The haze thickened, became toroidal, and spread out. Up from a dun color it went, into cherry-red incandescence. Up through the red past yellow into blue and then into flaming white went the color-temperature. Like a close-knit toroid of flaming, white-hot metal, it poised above the projector, moved slightly, and then raced upwards. It passed the disperser, and the screen went up in a flare of white.
Into the sky above Mephisto went the toroid, and below it, Terrans swarmed over the projector, fought off the remaining enemy, and held the projector as their objective. The last floods of resistance died as the toroid went into the far sky above.
“Orionad!” bellowed Maynard. His ship lifted, swooped over him, and lifted him on a tractor. Upward they raced, catching the slow-moving vortex.
Turret-mounted AutoMacs vomited energy into the vortex—and back-thrusting power burned out the feedlines. Torpedoes entered the flaming mass and just disappeared. Tractor beams slid from the coruscating surface and pressor beams found nothing against which to push. A sub-ship plunged against the vortex. It was stripped of its barrier and it floated down, inert, and started the long fall to the hard ground below.
Fighting against the vortex with weapons that did no good, and cursing the foul thing all the way, Maynard and the Orionad followed its ponderous course out and out and out to Mephisto III.
It spread as it went, and by the time it wrapped its tenuousness about the tiny moon, it was almost gone. But it contained strength enough to blow’ out the barrier generator that held Mephisto III invisible from” without.
The toroid disappeared, and Guy, with misgivings, made inward to land at the base.
His fears grew as time went on, for he was not challenged. A swift report gave him some hope, but it came from Mephisto itself, telling him that resistance was at an end in the sector he had just left, and that the fleet, victorious and supreme on Mephisto, was returning to the outer moon.
Guy worried. Returning to what?
Inspection showed that nothing was harmed—save life. Dead men sat in their places operating instruments, dead men patrolled unseen areas, dead men manned the landing ports. It was a moon of the dead—with every instrument operable.
Not a machine was damaged— but no living things remained on Mephisto III.
Broken with grief, Guy Maynard looked down on the silent face of Senior Aide Joan Forbes. He felt wooden, and it all seemed dreamlike and unreal, but he knew that this was no dream, but cruel reality. Hat in hand, he stood there as if frozen and searched the girl’s face as though expecting the closed lips to part in a smile, and the closed eyelids to open before a pair of twinkling eyes. His men knew of the affection there, and they pitied him silently.
In neat, geometrically precise rows; seven billion, four hundred million miles from home; on a tiny, almost airless moonlet of an alien planet the hundreds upon hundreds of physically perfect bodies were buried. Not a scar or burn marred them, yet—
The chaplain said: “—from the earth thou earnest, and to the earth thou hast returned. And though this earth is far removed from the earth which bore thee and thine, it is thy resting place and home, for in the eyes of God Almighty all places and all planets are His Domain. And though ye travel to the farthest star, yet you will find Him there before thee, and this we know and believe for His Only Begotten Son hath said: ‘My Father hath other worlds beside thine.’
“And so we consign these erstwhile friends of ours to the depths of the earth, knowing that time and space knows no deterrent to Our Father Almighty; We shall all meet again some day—”
Guy Maynard plodded away from the scene. His eyes were dry, and in his heart was nothing. Shock had taken control of Maynard. Through the rows of mounds he walked, back to the Orionad, and his entry into the super-ship failed to give him that lift he always felt.
He sat in his scanning room and stared at the blank wall. Nothing aroused him. Nothing caused him to think; his mind was almost a blank, and it raced with futile rapidity from scene to scene with no plan, no reason.
An hour he sat, and the shock began to wear off. It left him with heartbreaking grief, and Maynard put his hands over his face and wept bitter, honest tears.
A phrase crept into his mind: “—the fortunes of war—!”
Maynard hated it. He hated the unknown who first said it. And then his hatred changed to the creatures that had created this ill fortune. He arose, his eyes blazing; and he thought:
Am I mad?
How could any man with such hatred be anything but mad?
Then I am mad!
He stormed out of the scanning room and went to the upper turret. He strode in, and saw that the superprojector was being installed there. Williamson turned and his face softened.
“Well. Guy?” he asked quietly.
“It’s not well!” snapped Guy. Then his voice cleared and he said: “Sorry, Ben. When?” he asked, meaning the vortex-projector.
“Now, I think. We lifted it wholesale, generators and all.”
“Then blast the accursed planet until it writhes!”
The vortex formed and hurtled down upon Mephisto. Again it formed and went down, following the first. Rings of violent energy, the vortices flew from the snout of the projector one after the other, time and time again until Ben stopped because the power was running low. Lines were thrown in from adjoining ships and the everlasting barrage continued. Hour after hour it went on, and each vortex laid waste to a section of Mephisto.
And long after the last Mephistan was dead, the Terran torpedoes dropped on the planet. His men wondered, but still there came no order to cease fire. Moonlet-mounted AutoMacs crossed the void and scored Mephisto, and when the final blast was fired and the Patrol landed upon Mephisto, no complete article of Mephistan life was anything but a smoking, charred mass.
The taking of Mephisto was finished.
And Guy’s hatred had passed through the saturation point, and all that was left to him was a dull ache. Shock had taken him again; it was with a dull, toneless voice that Guy issued orders to return the Orionad to Sahara Base.
XIII.
Guy Maynard inspected his image in the mirror and swore at it. He hated what he saw. His glance went from the mirror to the surroundings, and the face in the mirror, he felt, did not seem in keeping with the ornate suite of rooms at the Officers’ Club. The rooms were rich, formal, and sedate. The face that looked back at Guy from the mirror was a composite between care-and foolishness.
Lines had come between his eyes, and the frown of worry marked him, too. His face about the eyes and nose seemed old. An honest observer would have said that Guy’s face had character there. But the lower piece of face was the idea of frivolity. That mustache! It was the sign of a youth trying to be grown up. It was an admission of immaturity that the face behind it was not enough front in itself; that foliage was needed to conceal the lineless face of youth.
It was there for beauty’s sake! Beauty, he repeated in his mind. He snorted aloud. From now on they’d take him as he felt; as he was. In the face of his sorrow and self-hatred, Maynard was eschewing all signs of youth and self-indulgence.
He smiled slowly. They’d accept him, all right. They’d taken him wholeheartedly when he landed at Sahara after the completion of the Mephistan campaign. He’d had a three-day beard then and it hadn’t mattered.
He entered the bathroom and when he emerged, his face was clean-shaven for the first time since he was twenty.
The bell rang, and from somewhere a junior aide came to open the door. Kane stepped in, and greeted Guy with surprise. “Well, young man, where’s that face-fern of yours?”
“Shaved it off,” grinned Maynard.
“You look better. I must say.”
“I feel as though I’ve dropped a lot of foolishness since I did it,”
admitted Maynard.
“Why did you grow it in the first place?”
“Laura Greggor said she liked men with mustaches.”
“And now you don
’t like Laura Greggor?”
“That isn’t it. She’ll take me for what I’m worth from now on.”
“Them’s harsh words, podner,” drawled Kane. “What is your feeling for Laura?” ‘
“I don’t know,” said Maynard honestly. “We’ve both been a little rough on one another, you know. She treated me slightly coldish the last time I saw her—though she was indeed warmer than the incident after the Orionad got painted. Then, too, the last time I saw her was the day before I headed for Pluto with the Orionad. Because she has been so snippy once before, I gave nebulae to Joan Forbes to pin on, remember?”
“That was a cold thing to do,” said Kane.
“Laura told me not to annoy her until I could give her the insignia of a patrol marshal—when I became sector marshal. So when I was raised last time, I did as she demanded.”
“Sometimes women don’t expect to have their snapped words taken to the letter.”
“Are you carrying her banner?” asked Guy.
“Not exactly. I’m trying to be honest. And I think that Laura Greggor would make a good wife, for you.”
“Why?”
“Laura has background, money, friends. She has social standing. Also, I have a feeling that she has been sort of waiting for you. After all, she is a very desirable woman, and I doubt that she has been friendless all these years.”
“She’s twenty-six,” said Guy absently. “Maybe you’re right. It’ll depend upon how she greets me.” “Any woman in her right mind would greet you affectionate!} smiled Kane. “You’re the Man of the Hour for fair. The Man Who. You’re famous, Guy. Wealth is yours for the taking. Fame is yours already. They’re talking about hitting Mars, and they’re naming you as supreme commander. How do you like that?”
Guy shook his head. “I’ve had enough killing for one lifetime.” “You’ll change that opinion,” said Kane. “What you need is rest and relaxation.”
“I’d like to get away from the whole business,” said Maynard. “I’m beginning to hate the whole - shebang.”
“You’ll forget that. Did you know that they’re going to present you with your starred nebulae tonight?”
“Are they?”
“Yes. Laura Greggor will be there, too. Are you going to offer her the chance?”
“Might as well,” said Guy.
Kane looked at the younger man sharply. “You lost more than friendship out there on Mephisto,” said Kane. “You lost more than your fellow men.”
“You mean Joan Forbes?”
“Yes.”
Guy nodded slowly. “I curse myself that I didn’t realize her affection sooner. I’d have had her now it I’d not been so accursedly blind.”
“No, you’re wrong,” said Kane. “Forbes would have followed you out there anyway. Nothing would have changed, excepting that Joan could have eased your worry some. Call her Joan Forbes or Mrs. Guy Maynard, and you would have found her out there on Mephisto III.”
“I called her Forbes and ignored her affection,” said Maynard with a groan.
“It’s done now,” said Kane. “In all of our lives, there are mistakes which cause us regret for the rest of our lives. Not one of us is immune. But, Guy, the successful ones of us forget our regrets and look forward instead of backward. Living in the past is death in the future.”
“It’s hard to forget,” said Guy.
“And yet,” said Kane, “out there you will find an entire planet ready to give you their acclaim. They’ll make you forget. Unless, of course, you prefer to remember, in which case you’ll retreat within yourself and become an embittered man. But if you’ll go. out there among the people who want you to be the hero they think you are, you’ll find yourself being so busy living up to their belief that there’ll be no time for regret.
“But above all, Guy, don’t take the other road. You can go anywhere from here, now. If you become embittered because of your regret, you’ll end up a wizened old man with nothing but sorrow to recall for all your lifetime. Life is too short and too interesting to spend it in the past. Guy, what would Forbes tell you to do?”
Guy turned. “She’d probably laugh and tell me not to be a fool. She’d probably admit in that laughing way of hers that she was the best—but second best becomes top when the best is gone.”
“You’re bitter,” said Kane. “The remedy is people, noise, music, excitement, and forgetfulness. Come on, Guy, we’ll go out now and find it!”
“I don’t think I care to.”
“Don’t be an idiot. Must I tell the world that their hero does not come to his own functions because of grief? And Guy, why do you now fall grief-stricken? I know and you know. But frankly it was because you didn’t know until too late. Now, snap out of it and come with me.”
Maynard viewed the banquet with distaste. Yet it was exactly like one of those same functions that he would have given his life to attend five years ago. He thought of that and tried to forget. The reception room was filled with glitter, and the sound of talk and light laughter assailed his ears, and in part, Maynard forgot his feelings. He became eager for the laughter. Kane noticed the change, however slight its appearance, and he smiled inwardly.
“Good boy. Guy.” he said. He led Guy to the center of the larger group and without a word shouldered into the circle.
It was enough. They knew Kane and accepted him easily. Then they saw Guy, and accepted him immediately; while they did not know him, they recognized him. Guy became the center of a smaller circle and one of the men growled cheerfully in Kane’s ear:
“I don’t know whether I like you any more or not. That young cub has collected all our women.”
Kane laughed. “Call him a young cub to his face, Tony, and he’ll collect your scalp.”
“I know it. He’s quite a fellow, I hear.”
“He’s the finest. Get Bill over there and we’ll find a drink. And don’t worry, your women will be here when you find time to take ’em home.”
“I know that, too. And for nine weeks afterward they’ll be yelling at me to show some get. Darn him, he even looks like a swashbuckler.” a “I doubt that any . piratical thoughts run through Maynard’s mind,” said Kane, motioning to the man called Bill. “And as far as women go, he’s been a very busy boy for a long time.”
‘‘That’-s the trouble right now. If I’d been isolated as long as he has, I’d be howling at the moon. And look at ’em flock around! A mutual admiration society if I ever saw one.”
Bill came up smiling. “It looks as though your protege is doing well in all fields of endeavor, Kane. Right now he’s fighting the battle of Amazonia.”
Tony growled again. “Don’t you call my wife an Amazon!”
Bill laughed. “I meant mine. Come on, let’s haunt the bar where we can excel in our own fields.”
The lightness of the talk was doing Maynard a world of good. There was nothing said at all; nothing of the slightest importance. It was all done by inference and by double-talk, and each of the women seemed to be doing her best to entice him. In the back of Maynard’s mind something kept telling him that it was all sort of silly; that lie had nothing in common with these frivolous women, but the fore portion of his mind enjoyed it.
And the stiffness went out of him, and absently he began to look over their heads for Laura Greggor. When he saw her arrive, he wondered how he should greet her, but she took the problem in her own way and came over to the group.
“Hello, Guy,” she said, offering him her hand.
“I’m glad to see you,” he told her.
“One of the other women smiled wryly. “An eligible, girls. That’s about all, now.”
“We’ve experience,” returned another. “And what has she got that we haven’t?”
“His hand,” said the first. “And from here, it looks as though she intends to keep it.”
The orchestra broke into dance music, and as though pre-arranged, Guy led Laura through the crowd to the dance floor.
“How’ve you been?�
� he asked quietly.
She looked up at him and smiled. “Fine,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I—now. An hour ago I didn’t think I would.”
“So?”
“I was feeling low. Reaction, I guess.”
“What you need is relaxation,” she told him. “A drink, perhaps?”
“Could be,” he agreed.
“If I were you, I’d get good and fried. You must have been through everything.”
“It Seems like everything,” he smiled. “But I can’t get stinkeroo. I’m supposed to be the guest of honor.”
Laura laughed lightly, and led him to the bar where she prescribed a healthy drink. Guy downed it, gulped, and wiped tears from his eyes. “Whoooooo!” he squealed hugging his midsection.
“Sissy,” giggled Laura.
“Feels like a MacMillian going off down there. Is there a fire extinguisher in the place?”
They both laughed. Then Laura led the way to the opened French doors and out into the fragrant garden. It was warm and pleasant there, and with one thought they went to the far, darker end of the garden and sat down.
“Did you think of me?” asked Laura.
“Always,” lied Maynard. Then he said truthfully: “I’ve been working toward this moment for a long time. You wanted a set of patrol marshal’s nebulae. You may have mine, now.”
Laura took the box, and looked at the starred nebulae of the sector marshal.
“I shouldn’t do this,” she teased.
It rubbed Maynard the wrong way, that teasing. He knew it was just coquetry, but still it went against the grain. It was probably because he knew what was in her mind.
“Why not?” he asked. “In some circles it is considered an honor.”
“Huh,” gibed Laura, “perhaps in some circles. But remember it is no great novelty to the daughter of a space marshal.”
“The thrill of giving some bird the royal send-off is gone, hey?” asked Guy, stubbornly. “How many other officers have you done the honor for?”
“Quite a number,” she told him. “Quite a few more than any one man can boast of having women do it for him. After all, one man only gets eight new insignia during the course of his life.”
Nomad (1944) Page 15