“Usual,” he said to a trusted lieutenant.
“Usual?” repeated the other. “Her again?”
“Right. See to it, will you?”
“Same as before?”
“Right.”
“Right.”
SO HEK barged off to see old man Usulor, and not any too pleased about it either. And he found Usulor full of excitement.
“She’s been traced to an airdrome,” he said. “She set off in a small spaceboat. Don and Holors were with her.”
“Oh!” said Hek. “Then all you got to do is to send a ship over to Deimos and Phobos, the two tiny moons of Mars, and pick them up.”
“Is that where they’ll be?”
“Where else in a tub that size?”
“You’re right! Hek, you’re a man of brains!”
“Quite a simple deduction,” said Hek, carelessly. Then, suddenly, “Say!”
“What’s biting you now?”
“What happened to that pirate ship? The one Prince Don called the Ace of Spades? That wouldn’t be still on Deimos?”
Usulor asked an official who asked another official. At last they made up their minds that since nobody, it seemed, had moved the ship from Deimos, it might quite possibly, be still there.
“Hell!” said Hek. “Then that’s where she’s going. And once she gets on that she might go anywhere in it.” Usulor whistled. At least, he tried to, but an owl, hooting loudly at the same moment, drowned the sound. Hek looked closely at him.
“Whistle again,” he said.
“No time for fooling,” barks Usulor, and grabs hold of Hek by his sleeve and sets off running.
“Why, where are we going?”
“To the airdrome. We got to get to Deimos before my daughter does.”
“Oh my socks!” groaned Hektorum, as he was whirled out of the palace, into a traffic sphere, into a space-boat and out into space without a chance to say “Good-bye” to anybody.
They passed Dattease on the way. “Come along General!” called Usulor.
SO THAT Dattease, his lip still sore, had to pant along behind them. “Say, where are we going?” the general asked, as they shot out into space and Usulor was out of the way in another cabin.
“On a wild-goose chase, I think,” said Hektorum. “Trying to catch up with the madcap of Mars.”
“Oh, why must she go to such awkward places?”
“There is some excuse for her,” said Hek. “But her father is old enough to know better.”
“Too true,” sighed the general. “Too true. But I say, I wanted to ask you something. Now I got a chance.”
“Go right ahead.”
The general looked round anxiously. “Hektorum, if you were me, would you shave off your mustache, I mean, my mustache?”
“But what for?”
“Then he couldn’t pull it.”
Hektorum set his great brain working on the problem.
“No, I wouldn’t,” he said at last. “But why not?”
“When I was a boy,” said Hektorum, “I had a schoolmaster who had lovely, long, sweeping golden mustaches just like yours. For many years the one desire of my life was to take hold of those mustaches and give a good hard pull and then tie them in a knot at the back of his neck. The Emperor does not know it, but when he pulls your mustache he is probably making a boyhood dream come true. If you had no mustaches he’d get another general.”
“Perhaps you are right,” sighed the general. “But oh, he does make my lip so sore!”
“Do that again,” said Hektorum, frowning.
“Do what again?”
“Whatever it was you did then.”
“I only sighed.”
“Well, sigh again.”
The general did.
“Ah, I thought so!”
“You thought what?”
“Did you hear then a curious sound, like a chicken crowing?”
“Why, yes I did.”
“Sigh again.”
The general did. This time it was quite clear.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
“Well!” said the general. “How did a chicken get on this ship, except in a can?”
“That sound, General,” said Hektorum firmly, “came out of you.”
CHAPTER III
Misunderstandings
“CATCHING,” either Deimos or Phobos, the two moons of Mars, is never an easy job. The two bodies are so small and they go so fast that I can never understand how Earth astronomers were ever able to see them at all. Even with charts worked out almost to the minute, it takes me all my time to find the one I want. And when I’ve found it I have to chase it like a long dog after a rabbit. And on a job like that these small space-boats bounce one about more than a bit. Catching Deimos usually gives one a few bruises.
Anyway, we made it.
The “Ace of Spades” lay black and clear among the shiny glass bubbles that the Martians had built on the faces of their two satellites so long ago. All ready to be trumped, I thought. There were some space-suited figures moving about nearby, but we didn’t take any notice of them. We just thought that maybe some of the Emp’s repair squad were still tinkering around. And we went on down.
And we came out of our boat, Vans in front, Wimp next and me behind. A man who was busy at some job dropped his tools and bounded away in great leaps. On Deimos, with almost no gravity at all, one can jump, believe me.
We took no notice of that either. Silly of us. Wherever Princess Wimpolo went on Mars there was always excitement. “Our beautiful Princess, darling of all Mars, today made a surprise visit to—”
Pretty soon we’ll see a reception committee, I thought. And there will be speeches and flag-waving. Wish I had stayed on Mars. Public fuss-making always made me tired. Especially when it got to the point where they said, “Perhaps now the Princess’s husband, that delightful little man, Prince Don Hargreaves, from our sister world, the Earth, will address us all with a few words. I will pick him up and hold him close to the microphone and viewing screen so that you can all see and hear him.” Then I had to smile and be nice though I felt mad enough to bite the announcer who was holding me like a baby in the back of the neck. I always had the idea, somehow, that they were laughing at me.
Well, pretty soon that reception committee came. And came fast. About six of them. With rayguns in their hands, aimed at us.
Such bad manners! I could see Wimp was not pleased.
THEY came on and made a ring round us. Then I saw why we had been received so badly. These men were not Martians but Venusians. Those queer, rubbery men from the planet Venus who can stretch their bodies out to something like ten times the proper length. Now I remembered seeing a curious bubble among the other bubbles that covered the surface of Deimos with pimples. Of course! It was a ship of the Venusian Space Patrol. Still hunting for the pirate Belangor and what was left of his cut-throat crew, most likely.
Of course, the Venusian patrolmen could not be expected to know who we were. I plugged the telephone of my space suit into Wimp’s and explained to her. Vans could see for himself.
Only, you see, none of us could talk Venusian. I tried to by signs, but didn’t have much luck. They didn’t seem to want to be friends. They made sure we had no rayguns, then pointed towards their ship and beckoned.
I would have gone, but not Vans. He stood with his hands on his hips and I could see he was saying, “But I don’t want to go that way.” The Venusians did not understand. But they understood when he first pointed at our boat and then began to leap towards it.
An elastic arm shot out and held him in mid-air, then pulled him back like a ball on a rubber string.
I saw Vans’ face go red. He was asking, “Was that an accident or did you mean to do it?” I could see by his lips.
Nobody answered. Nobody understood but me.
So Vans tries to hop away again, and gets hauled back again.
So Vans turns, slow and quiet. He tries to spit on his hands but can’t becaus
e of the space-helmet over his head. Then, without seeming at all in a hurry, he hits that Venusian a smacking uppercut.
Now, you can’t hurt a Venusian by hitting him. Vans knew that. Punching them is like punching something made of rubber. Your fist sinks in, then rubber straightens itself out again and no harm has been done. Even the gigantic strength of Vans Holors could not hurt them.
I wondered what Vans’ idea could be. Then I saw.
The mighty strength of Vans Holors, even on Mars, could throw a Martian hundreds of feet up in the air. Here on Deimos, with almost no gravity at all, he could throw any body to a simply terrific height.
And so I saw. That Venusian just went up and up and up, getting smaller and smaller, till he got so small I lost sight of him, and then there was nothing up there but black space and glittering stars.
Then the other Venusians started to get their rays ready. But they got in each other’s way. And Vans was too quick for them. His fists swung and swung. Five more meteorites rushed up from the surface of Deimos. And each one was a Venusian patrolman.
“Come along!” I yelled to Vans, plugging in. “More coming!” Vans stood like a statue, waiting. Then I saw what he was waiting for. One of the Venusians, not hit quite hard enough, was coming down again.
Vans caught him on his fist and mailed him away to some unknown address again . . .
Then we had to hop towards our space-boat mighty quick.
“Vans,” I asked, as we got the airlock shut and blasted off, “did you really have to quarrel with those Venusian patrolmen?”
“Oh, were they patrolmen?” asked the big boob, all surprised. “I thought they were Belangor’s stooges!”
“You did, did you?” I said. “You took them for pirates, eh? And now they have taken us for pirates too.” Below us the Venus patrol ship was getting ready to blast off in pursuit. Patrolmen were racing to get through the air-locks before the ship started.
“They can’t start till everybody is aboard,” I said. “Then they will have to check-up. Some men will be sure to be a long way away and late in seeing the recall signal.” (The signal was winking away redly on top of the Venusian ship.) “That means we have plenty of time. Once that ship starts, though, it will soon catch us. We must hide.”
“Hide?” snapped Wimp. “Are you gone daft? Where can we hide in space?”
“On the other side of Deimos we can,” I said.
* * *
EMPEROR USULOR pointed at the tiny image of Deimos on the telescopic screen and said, with an air of importance, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” They had been hunting for the tiny world for two days, and the animal sounds that so often and so rudely interrupted the Emp had got worse and worse. The general was suffering nearly as badly.
“Oh, exactly,” said Weil Hektorum. “In fact, bow-wow, hee-haw and meiaw.”
He was getting tired of listening to animal sounds. And now that he tried to imitate them he did it very much better then he expected to.
The Emperor went red. “Machalorum! CockalorumI Too-whit Too-who!”
“Well,” said Hek, “that last was an owl. The other two have me beat. Still, I can answer. Cuckle-cuckle! Twit-twit! Warble-warble. Cluck-cluck. Twitter-itter-itter-itter. The song of the nightingale,” he explained proudly. (He really named a Martian bird that sings very sweetly. I always think of it as the Martian nightingale.)
“Mackafoo! Mackafoo!” bellowed the Emp, furiously.
Then the general came in.
“To-whee! To-w’hee! To-whee!” he sang sweetly. “Barny, barny, barny, come, come, come!”
And added the cries of still more animals and birds.
“What is this?” asked Hek, impatiently. “Can’t either of you talk sensibly just for a little while?”
“Twiddle-iddle whampee whampee?” inquired the general patiently.
“Gruna-gruna! Bolab-bolab!” snapped Usulor, impatiently.
“This gets worse,” groaned Hek to himself. “Can’t get any sense out of these fellows at all. Won’t they talk like humans or can’t they?”
He wrote on paper, “What’s gone wrong? Neither of you two has spoken like a man for more than a day. All I can get out of either of you are bird and animal noises.”
Usulor and the general read and looked furious.
“Wangee wangee!” roared the Emp. “Groballa groballa!”
“Kalangee, kalangee!” whistled the general.
“Hopeless,” sighed Hek. Then, desperately wrote again on his paper. “If you are trying to talk, then for the love of Mike write it down.”
Usulor read, and wrote: “What the blazes is wrong with you? It’s you two who are filling the boat with silly imitations of animal noises. For the love of Pete drop this silly game and be sensible. I’ve had enough of it.”
And the general wrote: “What are you two trying to do? No matter what I ask you all I get back are queer noises. If it is a game it has gone on too long to be funny.”
HEK read them both. The great brain was working.
Then he wrote: “Does my voice, too, sound to you like animal noises?”
Both of the others nodded quickly. “Then, gentlemen, we are all suffering from a curious affliction. Our voices are gone! Our voices sound all right to ourselves, but really they are strange sounds such as we have all been listening to from the others. From now on whatever we want to tell one another we must write it down.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” wrote Usulor, “that I too have been behaving as daft as you two?”
“And me too?” wrote the general. “You have,” wrote Hektorum. “But from now on don’t talk too much or we shall run short of paper.”
“Barney, barney, tooral!” said the Emp. What he meant was, “And get writer’s cramp too.”
And then the radio joined in the argument.
“Ahoy there, Martian space-boat! Who are you? Answer or we fire!”
CHAPTER IV
A Surprising Visitor
IN THE other boat Vans and Wimp and I were in a hurry to get away from those Venusian patrolmen. Because when they caught up with us they would not be pleased with us for the way Vans had pushed six of them off Deimos into space. Most likely they’d shoot first and ask questions after.
“Hide on the other side of Deimos?” asked Vans.
“Yes, that’s my idea,” I said.
Vans gave a funny sort of snort. “Well, what would you do? Where would you go? Do you know a better ’ole?” I asked him.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “But that one ain’t much good.”
“Why not?”
“Because of those fellows.”
He pointed out of a window.
Out there we could see three of the men that Vans had sent on such unusual high jumps. They were circling round Deimos in various irregular orbits. One shook his fist at us as he floated helplessly by. Another aimed a raygun, but was too far away to hurt.
“I see what you mean,” I said. “Those guys will see where we go and tell their pals.”
“Got through that thick skull of yours, has it?” asked Vans.
“Well, what would you do?”
“Capture one of those fellows out there. Make him tell his pals on the radio who we are.”
Which was plain common-sense. Queer how the most sensible thing to do is usually the last you think of. None of us could speak Venusian. Therefore, we must capture a prisoner and make him an interpreter. Easy! We hoped!
So Vans, in his space-suit, stood in the airlock, a long rope with a noose at the end in his hands. The idea was to lasso a Venus patrolman as he drifted by. But lassoing an object in airless space is not easy. Your noose just goes right on past the object instead of falling on to it. Vans missed every time.
“That stunt’s no good.” I told Vans. “No use trying to loop them in. Have to fish for them.”
“Yeah? And what bait will you use?” he asked.
“I shan’t hook them, you dumb hippo,” I said. “Hooks would tear through th
e rubber of their suits, let the air out and kill them.”
“And what will you do?”
“If you would only help me with this big electro-magnet I wouldn’t be long,” I said.
He got the idea at once. Soon we had that electro-magnet on a rope and threw it carefully towards the first floating figure. We missed the first shot. There was not a lot of iron about those suits, and the magnet had to go close to them to take hold. We kept throwing.
“A bite!” said Vans at last. We hauled carefully on the rope.
It was a man in a stiff, all metal suit that we had caught. Smaller than the other Venusians. And the nearer we got him the more sure I was that he was not one of the patrolmen that Vans had knocked off Deimos.
I told Vans so.
“A sergeant or captain or something sent out to fetch them in,” he said, still hauling.
THE man, if man it was, turned and looked at us. Instead of a glass helmet he had a metal head with eyeholes. Something or other in his right hand he kept pointed at us while he hauled himself towards us along the rope.
We stopped hauling. There was no need. Our fish was landing himself. Trouble was, I was not quite sure whether we had caught the fish or whether the fish had caught us.
Then he reached us.
“Lumme! Stuff me for a pickled pole-cat!” I gasped. “If it ain’t Adam Link!”
“Jumping jam-jars!” said Vans. “A tin man!”
It was, in fact, a perfect robot. By robot I mean a machine that looks like a man. An imitation man made out of metal, wires, wheels and so on, with a brain of its own. I never saw much sense in robots myself. Why make imitation men when Nature has already made lots of men much better than your imitation men are ever likely to be?
Anyway, when you meet a robot in the flesh, I mean, in actual fact, the look of him don’t taste nice, in a manner of speaking. Sends nasty shivers up and down your spine. Because a robot don’t have no way of showing his feelings. He looks at you. He might be just going to ask you to have a drink, or he might be about to sing a song, or he might be just planning to murder you. You can’t tell. You can’t tell whether he’s mad or happy. He’s more pokerfaced than a poker, more inscrutable than a Chinese Mandarin is supposed to be, or was supposed to was before the Japs started to show how inscrutable they could be, all beaming smiles till they suddenly whip out a dagger and stab you in the back.
The Complete Saga of Don Hargreaves Page 35
