For thirty hours he had been struggling across the surface of the Moon. Hours of toil in a world of utter silence, of pitchy black shadows and harshly glaring light, of treacherous pitfalls and mountainous barriers. His heart thudded audibly; sweat streaked his face and body; his muscles groaned against the torture of prolonged, superhuman effort.
Yet behind the spherical glassite helmet of his space suit, the boyish face of Jerry Blaine bore an expression of triumph that no weariness could mar. His blue eyes twinkled joyously, and his wide mouth grew even wider with frequent grins of a somehow incredulous satisfaction. For he had succeeded where success had seemed impossible! He had made a discovery that had replaced the certainty of death with a promise of life.
Wait till Morkill heard the news! He’d throw off the cloak of gloom he’d been wearing since they had landed on the Moon. He was a skillful chemist—else he couldn’t have formulated the radio-active compound that had made their Lunar flight possible—but he certainly couldn’t be called a little ray of sunshine!
Thirty hours behind him lay the crater Tycho with its vast radiating streaks of light which had baffled astronomers of Earth for centuries. They need be baffled no longer! For he had seen what at one time must have been tremendous chasms in the Moon’s surface, like—like cracks in a dried mudball—but now the cracks were filled. From the heart of Earth’s satellite milleniums ago had spouted a crystalline lava to fill every crack and crevice with an indestructible mass of radiant matter. Lava that was pure quartz, somehow impregnated with an amazing store of—radium!
He might be mistaken, of course, but it must be some radio-active substance, or how could it continue glowing as it had for ages? At any rate, he’d know when he reached The Apollo, for he had a fragment of the lava in the pack on his back for Morkill to test. And if it were radium, or any other radio-active material, they could return to Earth!
They had headed for the Moon with what they thought was sufficient fuel for a two-way trip—but they had miscalculated the quantity needed. His discovery might mean release from their exile.
Jerry stumbled and fell headlong into a bed of finest dust. Awkwardly he crawled erect, his muscles rebelling against the added effort. Damn such a place! If only he could jump safely—but though the weaker Lunar gravity permitted his leaping through the emptiness like some amazing jumping jack, the procedure was anything but safe. He had tried it, and had taken some falls far worse than those that came with slower progress.
If it hadn’t been so important that they conserve their little remaining fuel, both he and Morkill could have made the trip in The Apollo in a few minutes—or he could have made the trip alone in the little emergency sphere they kept in the vacuum chamber of the space ship—but . . . The thought ended abruptly as he saw the huge sphere before him. His heart leaped, and a shout burst from him to crash thunderously against his own ears.
He balanced himself for an instant on the tip of a ridge—and sprang mightily toward the gleaming, rivet-studded globe. Up—up he soared in a great arc that carried him across the broken ground to the level spot on which The Apollo rested. He landed awkwardly in a bank of cosmic dust, sinking deep into the downy mass; then he crawled out and made his way to the airlock.
It opened before him and closed behind him as he passed through the air lock into the main room of the sphere. He flung back his head-piece to greet Morkill coming from the control room.
“Well, Dave,” he grinned at the other’s dark, gloomy face. “I’ve brought home the bacon!”
“What?” David Mokrill’s black eyes burned intently into Jerry’s. “You mean you’ve found—fuel?”
Jerry nodded. “Just that. Enough fuel to drive a thousand space ships from here to Antares and back again—and some to spare. Combined with the neo-hydrogen we have stored in the tanks, we have sufficient power to go home any time we want to. Help me out of this suit and I’ll show you a sample.” Eagerly the big man peeled the space suit from his smaller companion, talking incessantly in a flood of relief. “You know, Jerry—this is a load off my mind. You probably didn’t realize it, but I was worried. After all, there’s still a lot for me to do in the world, and—and it’s tough to pass out without any one knowing anything about it.” Sudden anxiety shook his voice. “You’re sure it’s a radio-active mineral you’ve found?”
STEPPING clear of his space suit, Jerry fumbled in the pack and drew out a lump of quartz. “Here it is. Suppose you decide what it will do—you’re the chemist of the party.”
Morkill grasped the glowing lava-fragment eagerly, examining it with experienced eyes. Nodding abruptly, he turned toward the little cubby hole beside the control room where he had outfitted a small chemical laboratory.
“While you’re analyzing that,” Jerry called after him, “I’m going to drink a gallon of water and eat two square meals. Then if that stuff pans out, we can hop over to Tycho.”
In the control room of The Apollo, Jerry Blaine watched the pitted surface of the Moon drop away from the space ship, its bold highlights and night-black shadows standing out in sharp relief. Tycho, with its tremendous crystal-filled fissures, wide as rivers and straight as ruled lines, filled half the landscape. It was a sight of such splendor that it filled Jerry with awe. Seen from this vantage point, it looked like a queerly framed, uncut jewel of gigantic size, dropped on its somber setting by a careless denizen of space.
Abruptly Jerry turned from the controls to face David Morkill. There was a scowl on his face.
“Dave,” he said earnestly, “this doesn’t seem right to me. We had a chance to explore the Moon at our leisure—to see the dark side which no astronomer has ever seen—and as soon as you found we had sufficient fuel, you insisted on returning to Earth. A few days spent exploring wouldn’t have made any difference to you and your plans, and it would have meant a lot to science.”
Shrugging his broad shoulders, Morkill said curtly, “I think science can struggle along without knowing what’s on the dark side of the Moon. And with something as big as this in my reach, I’m not taking chances of muffing it.”
He waved a hand toward the central room of the space ship. Along one wall were roughly built bins filled with fragments of glowing quartz—quartz impregnated with radium. Morkill puffed out his big chest.
“There’s enough radium there to make the stuff cheap—if I’d be foolish enough to let the price go down. There’s also enough there to make me the richest man in the world—enough to permit me to drive the biggest space ship money can build to any part of the Solar System. That radium means power—power to run space ships—and power to do anything I care to do. You don’t think I’d let half of a dead satellite stop me, do you?”
Jerry Blaine ran one hand through his bristling brown hair, and surveyed Morkill in silent wonder for several moments.
“Tell me if I’m wrong,” he began slowly, “but am I to get the idea that you’re planning to use this stuff for the sole benefit of David Morkill? That cheap radium with its power to cure cancer—that cheap radium for the experimentation of scientists doesn’t mean anything to you?”
Morkill smiled blandly. “I always had a lot of respect for your brilliance, Jerry,” he said. “You’ve grasped the situation fully. And just in case you get any queer ideas,” he added brusquely, “remember that this is my expedition—that my money financed it—and that you’re only hired help, necessary because of your knowledge of astronomy—but not indispensable.”
Jerry held his eyes fixed on those of the tall man for another moment, his face expressionless; then he turned to the vision screen with its image of the retreating world.
The Moon gleamed brilliantly against the black sky with its mosaic of stars. Lights and shadows were merging into one expanse of silvery radiance, out of which the mighty crater Tycho seemed to be glaring balefully.
Jerry heard Morkill’s footsteps moving about the space ship, but he did not turn. His thoughts were busy with a heavy problem, weighing all the factors in a s
ituation loaded with dynamite. If Morkill landed on Earth with this cargo of radium ore vastly richer than pitchblende, there was no telling what might happen. He’d have at his disposal wealth and power to do just about as he pleased. His could be a power for good—but since Morkill was Morkill, there’d be little good coming out of it. Jerry’s jaw thrust out pugnaciously. One thing was certain. He’d find some way to wreck the other’s plans.
He bent over the controls, carefully adjusting the course toward Earth. There’d be two full days in which to decide what had to be done . . .
“Jerry!” he heard an anxious voice from the other room. “Quick—what’s this?”
He joined Morkill in an instant; saw him bending over something on the floor.
“I started eating a sandwich,” the biff man said jerkily. “Got it out of the food chest—and after the first bite, that—thing popped up before my eyes!”
FURIOUSLY, but with a feeling of repugnance, Jerry studied the queer growth at Morkill’s feet. It was a plant, but it was unlike anything he had ever seen, a pallid, unhealthy, waxlike thing, growing out of the sandwich with visible speed. A long, slender stem terminated in a crest of colorless plumes folded together like a grotesque head of lettuce. As they watched, three branches shot out of its base to sink into the sandwich like a tripod, supporting the trunk and head. Slender rootlets spread through the food, absorbing it—and its speed of growth accelerated.
Morkill thrust a curious finger at the repulsive plant—and like a striking snake it lashed at him, the lettuce plumes flung back. Struck and clung, closing on his finger tip! Howling, Morkill sprang erect, dragging the growth with him—and threads of crimson spread through the plant, moving from its head, down through the stem, into the three limbs.
Cursing, Jerry seized the alien thing and wrenched, snapping it off below its head. The foot-long remnant, tough and leathery, whipped and coiled around Jerry’s arms like a captured eel. With a shudder he tore it loose—hurled it to the floor—ground it underfoot to a pale pink pulp.
He faced Morkill in time to see him finish crushing the now crimson head of the thing against the smooth metal floor. The big man looked at Jerry, nursing a swollen, reddened forefinger. His face had become a sickly yellow, and beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.
“I—maybe it’s poisonous!” he exclaimed suddenly, his eyes bulging. In a panic he rushed into his laboratory. “Quick, Jerry—do something!”
“I don’t think it’s harmful,” Jerry said with confidence he didn’t feel. “A thing like that doesn’t need poison to defend itself.” Nevertheless, he applied a tourniquet while Morkill sucked blood from the gash; and after treating it with drugs, he bandaged it. While he worked, they tried to decide whence the growth had come, but every suggestion ended in blank uncertainty. They simply didn’t know. Jerry thought that in some way a seed, long dormant on the Moon’s surface, had found its way into The Apollo, and under the action of heat and light, had sprung to life. But how had it lodged upon that sandwich?
As they emerged from the laboratory, Jerry glanced sharply around, half expecting to see others of the repulsive plants; but none were visible.
“I haven’t much appetite after that sandwich,” Morkill remarked ruefully, “but I think we’d both better grab a bite, since we haven’t eaten for eight or ten hours. Then I’ll turn in, while you take the first watch at the controls.”
Jerry Blaine nodded. “Good idea; but I’ll take food with me and eat it at the panel. I don’t like the way we’re letting the course take care of itself, even if it’s supposed to be automatic.”
Seated in the control room, Jerry Blaine gulped down a hasty lunch, suspiciously inspecting each morsel before biting into it. He didn’t think he’d find any man-eating plants sprouting before his eyes—but you never could tell.
With his lunch completed, he gave full attention to the controls, carefully adjusting their direction, and setting the atomic-drive at maximum speed, with a controlled neo-hydrogen flow and release of radium emanations.
He could hear Morkill moving around in the main room; then the lights clicked into darkness; and in a short while he could hear the big man’s heavy breathing.
Time dragged for Jerry Blaine. There was nothing to disturb the monotony of his vigilance. The Apollo seemed to hang motionless in space; nothing marred the placid depths of star-studded velvet blackness through which he sped . . . He dozed.
A scream jarred him to his senses—a hideous scream of fear and pain! For a split second he stared into vacancy—then he sprang into the darkness of the other room. He heard heavy, panting breaths, heard the sound of scuffling feet—then a choking gasp and another terrified scream burst from Morkill.
Jerry’s fingers found a light switch; and as white radiance flooded the chamber, his muscles froze in consternation. The spectacle before him burned its every detail into his brain—a vision only seconds in duration, yet which seepied to be a frozen eternity.
David Morkill struggled on the floor beside his bed in the grip of a monstrosity which looked like a gigantic, pale green leech. It had wrapped its noisome folds around his head and shoulders; and from it came a horrible, gurgling sound. Morkill’s powerful fingers were buried deep in the flesh of the thing; and as the lights went on, he struggled erect, tore it free, and hurled it against the wall. A shower of blood spattered the floor; and blood oozed from gashes in Morkill’s face and body . . . But that was not all . . .
From the food cabinet beyond the tall man gushed a squirming, nightmare mass of hideousness. Wriggling, crawling vegetable things; rending, ravenous animal things; things that were both animal and vegetable; things that were—neither! An incredible mound of teeming life, growing with insane speed as had that first plant thing! Growing and spreading like a liquid tide across the floor.
All this he saw in a breath—and now he heard a sound—a clash of metal against metal—and the door of the closet where their space suits were stored burst from its hinges! Out spewed a second nauseous mass of living things!
PARALYZED, Morkill mumbled through twisting lips, his arms and legs held rigid. Gripping his shoulder, Jerry dragged him back, his mind working swiftly. They couldn’t fight this without weapons. They needed time. In the lab and control room they might find temporary safety; could decide what must be done. He thrust Morkill into his cubby hole.
“Inside!” he rasped. “Fix up your wounds—and keep your door closed!” Slamming it shut, he leaped into the control room. With a barrier between him and the madness outside, reaction set in and he dropped trembling into an air-cushioned chair. Cold perspiration oozed from every pore, and a fit of trembling seized him. He pressed his hands over his eyes to shut out the vision of living horrors spawned out of some impossible hell.
After a time he tried to give sane consideration to what he had seen. It wasn’t a nightmare, that was certain—nor was he losing his mind. It had actually happened, hence it must have a natural explanation. The food—the growths couldn’t have come from the food originally, for they had been drawing upon the same supply since they had left the Earth . . . The space suits! There must lie the answer! Something from the Moon had dung to their space suits, and in the warmth of the sphere had come to life.
The dust, of course! Dust—why the Moon was covered with dust. There were places where chasms had accumulated dust several yards in thickness through the uncounted ages since the Moon had lost its atmosphere.
Jerry remembered something he had read—an idea of Svend Arrhenius, the scientist who had proposed the ionic theory. Life, so Arrhenius had reasoned, could exist under almost any condition—in absolute cold, in utter dryness, in a perfect vacuum. Bacteria, the minute spores of mosses and ferns, the almost microscopic seeds of fungi—all retained their fertility under amazing adversity. Breezes on living worlds blew them everywhere—always higher and higher—until at last they rose free of the atmosphere to drift through the vacuum of space. Light struck them and drove them farther and fart
her from their parent world—as light drove the tails of comets—until they found the warmth and air and moisture of another world, and again sprang to life.
So it must have been with the monstrosities beyond the door. For untold ages their seeds and spores had drifted through space. Incalculable distances, some must have traversed, rising from life-supporting planets many light years away—planets utterly alien to Earth, where life obeyed other laws. And finally, as cosmic dust, life spores from worlds and ages separated by vast gulfs of time and space had come within the gravitational field of the Moon, and had settled there. And he and Morkill had carried them into The Apollo . . . Their rapid growth? Perhaps it was their nature to develop as they had—or perhaps the presence of all that radium had excited them to abnormally swift development.
Abruptly Jerry Blaine shrugged. The way things looked, all this conjecture probably wouldn’t mean a thing. He and Morkill would be more than lucky if they got out of this alive. Anyway, thinking about the problem had brought back his self control.
“Dave,” he called through the metal partition between the two small rooms, “are you all right?”
“All right?” Morkill quavered. “Hell, man, I’m practically cut to shreds! And—and what can we do? What—are these things?”
“I don’t know what we can do—but I have a good idea of what they are, and what we’re up against.” Quickly Jerry sketched his theory of the origin of the monstrosities.
Morkill uttered a whining curse. “Then we’re sunk! They’ll keep on multiplying and growing and feeding on each other and everything else organic till they break in on us by sheer weight—just like they broke out of that closet! Do something—can’t you? We—we can’t pass out like this!”
Jerry could hear him panting through the wall; then he heard him gasp eagerly: “Quick, Jerry—drive for Earth with everything we’ve got! Maybe we can make it before they break in! “
Forgotten Fiction Page 51