’s left of my mind.”
Reese grinned and sauntered toward the mooring tower. Mace stood in the doorway for a few seconds, then he turned and entered his office. His jaw was hard as he sat down behind his desk. There was a big job ahead and now he had some men to do it.
CHAPTER II
Surprise!
MACE interviewed the five replacement pilots one at a time. The first three were young, but their records indicated that they were thoroughly competent. The fourth pilot was a short, chunky man with a red face and an easy grin.
He was older than the others. �
��Name’s Wallace,” he said, shaking hands with Mace.
“Glad to have you,” Mace said. “This is no snap here, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” Wallace said. He tossed a file of recordings on Mace’s desk. “But I’ve been around quite a bit. I don’t think I’ll be dead weight here.”
Mace went through the reports and found them excellent. The man had had a vast amount of experience in the void, that much was evident. He felt very grateful. He wasn’t often this lucky in replacement pilots.
“Swell,” he said. “Judging from this you’ll be a big help. Reese will show your quarters and help you get settled.” Wallace nodded and walked to the door. “Shall I send the last pilot in?” he asked. There was a faint grin on his face that Mace didn’t miss.
“Sure,” he said. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” Wallace said. “Nothing at all.” But he was still grinning as he walked out of the office.
Mace shook his head, puzzled. Then he went to work on the forms scattered about his desk. He was still absorbed in this work when the door opened and the fifth pilot walked in.
Mace looked up and his jaw fell disgustedly. The last of the replacement pilots was nothing but a kid, ridiculously small in bulky space clothes. White soft face with big brown eyes and a skin that wouldn’t know a razor for several years.
Mace banged his fist on the desk in his disappointment.
“Who the hell sent you up here?” he barked. “This isn’t a kindergarten, this is a fighting base.”
“I’m aware of that,” the pilot said quietly. “Perhaps you’d better look at my qualifications before you make up your mind about me.”
MACE smothered his angry disappointment and grabbed the sheaf of credentials and licenses from the pilot’s gloved hand.
He flipped through them quickly, grudgingly admitting to himself that they were all in order. Dale Mason, 22 years of age, extensive private craft experience, that was the gist of the data. This might not be so bad after all, Mace thought. Lord knows he’d gotten worse.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 123