This constituted all their duties—except when an emergency arose. Then the Dispatcher took complete charge of the cruiser and its smaller craft, issuing orders even to the pilots. Only the Captain was over the Dispatcher at such times, for on the latter rested the safety of the men in the small boats.
Old Steve wondered repeatedly how Mott had secured—and held—so responsible a position. “Cal must be losin’ his sense of judgement,” he told himself.
THE first month that the Atlas spent in the orbit of the Andromids passed uneventfully. Meteoric iron piled up steadily in the hold of the space ship; and Captain Cal Barker saw visions of a most satisfactory expedition. Radio reports from the other cruisers indicated that they were having similar returns.
But at the beginning of the second month, the Atlas encountered an unbroken streak of misfortune. It began when one of the small boats crashed into a gigantic meteor, smashing itself into a shapeless mass of metal, and instantly killing its crew. It was the result of carelessness on the part of the miners themselves—but it threw a cloud of gloom over the rest of the men. Bad luck, they said, always followed a smash-up.
And bad luck came with a vengeance. For some unaccountable reason the nature of the swarm changed. There were meteors in great quantities—but few were iron meteors—the majority were worthless stone meteors. And the iron meteors that were seen were either too small to bother about, or too large to handle.
After a week of futile effort, Captain Cal Barker became a fighting, cursing fury. There was a stubborn quality in his nature that leaped to the surface when adverse conditions arose, a quality that permitted nothing to stand in his way. Restlessly he strode through the Atlas, from the pilot room in the nose of the cruiser to the engine room in its base, possessed of a cold, unreasoning anger.
His crew responded with frenzied efforts, taking chances that they would not have considered ordinarily—but all to no avail. The pile of iron in the hold increased with disheartening slowness.
In a rage Captain Cal Barker drove the Atlas into the heart of the swarm; and just as furiously as he drove his men. He raged about within the cruiser like one demented. Not good space ethics—but entirely in keeping with Cal Barker’s nature. And it did no good.
Old Steve Anders watched the turn events had taken with slowly mounting hope. Perhaps he’d get his chance now! Accordingly, after a period of particularly arduous but ineffectual effort on the part of the crew, he sought for the Captain.
“Cap’n Barker, sir,” he began somewhat hesitantly, his voice quavering despite the eager glow in his faded eyes, “things haven’t been goin’ so good lately, so I thought maybe—maybe you’d let me take the old car out, an’—an’ do what I can! Every man counts, sir; and Mr. Mott can get along without me. It isn’t askin’ much, sir, and I . . .”
His words trailed off into silence as he caught Captain Barker’s changing expression. His eyes seemed to snap fire from their coal black depths, seemed to lose their vision; his heavy eyebrows drew together in a fearsome frown; and his wide, powerful jaws were clamped together, his lips compressed, and his nostrils dilated, as he strove to control himself. When he spoke, finally, every word was clipped off as thought by a knife.
“Steve, if it had been anybody but you I’d knock ’em head over heels into a corner! Bother me with your foolishness at a time like this! Listen, Steve; you know me! Think I’d have put you inside if I’d thought you capable of running a boat? We had one smash-up; we don’t want another! No, Steve, it can’t be done—so forget it!”
Shoulders sagging sorrowfully, Steve Anders turned away.
“Steve!” He turned at Barkers’ exclamation. “You’re right about one thing. Every man counts. So I’m going out with the men! Tell Hugo Mott. And, by damn, I’ll bring in iron!” With a final imprecation, he whirled and ran down the spiral hallway toward the space car racks.
Mechanically Steve Anders returned to the Dispatcher’s room, and delivered the Captain’s message.
“Another fool—bigger than the rest,” Mott remarked with a sneer. “Thinks he can do better than anybody! In a pig’s eye!”
Old Steve paid little attention to his superior’s tirade; he was accustomed to it. A few moments later as one of the emergency screens lit up, he watched with interest—and a shade of resentment. The Captain had usurped his place—the place of the one-time champion of the fleet!
Out into space Captain Barker’s craft flashed, trailing the steel bar. He was alone; he had no assistant. And he began bringing in iron—iron in surprising quantities. He captured meteors of seemingly impossible size; he thrust himself into dangers with a daring that appeared to be the height of folly—and escaped. He seemed to possess a charmed life, and acted as though lift, knew it. Tirelessly, hour after hour he toiled, setting a pace for his men.
Old Steve Anders watched anxiously. The Cap’n shouldn’t be taking such chances. He was a little harsh at times, but he was a prince, nevertheless. His old pal. “He’ll get into a smash-up, actin’ like that,” Steve muttered. “Shouldn’t have left him go—I’ve had much more experience than him—and these new boats can’t stand up against the old ones.”
“HEY, Old-timer,” Hugo Mott growled, “can the chatter! What’re yuh excited about? . . . Look—look at that old fool go! He’ll spill his guts all over the sky, if he don’t watch out. Well—I won’t do much weepin’ !”
Now the Captain was coming in again with a huge meteor fast to his steel boat. And the others were returning more frequently to deposit their hauls. Back—then out again . . .
“Call in the men! Call in the men! Hurry!” A voice came through the radiophone from the control room. “We’ve sighted a comet—computed its path—and it intersects the orbit of the Andromids at this point. It’s big enough to send us all to Kingdom Come!”
With a frightened scream, Mott pointed toward the big visiplate at the end of the room. “Look at it! My God, look at it!” His face was a sickly yellow; he cringed with cowardly dread.
A comet unquestionably was rushing toward them; Steve saw it on the screen. A gigantic thing, a mass of incandescent gas, rock and metal, its brilliance, magnified by the finder, was almost blinding.
Steve spun around on his heel, his figure suddenly filled with youthful animation.
“Quick,” he exclaimed, “call in the boats. There’s not a second to spare!”
Hugo Mott made no move. His fear seemed to have ahchored him to the floor. “We—we gotta get away,” he gasped.
Old Steve brushed past him contemptuously and sprang to the master radiophone. He threw in the switch, and sent his message to the twelve crafts in space.
“Back to the Atlas, men! We’re in the path of a comet—it’s due to strike in a short time. We’ll have to move—fast!”
With the words old Steve leaped back to the visiplates. The men were returning with all possible speed. Some had not needed his warning; they had seen the spot of brilliant light rushing toward them, and had grasped its portent. All were returning—all, save . . . Old Steve gasped in consternation.
The Captain! Had he gone insane? For suddenly his steel rod had leaped out at an enormous passing meteor—a monster that must have weighed hundreds of tons. And it flashed along at a terrific pace, taking the Captain’s boat with it! It seemed to be speeding directly toward the point where the heart of that onrushing comet would strike!
Leaping to the radiophone, Steve cried in a frenzied voice: “Captain—number thirteen—come back to the Atlas! It’s sure death unless we get away at once!”
And from boat thirteen came the reply, strangely calm, “I can’t, Steve,—can’t let go! The damned thing seems to be magnetic—just grabbed me and started pulling me along. And it’s far too big for one boat to handle. Soon as the others get back, have the pilots get the Atlas out of the comet’s path. So-long, Steve!”
As old Steve stared at the radiophone in stunned silence, Hugo Mott sprang into action with an eager snarl. His face was pale
and beaded with perspiration.
“They’re all in now!” he cried. “We’ll be outa this jam in a minute!” He called the control room and began issuing orders.
“Wait, Mott,” Steve interrupted, gripping the other’s arm. His thin voice shook with emotion. “You can’t leave the Captain like that! We gotta—”
“Can’t, eh? Who said so? Let go my arm, you crazy fool—we gotta get out of this now! If Barker burns out, that’s his funeral, not mine! He has it comin’ to him, anyway, the damned fool! Get out!” With a single, furious sweep of his arm he sent the old man crashing into a bank of televisor screens.
Slowly Steve arose, supporting himself with out stretched arms—and the fingers of his right hand closed on a steel rod that his body had torn loose. Suddenly he straightened; his jaws clamped together. By God, they wouldn’t leave Cal Barker—not if he could help it!
With a single bound he reached Mott’s side, and the steel bar crashed against the back of the Dispatcher’s head. His knees sagged and he sank to the floor.
“CANCEL those orders,” Steve called to the control room; and there was no waver, no hesitancy in his voice. “The Captain hasn’t come back yet, so we can’t go. Full speed ahead along the Andromids’ orbit. Slow down when you see me leave the ship!”
A moment later Steve Anders was running rapidly down the spiral hallway toward the boat racks. He—he’d show ’em what that old boat could do—and bring in the Cap’n at the same time!
As he ran Steve calculated hurriedly. He had noted the Captain’s distance from the Atlas; he knew the approximate speed of the cruiser and the meteor . . . they’d reach the boat in about three minutes. He’d have to work fast—but there was still time to make it!
He dashed through a wide doorway past several returning meteor men, and crossed to his old steel-jacketed rocket boat. He passed through the open airlock, clamped it into place, and with roaring rocket vents, sent his craft toward the ceiling and the vacuum tunnel. The removal of the boat’s weight from the rack had automatically opened the airlock, he passed through it; it closed behind him—and he was out in space.
Anxiously Steve looked through a little porthole, searching for the Captain and his meteor. He sighted them—far ahead—and sent his craft roaring after them.
A wave of misgiving passed over old Steve. At closer range that jagged mass of iron looked incredibly large! And that comet was drawing dreadfully close! For a moment his courage almost failed him; he felt suddenly very old and weak. Perhaps—perhaps he wasn’t as good a man as he had been at one time! For an instant he wished that he were back home with his Sarah, away from all this danger. He thrust the thought from his mind. The Cap’n had to be rescued!
With all the skill of former years, old Steve Anders eased his craft toward the meteor, on the side opposite the Captain. The thing drew him toward it; it was magnetic, as Barker had said. At the proper moment he closed the switch that magnetized the steel bar—and clung to the mass of metal. Then, just as he had done it countless times before, he checked his speed with rocket charges from the nose of the craft.
Could he do it? The Captain’s boat was holding back too—would their combined power be great enough? . . . Old Steve breathed a sudden sigh of relief. They were slowing down! They would only need a few more moments to check it entirely. But was there still time! What about the comet?
He cast a glance through a porthole. The incandescent mass was almost upon them! But the Atlas—it was closer; and the great airlock into the hold was open! The pilot had been following, and had divined his intentions.
A rush for the airlock—a sudden jar of acceleration as the Atlas got under way—and the cruiser was speeding out of the danger zone, bearing old Steve Anders and his Cap’n to safety.
Behind them flashed the comet, its head a brilliant mass of fire. It moved with terrific speed—but the Atlas moved even more rapidly. Then ran before it, then turned away from its path, and watched it vanish into the blackness, trailing its fan-shaped, wraithlike tail.
ABOUT twenty minutes later a group of men gathered in the mess hall. Every member of the Atlas’ crew was there except the pilots and the engine men. Captain Barker, Steve Anders and Hugo Mott stood in the center of a rough circle.
“Boys,” Captain Barker announced grimly, “we’ve all just escaped from a tight corner—and I was pulled out of a tighter one—but that’s past. We’re getting iron—and we’re going to continue getting iron. But I didn’t call you here to tell you that. I want to introduce you to two different types of men.”
He faced the cringing figure of the Dispatcher. “Mott,” he said coldly, “you must have forgotten that radiophones and visiplates work both ways, I saw and heard everything that went on m the televisor room while I was being towed along by that meteor! You’re a skunk, Mott, a dirty, yellow skunk, to hit an old man! Your uncle was one of the best men who ever held down a Dispatcher’s job, and he asked me to give you a chance—and I did. But you won’t get another! You’ll finish the next month and a half with the cook, as roustabout—at roustabout’s wages—and the cook has my sympathy. I’ll take your place as Dispatcher. And after that, you’ll get out of space—and stay out!”
Captain Cal Barker’s expression softened as he turned toward Steve Anders. “And here, boys,” he exclaimed, “is one of the finest meteor men who ever set foot on a space boat! I worked under him years ago, boys, when he was the champion of the Meteor Fleet. Maybe he’s not so young any more, but, by damn—he’s as good a man to-day as he ever was!”
The chorus of assent that arose was enough to warm any man’s heart. Old Steve Anders smiled happily.
AS for the rest of the cruise, old Steve spent it with the meteor miners, towing in iron. And afterward—well, afterward he went back to his patiently waiting Sarah with enough money to last them the remainder of their lives.
When H.C. MacDonald heard about the experience of the Atlas, he ran his fingers through his shock of gray hair, and frowned thoughtfully. “Hmmm!” he murmured. “It may be tough to be old—when you’re useless. But I know one man who doesn’t fit that rule at all!” Men come and go in the E.V. & M—and are forgotten. But some are remembered—and old Steve Anders is one of them.
THE END
[1] Meteors are roughly divided into two groups—stone and iron meteors. The iron meteors—or meteorites, as they are called after they fall to earth—are exhibited in museums, and are the more numerous to be found there, but this is because they are the more easily identified. The stone ones outnumber them by about twenty to one.
Iron meteors are nearly pure iron with usually a small admixture of nickel. Stone meteors also contain grains of iron, as well as numerous other elements including gases—but these held no interest for the meteor miners.
[2] A swarm of meteors moving around the Sun on an elliptic orbit, possessing a period of 6.6 years. According to the popular astronomical belief, the Andromids are the remains of Biela’s comet, which in 1846 divided into two, and subsequently disintegrated, to form a swarm of meteors. This particular swarm, like others that touch the orbit of the earth, was named for the constellation—Andromeda—from which it appears to radiate, i.e., its radiant.
1936
ISLE OF THE UNDEAD
A gripping, thrilling, uncanny tale about the frightful fate that befell a yachting party on the dreadful island of living dead men
1. A Horror from the Past
A DRAB gray sheet of cloud slipped stealthily from the moon’s round face, like a shroud slipping from the face of one long dead, a coldly phosphorescent face from which the eyes had been plucked. Yellow radiance fell toward a calm, oily sea, seeking a narrow bank of fog lying low on the water, penetrating its somber mass like frozen yellow fingers.
Vilma Bradley shuddered and shrank against Clifford Darrell’s brawny form. “It’s—it’s ghastly, Cliff!” she said.
“Ghastly?” Darrell leaned against the rail, laughing softly. “One cocktail too many—that
’s the answer. It’s given you the jitters. Listen!” Faintly from the salon came strains of dance music and the rhythmic shuffle of feet. “A nifty yacht, a South Sea moon, a radio dance orchestra, dancers—and little Clifford! And you call it ghastly!” Almost savagely his arms tightened about her, and the bantering note left his voice. “I’m crazy about you, Vilma.”
She tried to laugh, but it was an unconvincing sound. “It’s the moon, Cliff—I guess. I never saw it like that before. Something’s going to happen—something dreadful. I just know it!”
“Oh—be sensible, Vilma!” There was a hint of impatience in Cliff’s deep voice. A gorgeous girl in his arms—dark-haired, dark-eyed, made for love—and she talked of dreadful things which were going to happen because the moon looked screwy.
She released herself and glanced out over the sea. “I know I’m silly, but——” Her voice froze and her slender body stiffened. “Cliff—look!”
Darrell spun around, and as he stared, he felt a dryness seeping into his throat, choking him . . .
Out of the winding-sheet of fog into the moonlight crept a strange, strange craft, her crumbling timbers blackened and rotted with incredible age. The corpse of a ship, she seemed, resurrected from the grave of the sea. Her prow thrust upward like a scimitar bent backward, hovering over the gaunt ruin of a cabin whose seaward sides were formed by port and starboard bows. From a shallow pit amidships jutted the broken arm of a mast, its splintered tip pointing toward the blindly watching moon. The stern, thickly covered with the moldering encrustations of age, curved inward above the strange high poop, beneath which lay another cabin. And along either side of her worm-eaten freeboard ran a row of apertures like oblong portholes. Out of these projected great oars, long, unwieldy, as somberly black as the rest of the ancient hulk.
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