Synthetic Men

by Ed Earl Repp

  He got the second pirate in his sights and saw him crumple under a wave of atom-dissolving force. A mere fringe of the charge scored the helmet of the last man. Screaming shrilly, air rushed from his suit. His body blew up like a balloon in a decompression-bell, until he filled the bulging suit. Then there was a ghastly moment of seeing blood spurt through the hole in the helmet. And after that he was only a sickening smatter of glass and blood and powdered bone.

  The swiftness with which it was all over left the three salvage men weak. Larry forced himself down the hall. There might be more of them. But a glance outside showed only one Martian scout tied up. As a precaution, he turned his force weapon on the little ship until the hammering and searing energy shocks melted its magnet plates and hurled it away.

  Hastily, then, he turned to Jeff and Abe.

  "Pile aboard," he cracked out. "We're dropping this until we contact Carlyle. Haggard will be back looking for his scout. We want more than hand guns to use when he returns. This is war!"

  V

  They sighted the Friar Bacon well toward the front of the line of scouts. Only one ship lay in its carrier. The mother ship hove to while the tiny craft nuzzled into the waiting pocket.

  Carlyle was waiting at the air-lock when they sprang out. Larry's words crackled with tension.

  "We've raised the Astral, sir! Afraid Haggard's going to know about it in a few hours, too. One of his scouts jumped us and we killed the men. Better let us go back with Murphy's ship while you round up the rest of the fleet. This is going to mean trouble!"

  Carlyle's eyes glowed, and his features seemed to shine with inner energy.

  "Great work!" he breathed. "I'll drop off Murphy directly. Mark the way out there with flares. We'll get the rest of the boys and be there in three hours. If we're lucky we can unload the Astral and be out of the territory without crossing his path."

  Larry Wolfe saluted and turned back to the scout. He tried to summon the fierce dislike he had for the salvage boss when he was away from him, but it would not rise. Carlyle's personality was a strong one. Men instinctively took orders from him and liked it, and women—Well, Ann had certainly changed. Yet there was a shading of something sinister under the man's smooth, forceful exterior. Larry could not isolate the things about him he distrusted.

  Once more they dropped away from the Friar. Murphy, Stoller and Cass came booming along after them, jets belching and the whole, tiny craft leaping like a released whippet in the effort to pace Larry.

  It was an hour and a half before they saw the Astral in their glasses once more. In their path they had dropped red fluctuating flares to guide the mother ship to the derelict. The scout sidled in beside the space-barge. Magnets sent out invisible tentacles and hauled them against the vessel with a stiff shock. Murphy's red head bobbed into view as his own craft made landing.

  Larry Wolfe snapped orders. Stoller and Cass tackled the job of cutting away the ragged metal to provide more room for the loading of the salvage ship. Jeff, Abe, and Murphy joined Larry in the back-breaking toil of moving the gold.

  And all the time they were conscious of the precious weapon that was slipping from their fingers ... time! Minutes, seconds, fleeing from them, while they wondered which ship would be first to return, the Friar Bacon with its glittering silver hull, or the black tiger-shark of the void—the Martian.

  Without warning there was a terrific crash against the side of the derelict. The six sweating workmen were flung to their faces on the floor. One of the scout ships was torn lose and went rolling away.

  Larry ripped out his gun and crawled to the opening in the vessel's shell. What he saw caused him to sigh with new relief.

  "Meteor shower," he called to the others. "We took the biggest part of it right then. You can hear the dust pattering against us now. Nothing to worry about."

  Nothing to worry about—!

  But right then another impact came that up-tilted the barge and hurled them from their feet, stunned. A shadow fell over the sunlight splashed room and a long, black shape glided past, a mile or two away. The Martian was back and ready for war.

  There was a second shot that sprawled them around. In the bow of the attacking cruiser winked a malevolent green eye. At Larry's signal, every man jammed the range setting on his pistol up to full. Even with the guns taxed to their utmost, they would be pitiful answer to the cannon aboard the other craft.

  "Murphy!" Larry yelled. "Take your men up to the bridge where you can keep your eye on 'em. Keep firing. Don't let 'em rest."

  But there was no slowing down Brand Haggard. With the cunning of a tiger, he swooped and curvetted about the Astral, never stopping long enough to let one of those pistol shots burn deep. There was not an instant when the derelict was still; constantly it rolled in a sea of searing, churning ether, burned fiercely by force-charges. From time to time a great hole was gashed through the barge.

  Then there came a blasting concussion that piled Larry, Jeff, and Abe in a corner like three rats in a box. Blood filtered down Larry's neck where his space suit had gashed him. Light spilled into the ship through the fore parts. With his heart hammering, he ran forward to the bridge.

  He found the hole where the bridge had been, but Murphy, Stoller and Cass were gone. A hundred yards away the Martian was maneuvering for another shot.

  Larry ran back to the others.

  "They're gone," he bit out. "And we're slated for the same if we hold out any longer. Let's grab the scout and head for the Friar. Maybe we can get back here before Haggard guts this barge."

  All three men seemed to sense the cessation of the Astral's rolling at the same instant. They glanced dumbly at each other. What had caused the pirate to stop its barrage?

  All at once, Jeff was pointing, yelling like a madman. Cheers broke from the others' throats. With the swift grace of a bullet, the Friar Bacon was shooting across the sky in pursuit of Haggard's ship!

  For a few minutes it was like watching a pair of clever fencers feint and lunge. The speed of the ships went for little now. It was the daring and skill of the man at the controls that spelled victory or defeat.

  But in the end it was the Martian that drew off. A shot ripped away most of a scout carrier and showed Brand Haggard, temporarily, at least, that he was bucking a tougher, smarter man.

  Carlyle did not chase him. Such a pursuit, zig-zagging on full throttles through space, could easily last a week. He brought the big cruiser alongside the wrecked Astral and the survivors sprang aboard.

  VI

  Larry, Jeff, and Abe were pounded on the back by their companions, while eager hands dropped to the derelict to begin the transfer of cargo.

  "You three better hie yourselves down to the galley and get some grub," Carlyle grinned.

  Jeff and Abe took him at his word; but Larry, lingering, asked Carlyle pointedly:

  "How's Ann? She was pretty sick when I left her."

  He would have taken oath that the salvage boss' dark eyes flinched. Those piercing eyes searched his face for an instant before Carlyle replied. Finally:

  "Not so good, Captain," he said. "Why don't you look at her? Might do a lot for her, you know."

  "I'm afraid I don't know, sir," Larry Wolfe ground out. "I seemed to be so much excess cargo last time."

  He turned stiffly and passed him. But, drawn by something more powerful than his wounded pride, he went straight to Ann's room and knocked softly.

  A voice so weak he scarcely recognized it answered him.

  Larry went in. Ann was lying back against the pillows. The deathly pallor of her face caused him to start.

  "Ann!" he groaned. "What is it? What's happening to you?"

  The girl's bloodless features did not warm at sight of him. But a strain of fear coursed through her throaty tones.

  "I don't know," she whispered. Her fingers went to toying with the little heart lying against her throat.

  Suddenly Larry was striding forward, to stand looking down at the jewel with blazing eyes. "D
amn that thing!" he gritted. "You're going to turn it over to me right now. I don't know what it is, but I'll swear it's alive with some deadly force of its own. It's glowing like a piece of red radium!"

  Ann's waxen fingers closed over it. "You're talking like an insane man, Larry!" she panted. "You may as well understand right now that I'm not taking orders from you like a stevedore. If I want to wear a simple piece of jewelry, no amount of your ranting will prevent me!"

  Larry's cheeks grew scarlet, his fists knotting up hard. "Maybe it won't," he retorted, "but by Heaven, Carlyle knows the secret of that stone and I'm going to wring it out of him right now!"

  "Larry!" The girl's voice followed him, laden with sharp fear. Larry Wolfe ignored her cry and strode to the loading deck. What he contemplated was mutiny, perhaps, but it was Ann's life at stake.

  Carlyle was not on the loading deck, nor did Larry locate him on the bridge. As a final resort he strode to the ship owner's room. The door was unlocked, and he barged in without knocking.

  Staring angrily about him, he saw no sign of his quarry. Then a sort of madness laid hold of him. He began to ransack Carlyle's belongings, searching—what he sought, he couldn't have said. But he was seeking proof that Thaddeus Carlyle was something more than he represented himself to be.

  There was nothing he wouldn't have expected to find there. Nothing but one small article: an oval-shaped brooch of yellowed ivory, a tiny painting of a man's head on it. He had examined similar ones in museums. Carrying it over to the light, Larry was shocked to note the resemblance of the man's face to Carlyle.

  Then he found the minute, hair-line script below it: "Thaddeus Carlyle, Lord Mon—" The last word had been obliterated by time. Larry's breath rattled in his throat as a queer panic gripped him. Feverishly he shoved stiff fingers through his hair. Lord Monfort—! They hadn't made miniatures like this one for hundreds of years.

  Larry turned the brooch over and discovered on the back the words: "From Helene. Nov. 1346."

  The brooch struck the floor with a clink. The sound seemed to pour new life into Larry. He shouted, "Ann!" and sprang into the hall and swiftly toward the girl's room.

  Voices stopped him just before he touched the knob. Carlyle's voice, softer than he had dreamed it could be, murmuring:

  "If only there weren't Larry—if I weren't afraid he might steal your love back. You say he means nothing to you, and yet—"

  "You know he means nothing to me!" For all its animation, Ann's voice held the monotonous cadence of one who is half-asleep.

  "You do love me, Ann—more than life itself?"

  "More—than life—Thad!"

  "Ann, I'm going to ask you something—wait, dear! I know you're tired; but you must keep your eyes open a moment longer...."

  The door crashed inward. Larry Wolfe was through it and upon Carlyle before the latter could get to his feet. He had been sitting on the edge of Ann's bunk. With steel fingers Larry hauled him to his feet.

  "You damned parasite!" he shouted. "You thought you'd prey upon Ann the same way you did the others, did you?" His fist struck out, but the salvage boss caught his wrist and held it.

  "Are you insane?" he roared.

  Larry's mood was not one of arguing. Again he struck, and this time the blow chopped into Carlyle's mouth and brought blood.

  Ordinarily the bigger man could have cut Larry down with a few man-killing punches, but the madness in Larry Wolfe knew neither pain nor weakness. He took savage blows to the face and ribs, but stayed on his feet. A lucky uppercut jarred Carlyle's teeth in his head, and for an instant he was sagging against the wall.

  Larry seized that split-second to spring to the bedside of the terrified girl and tear the necklace from her throat. He threw it at Carlyle with all his force. The gem missed, shivered into tiny, glittering crystals on the floor, like shining drops of blood.

  Thaddeus Carlyle's face paled under its deep tan. He glanced down at the wreck of the crystal heart. He was on the point of drawing his pistol when the alarm began to ring.

  "Mr. Carlyle! Captain Wolfe!" the voice boomed through the ship. "Martian returning. All hands at their posts!"

  On the tail of the warning came a shock that tore the Friar Bacon from the side of the derelict. Larry had a glimpse through the port, of men in space suits left hanging in the void between the two ships, of gold ingots floating grotesquely around them.

  The battle was forgotten, as fighters toppling over a cliff forget their differences and scramble for safety. Larry followed the ship owner up the corridor, climbed the ladder to the top deck, sprang to the firing lever of the big energy gun stationed in the nose.

  The other men darted from the control room to their posts. The Friar was stationary for a second, while Carlyle located the other ship. With a surge of swift power that took the passengers' breath, the craft shot after it.

  Haggard's strategy had been to get in line with the sun and keep in line with it while he rushed down on the unsuspecting salvage ship. Reports were crackling in from all parts of the ship regarding the damage done. Nothing had been touched, it seemed, except one of the forward scout carriers, which was blasted loose.

  Larry was tensely vigilant as he crouched over the firing lever. He did not glance at Carlyle. The salvage boss' face seemed to have set into grimmer lines than ever. Up ahead the Martian was fighting to keep out of line. Haggard's poor shot had put them in the disadvantage.

  Carlyle piloted like a demon, straining the ship until the bulkheads chattered in their steps. Haggard's slightest error meant the gap between them closed that much more. Suddenly something seemed to go wrong. The Martian faltered for a tenth of a second. In the next moment Thaddeus Carlyle swerved until the pirate's rocket tubes were straight before them.

  "Fire!" he clipped.

  Larry pulled swiftly at the lever. There was no response. Harder, he tugged.

  "I said fire!" Carlyle shouted at him. "I can't hold this point any longer. They're under way again."

  Sweat started from Larry's pores. "The thing's jammed, Chief!" he groaned. "They got our gun with that first shot."

  Carlyle seemed to wilt a little. What it meant was that they were up against a fast, armed vessel with no means of defending themselves. As if Brand Haggard sensed the trouble, too, he put the Martian about and came booming down the line at them, head-on.

  Carlyle's response was slow. The ship heaved violently as a rear stabilizer melted under Haggard's shot. Only the fact that the shock threw them away from the pirate's line of fire saved them.

  Now it was the Friar Bacon that dodged and ran. The air boiled all about them. Larry could envision Haggard's grinning, savage countenance hovering over the firing lever, ceaselessly yanking at it.

  And there was something wrong with the staggering Friar. Larry thought for a while that their stabilizers were not functioning. Always they were a fraction of a second late in diving out of range. It was when Haggard was not over a few hundred yards in the rear that Larry glanced over at Carlyle. In a flash he was on his feet....

  He saw sunken, shrivelled cheeks and glazing eyes. Gray hair straggling from under the jaunty officer's cap. A scrawny neck going down into a collar many sizes too large.

  Larry was cold all over. He took Carlyle by the shoulders and hauled him out of the chair, surprised at the lightness of his body. The bony fingers clawed at the controls and then gave them up. Larry let him sag to the floor and grabbed the controls.

  Haggard was diving again, with throttles wide open. A few miles ahead lay the wreckage of the Astral. Larry suddenly saw his chance. He had no gun, nothing to fight back with; but here was where courage and skill might count heavily.

  With the Martian a hundred yards in the rear, dead on the stern, Larry fired both bow rockets and the port stern rocket. Braces screamed and loose objects toppled, as the Friar Bacon slowed and went into a tight pin-wheel. The Martian roared up alongside. Larry blasted out with the other stern rocket and the two craft jarred together. At the
same instant he turned on the boarding magnets, so that the ships were held together as though welded.

  Brand Haggard's blond head bobbed into view only fifteen feet away. He stood up from the firing lever and stared through the bridge port at Larry. This was the first time Larry had ever seen him when he was not grinning that arrogant wicked grin of his.

  Haggard was shaking his fist and yelling. His gun was useless now. And he knew only too well what lay in Larry's mind: To carry him dead into the Astral and pile the Martian up like a racing car striking a brick wall!

  The captain of the black vessel tried every strategy he knew. But Larry held it down to the course he had set. The two ships flashed on toward destruction.

  Haggard's face showed in the glass, threatening, cajoling, pleading. At the last moment he held up two fist-fulls of paper money, trying to buy another chance. Larry laughed and dropped his hand on the magnet lever.

  Screams of terror built up within the Friar Bacon as the crew discovered the derelict dead ahead. They were drowned under the roar of rockets as Larry cut the pirate loose and moved to avoid the Astral.

  He had a horrible moment of watching a fin on the wrecked vessel reach out to rake the belly of the slewing salvage ship. Then all dissolved in a shower of wreckage, the fin crumpling away and flames shooting up where it had been. The Martian had crumpled up like an accordion.

  Bodies flew past the windows, to explode as the pressureless atmosphere inflated them. Gold ingots mingled with them. Everywhere there was death, and the horror that can come only from a wreck of two such space-giants as the Martian and the long-dead Astral.

  The Friar toppled end over end, a chip caught in a maelstrom. Miles away from the carnage, Larry Wolfe managed to right it. He stood up from the controls to find Ann Holland standing white and silent above Carlyle's body.

  Larry shuddered. Carlyle's face was that of a mummy. His hands were crooked brown hooks like the dried talons of a buzzard. His uniform draped his shrivelled body like a gunny sack over a skeleton.