Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Phillip cried, “Watch out.”

  Major Lanser’s henchman shifted around and covered D’Artagnan with his gun.

  “All right, buddy,” he snapped. “Take one move and I’ll let you have it.”

  D’Artagnan looked at the man and shrugged.

  “You seem to be in the saddle,” he said. He bowed ironically to Major Lanser and tossed his foil to the floor.

  The Major’s breathing gradually returned to normal.

  “You will pay for that little exhibition, my friend,” he said to D’Artagnan.

  Philip watched the scene tensely. The man with the gun, a heavy-set, florid individual who looked like a movie gangster, was standing with his back to the open door-, about twelve feet from where he stood. There was nothing within reach which he could throw at the man and he was too far away to tackle. There was nothing he or anyone else could do.

  “You have a silencer on that gun,” the Major snapped to his gunman, “let our young friend have it-.”

  The man raised his gun slowly and took aim.

  At that very instant a huge shape appeared in the doorway behind him, and a deep voice said, “Mon Dieu, we are barely in time!”

  The gunman wheeled about, his face a mask of incredulous surprise. Phillip screamed, “Be careful!” but his admonition was unnecessary.

  Porthos’ huge fist crashed into the gunman’s face. The man hit the floor in a sprawling crash and the gun slipped from his nervous fingers.

  Porthos stepped over the thug’s body and Athos and Aramis followed him into the room.

  Athos shook his head slowly.

  “My dear boy,” he murmured to D’Artagnan, “won’t you ever learn to keep out of trouble.”

  D’Artagnan smiled, turning to his companions, and the Major seized that opportunity to make a break. Ducking swiftly he scooped up the foil that D’Artagnan had dropped and bolted for the door.

  Athos was the only person who stood between him and freedom.

  “Out of my way!” Lanser snarled.

  Athos was still wearing his pin-stripe suit, but his sword was buckled at this waist. He dropped back a step and his blade flashed into his hand.

  “I’m afraid I don’t like your tone,” he said quietly.

  Lanser lunged forward, his blade driving for Athos’ heart, but Athos slipped aside easily. Lanser, his eyes glaring with mad frustration, grabbed the red-haired girl by the waist and swung her around in front of him as a shield.

  “Now,” he grated. “Stand aside!”

  With his sword extended he lunged forward again, shielding his body with the girl’s.

  Athos murmured, “You are making my task a bit more difficult.”

  HIS smile was like the flicker of light on a rapier as he feinted to the left, drawing the Major in that direction.

  His move back to the right was quicker than an eye could follow. The sword in his hand—the coolest, most daring hand in all France—leaped forward like a bolt of flashing light and Major Lanser stiffened involuntarily, a cry breaking from his lips. For an instant his side had been exposed, and in that instant the blade of Athos had found its mark.

  With a strangled curse the Major released the girl and stepped back. He tried desperately to raise his sword arm but it was a vain effort. His tall spare frame broke at the middle and he fell to the floor and lay still.

  D’Artagnan sprang to the girl’s side and removed the tape from her wrists. She swayed against him and he held her close.

  “My compliments, Athos,” he said, looking over the girl’s head at his friend. “Your hand has lost none if its skill.”

  Athos saluted with his sword, “Thank you.”

  The girl glanced down at the Major’s still form and a slight shudder passed over her slender body.

  “Can’t you tell us now what this is all about?” D’Artagnan asked gently

  “I can now,” the girl said. “I am an agent for the Free French forces of General De Gaulle. My mission here was to pass along vital information to a British agent. When I arrived I was met by Major Lanser, whose credentials indicated that he was the British agent I was seeking. But for some reason I didn’t trust him. I stalled him off, hoping to find something in the meantime to confirm or alleviate my suspicions. He became more and more insistent that I pass over my information. I couldn’t go to the police or the F.B.I. because of the confidential nature of my work.” She looked at D’Artagnan. “That is when you arrived on the scene. Obviously the Major could afford to wait no longer for he decided to get the information from me by force, if necessary.”

  “You say you are an agent for the Free French?” Athos asked.

  “Yes. Sometimes we are called the Fighting French.”

  “There in none other,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan looked down at the girl and his lean face was serious.

  “Couldn’t we help you in some way?” he asked. “I would be happy to place my sword under the command of this General De Gaulle.”

  “And I think he would be equally happy to have you,” the girl said. “There is work to do all over the world. In Tunis, in Africa, in London, everywhere there is a need for men of resourcefulness and courage.”

  D’Artagnan swung about to the three musketeers.

  “What say, comrades? Here is the opportunity of a fighting man’s life. The enemy is everywhere; the arena is the world; and the prize is our beloved France!”

  Athos looked down at the floor, his face grave.

  “Aramis, Porthos and I have been talking this over,” he said. “We are going to fight for France—but we are going to fight for France in France, on the soil of own country.”

  “But that is not possible,” the girl said. “There is no way to get there.” Athos glanced fleetingly at Aramis and Porthos and then he smiled faintly. “We shall find a way,” he said.

  The girl looked at the three men for an instant and there was a strange wonder in her eyes.

  “I believe you will,” she murmured softly.

  PHILLIP watched the scene and there was a strange constriction in his throat.

  He cleared his throat apologetically.

  He said to Athos, “Could I go with you? I know many things about the customs of today that would be valuable. And I am sure now of not only what I want to live for, but also of what I want to die for.”

  Athos smiled at him and threw an arm over his shoulder.

  “Why we couldn’t get along without you!” he said.

  Phillip felt that something inside his chest might burst with his happiness.

  Athos turned to D’Artagnan and his smile was sad and gentle.

  “This is farewell, comrade,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” D’Artagnan said. “But we have parted in the past comrades, but a strange fate has always brought us together again.”

  Porthos and Aramis joined arms with Athos and, with Phillip between them, they backed toward the door.

  “Remember,” Athos smiled, “One for all—”

  D’Artagnan’s arm tightened about the girl’s shoulder and he looked down into her shining face. “And all for one,” he murmured.

  When he looked up the doorway was empty.

  FLIGHT OF THE SIRIUS

  First published in the June 1943 issue of Amazing Stories.

  How can you beat an intelligence corps which fights like hell even to get decoy papers through?

  “OF COURSE you realize the necessity of getting this report to Mars.”

  The speaker, Commander Dexter of the Fifth Space Intelligence Corps, was a slightly built, middle-aged man with impassive features and cool, deceptively mild eyes. He was seated at his desk and le did not raise his eyes as he spoke.

  The man to whom his statement had been addressed nodded slowly. He was lean and tall, neatly dressed n civilian clothes, and everything about him, from his neat shoes to his sparse hair, seemed to reflect a cautious, methodical nature.

  “Yes, I understand,” he said. His voice was grey and quiet.


  “I knew you would, Martin,” Commander Dexter said. He glanced down at two identical sheafs of paper on the surface of his desk.

  “You will leave tonight for Mars with this report. You will deliver it to the head of our provisional government there, Commander Forsythe. He is expecting you.”

  He picked one of the sheafs of paper, inspected it carefully and handed it across the desk to Martin. Martin glanced at it briefly and placed it in a black portfolio which he balanced on his knee.

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “Not quite,” Commander Dexter said. “Undoubtedly there will be certain parties most anxious to make sure that you don’t reach Mars with that report. For that reason I am sending a decoy to draw their attention from you.” He picked up the second sheaf of papers from his desk and tapped it meaningfully. “This report is apparently similar to the one you have, but it is shot full of inaccuracies and falsifications. It won’t hurt a bit if it should happen to fall into the wrong hands. In fact it might help; but that’s beside the point. The important thing is that you get through with the correct report.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Martin said.

  “Good.” Commander Dexter smiled faintly as he placed the bogus report in a leather portfolio that was similar to Martin’s.

  “Who is going to be the decoy?” Martin asked.

  Commander Dexter leaned forward and pressed a buzzer on his desk.

  “I don’t believe you know the man,” he said. With a frown he settled back in his chair and thoughtfully rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “His name is Blake, John Blake. Everybody calls him Johnny, however. He’s that type. He was assigned to me about two months ago, fresh from a training base. I’m convinced he’s got a lot of good stuff in him, but he’s done nothing so far but get into trouble with his superior officers. He’s brash and cocky and conceited; too much so for his own good. He needs a little something to take the starch out of him and I have a hunch that this job might do the trick. He’s sure to tangle with Martian Intelligence and that experience may have a sobering effect on him. At least I’m hoping so.”

  “Isn’t it rather dangerous to send a green man on a job like that?” Martin asked.

  “I don’t think so. The papers he will carry are absolutely without value. When the Martians realize that, as they will soon enough, they’ll release young Blake with all sorts of apologies. After all we aren’t at war with them yet. In the meantime you’ll get through with the necessary papers to Commander Forsythe.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Martin said.

  “I know. When I give Blake his instructions I want you to take him down to an embarkation tower and personally see that he leaves for Mars. Then you’ll return to your quarters and apparently turn in for the night. Sometime after midnight you will be picked up by another member of the staff and taken to a private tower where a fighter ship will be waiting. You will leave then on an uncharted course that will take considerably longer than the regulation commercial routes. But you will gain in secrecy what you may lose in speed. Blake on the obvious course will attract the attention of the highly vigilant Martian agents; allowing you to slip through undetected. That, at least, is the theory. God help us if it doesn’t work.”

  Commander Dexter leaned forward and jabbed the button on his desk with an irritable finger.

  “He should be here now,” he said. “I gave my aide instructions to send him in immediately.” His jaw line tightened. “The young fool needs a taste of danger to settle him down. He seems to think Intelligence is some sort of a parlor picnic.”

  THE reception room of the commander’s office was furnished with economical efficiency. The gleaming dur-alloy walls were unadorned except for a large chronometer and two bulletin boards, on whose blazed surfaces coded messages from Central Intelligence flashed with unvarying regularity.

  At a desk a junior officer worked silently over a report sheet. Occasionally he glanced with a nervous frown at the electrical buzzer which connected to the commander’s inner office; the buzzer that had sounded twice in the last five minutes.

  He glanced at the single door that led into the reception room and then studied the chronometer on the wall with a worried eye. Finally he shrugged and went back to work.

  He had barely focused his eyes on the sheet before him when the door swung open and a tall, uniformed young man strode into the room. The new arrival carried his cap in his hand and his bright red hair stuck up like an unruly halo. There was an amiable grin on his face and his grey eyes were lighted with an impish sparkle.

  “Greetings, slave,” he said good naturedly. “Break the good news to the old man that his brightest young genius awaits without.”

  The officer at the desk looked coldly at Johnny Blake.

  “You are ten minutes late,” he said frigidly. “The commander’s time is valuable.”

  “Well, let’s don’t waste any more of it in idle recriminations,” Johnny Blake said, taking a seat on the edge of the desk. “Anyway he probably only wants to give me another dressing down for not saluting some brass hat or other.”

  There was nothing about Johnny Blake that would distinguish him from any of hundreds of Earth officers, unless it was the grin that hovered continually about his lips and the slightly mocking look that seemed always to flicker in the depths of his eyes. But there was a business-like look to his wide, well-muscled shoulders and his hands were big and capable.

  The officer at the desk, with another frown at him, plugged in a connection on the communication panel and, after a pause, said:

  “Commander Dexter wishes you to come in immediately.”

  “Thanks, my little man,” Johnny said. He stood up and straightened his crimson tunic. “Now don’t work too hard and get writer’s cramp,” he said with mock seriousness. “We need every man tip-top in times like these.”

  With a grin he slapped the young man on the shoulder and strode across the room and into the office of Commander Dexter.

  “Lieutenant John Blake reporting, sir,” he said as he came to attention at the commander’s desk and saluted.

  “Reporting ten minutes late,” Commander Dexter said drily. He nodded to Martin. “I don’t believe you know Mr. Martin. He’s going to see you off tonight.”

  Johnny shook hands with Martin and then regarded the commander with puzzled eyes.

  “See me off, sir? Am I going someplace?”

  “Yes. I have a very important job I want you to do. I’m sending you to Mars with a report to Commander Forsythe.”

  “Is that all, sir?” Johnny said.

  Commander Dexter didn’t miss the note of disappointment in Blake’s voice.

  “Yes,” he said drily, “that is all. But it happens to be an extremely vital mission. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Johnny said doubtfully.

  COMMANDER DEXTER leaned back in his chair and fixed his mild eyes on Johnny with a peculiarly intent stare.

  “You are probably aware,” he said, “of the extreme delicacy of relations between Mars and Earth at the present time. This message you are taking to Commander Forsythe contains his orders in the event of a crisis. Naturally our government is hoping that such a crisis will not materialize; but if it does we intend to be prepared for immediate action. These papers must be gotten safely to Mars. I can’t overemphasize the importance of this assignment, Lieutenant Blake.”

  He glanced at his watch. “You will leave immediately. Martin will accompany you to Embarkation Tower 14 where you leave on flight 24:07. Your accommodations have been arranged.”

  H« picked up the black leather portfolio from his desk and handed it to Blake.

  “You will deliver this personally to Commander Forsythe.”

  Johnny took the portfolio and put it under his arm.

  “Yes sir,” he said.

  Martin stood up and shook hands with Commander Dexter. His own portfolio was held carefully in his left hand.

  “Good bye, sir,” he sa
id. “You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

  “Good luck. And good luck to you, Blake. You’re likely to need it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated a minute, then said. “If something pops, just how far can I go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Johnny grinned, “if I tangle with any Martian agents do I have to be discreet? Or can I be—er—impolite, if necessary?”

  “You have your orders,” Commander Dexter said. “Get through to Mars. That should answer your question.”

  “That’s a load off my mind,” Johnny said, “If I have to slap any wrists I want to do it with a clear conscience.” Commander Dexter regarded him evenly.

  “While I admire your cheerful informality,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you add ‘sir’ when you have something to say to me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnny said emphatically. But he was grinning as he left the commander’s presence with Martin . . .

  THE long hull of the Earth-Mars liner, Sirius, stretched for hundreds of feet beyond the rim of its huge propulsion tower, pointing it? flared tip toward the vast immensity of space. From the depths of the tower could be heard the rhythmic throbbing of the ship’s mighty atomic rocket motors chanting a muffled song of tremendous power. The ship’s officers stood at central valve doors awaiting the blast-off signal.

  The Sirius was ready to leave. Johnny Blake stood with Martin on the passenger ramp that paralleled the gleaming side of the ship.

  “Everything seems set,” Martin said. “You’d better go aboard. You have your identification, tickets, everything?”

  “Sure thing,” Johnny said. He patted a sheaf of papers in his left breast pocket. “Like a good little messenger boy I’m ready for anything. And thanks for getting my accommodations.”

  “Not at all,” Martin said. He shook Johnny’s hand. “Take care of yourself, my boy. And be careful of that portfolio you’re carrying. Wouldn’t do to lose it, you know.”

  Johnny grinned and took a firm grip on the leather bag.

  “It won’t leave my hands,” he promised.