The problem of a name bothered Webb for a while. The Titan's native appellation was altogether unpronounceable to an Earth-bound tongue. Finally, he called him Stet—a word culled from a long-dead language—because of his quality of standability, so to speak. If Webb ordered him to hold a certain stasis, a certain given state of things until further orders, he had the comforting assurance that that situation, in Stet's hands, would partake of the timeless, would be abstracted from the general flux of normal events, until Webb gave countermanding orders.
WEBB let his eyes roam lovingly over the maze of apparatus—each machine stripped, lean, shining with hidden power; his nostrils twitched the pure artificial air like an ancient war horse snuffing battle. This was life; this was ecstasy. Already he was swinging down the slanting catwalk toward the central den, Stet lumbering behind. "Anything new?" he demanded over his shoulder.
The giant rolled his white-rimmed eyes. "Nothing, master." Then he screwed up his face. "That is— leastwise, Stet don't know. Been some funny flashes a-spurting from the Balto Dome, and they's been things fumbling round this old space lab."
Webb halted sharply. "What things?" he demanded.
The Titan scratched his shaggy pate. "Stet don't know," he confessed. "He saw jerky marks on the detector panel, heard signals in the amplificators—"
"Amplifiers, Stet!"
"Yes, master—amplificators. But Stet couldn't see nothing nowhere. Finally, the fumblings give up and go away."
Webb frowned, thought swiftly. Balto Dome was the chief mining area on the farther side of the Moon—that is, the side eternally turned from the Earth. The Moon had been colonized for five centuries. It was the treasure chest of an exhausted Earth, the rich storehouse of precious metals and chemicals which had long since vanished from the parent body. A fleet of cargo boats trafficked regularly between planet and satellite, laden one way with heavy ore and returning with food, clothing, machinery and the essentials of life.
The first colonists had built great domes on the Moon's surface, within which all operations took place, and ventured out on the airless surface only for exploration, clad in flexible space suits. In the beginning the Moon had housed scattered mining communities of men only—then women followed their men; families were born, and the amenities of life crept into the pioneering crudities of the domes. A century before, the Moon had taken on itself dominion status, with its own ruler and a compact of amicable association with Earth. The parent planet had consented.
Unexplained flashes from Balto Dome? Could there be trouble down there? Webb stared at the mosaic analyzer of the telescope. The Moon seemed normal, quiescent. But Balto Dome was invisible; it was already around the irregular terminator. Fumbling—unseen vibrations on the surface of his retreat? Impossible! His instruments were sufficiently sensitive to have picked up even the light emission of a single atom, once it penetrated his repulsor screens. Furthermore, not even a penetron shell could have forced its way through the field so as to impinge on the plani-glass, and upon the detectors.
"Stet!" he said suddenly. "You're sure you made no mistake?"
"Yes, master."
Webb shrugged his shoulders and forgot about it. Wherein he made a serious error. For Stet had been trained to accurate perception, even though the theory of the instruments was far beyond his savage mind. Furthermore, the Titans possessed several senses beyond those of the other denizens of the solar system—senses still not fully explained. They knew certain things intuitively which even the finest of instruments could not detect.
DAYS PASSED—that is, days ticked off by an Earth chronometer. The great space lab swung around the Earth like a stone in a gigantic sling.
The Moon bared its arid surface, passed slowly through its first phase, as larger and lesser satellite went into conjunction. Balto Dome heaved into view again. Its smooth bubble of ferro crystal was blankly dark. The Sun was an incandescent, burning glass, a molten fury of light; yet, close to its blinding rim, stars gleamed with serene, pure gestures. The planets moved in normal paths; the nebula made filmy veils against a jet-black profundity.
Yet Webb saw nothing of this. The plani-glass was polarized, so that only the filtered light of a shorn Sun entered. The repulsor screens were on full power. He was isolated from the universe. He was furiously at work, concentrated on a certain research, mathematical in its nature. He lived in a welter of integrals and vectors and tensors. He invented his own terminology. He was seeking the fundamental formula, the set of equations that would hold the universe within its symbols. He barely slept; he barely ate. Only Stet's hovering ministrations reminded him of these necessities.
The days wore on and on. And the giant Titan grew more and more uneasy. There seemed no end to this particular phase of his master's concentration. Stet swung with his queer gait to the outer detector screen, gaped at the tiny intermittent flash which showed that outer-space signals were vainly seeking entrance, returned to the central cell to peep in hopefully at Webb. But Webb never once raised his head. And again Stet retired, grumbling, rolling his eyes. His orders were strict.
On the third Earth day the signal grew more insistent. It was a continual flash. That, to Stet's mind, meant something most urgent, unprecedented. Some one was making desperate efforts to contact Webb Foster. With a scowl of determination, the Titan retreated to the inner cell. He tapped gently. No answer. He tapped again, harder. Webb raised his head angrily. A beautiful equation had been forming in his mind; this interruption had scattered the essential elements.
"Haven't I told you time and again not to interrupt me?" he exploded.
The giant ducked his head submissively. "Yes, master."
"Then what in Pluto do you mean by—"
"Some one making signal."
"Let them!"
"But they been making signal for three jumps," Stet insisted. A "jump" was his term for an Earth day. "They must want master very bad."
Webb grumbled, arose unwillingly. Why in Pluto had he built this space lab if not to get privacy? He looked regretfully at his calculations. But already the tag end of the equation had fled from his clutching brain. He might as well find out who wanted him with such vehemence.
HE WENT up the catwalk, stood frowning before the detector screen. The signal was a mute, persistent flash. Still grumbling, Webb thrust open the polarizing unit. At once the little flicker of light became an angry buzz. Webb looked startled, plugged in. That particular pitch described only one thing—the tight, restricted band of the Planetary Council—the rulers of the solar system. Only in cases of the utmost emergency was it ever used.
An angry, yet much harried face sprang into view on the visor screen. Hyatt Forbes, Earth representative! He was a bald old man with thin lips, a bold, decisive nose and eyes that were diamond drills. But just now there was mingled fear and relief in their depths.
"Thank Heaven you're still alive, Foster!" he gasped. "By this time I thought they had you, too." Then anger overwhelmed relief. "Why the devil didn't you answer our call before this?"
Webb looked slowly around the encircling screens. One by one, other faces swam into view—faces of diverse nativity, of different shapes and characters. The lords of the solar system—the all-powerfuls—the Planetary Council: Ansel Pardee, director of the Moon—browned to brick darkness by the unimpeded ultra-violet of the Sun, a rock-hewn, determined man, vigorous, abrupt, fit descendant of the early Moon pioneers from Earth; Zog, tribal head of Venus, a pale-green creature with slitted, lidless eyes, pouched cheeks in which a species of gills extracted oxygen from the water-drenched atmosphere of his planet; Ixar, scientist of Mars, ocher-red, impassive member of an ancient race, infinitely indifferent to life, habituated to a dying world of desert sand; Qys, lord of the Jupiter planets, who ruled the circling swarm from his capital, Callisto—bleached skin and saucer eyes, to catch tired light, betrayed the distance of the Sun from his domains. Interior volcanic fires warmed his four habitable worlds.
/> And on all the faces shone similar emotions: anger, fear, uneasy, wary suspicion!
Webb took his time in reply—deliberately. When he spoke, his words were cold. "You know, Forbes, that I resent intrusions on my privacy. It disturbs my work. As it is—"
"Hah!" grunted Qys of Callisto angrily. "Perhaps he had a reason for hiding from our sight. I told you—"
"Please say no more," Ixar of Mars interrupted with quiet gesture. "Webb Foster is right. He is a scientist. That is sufficient explanation."
"So were the others," Ansel Pardee, Moon director, interrupted brutally. "We're warning him for his own good."
"And for the good of the system," Zog of Venus squeaked softly.
Webb Foster waited for them to cease their rapid-fire ejaculations. He did not fear them, though they were all-powerful in the planets. He was Webb Foster, premier scientist of all the worlds, accustomed to going his solitary way. But his curiosity was aroused.
"What," he demanded, "is the meaning of all this?"
Hyatt Forbes' baldish brow was furrowed with trouble. "It started with the ending of the assemblage of the scientists," he explained.
"They all left with me," said Webb. "I saw them off in their space ships, heading for their respective planets."
"That is so." Forbes nodded. "But a half dozen never got there."
"Lost?"
"That might account for Koos of Venus, and Larsen of the Moon. They flew their own ships. But An-gok of Mars and Yb of Io went on the regular space liners. They vanished in midspace, without a trace."
"And that isn't all," declared Pardee abruptly. He seemed the angriest of the council. "Since then a hundred more—the best scientists of the system—have disappeared. Four days ago I lost Jim Blake, my No. 1 Engineer, right out of the Balto Dome! I haven't been able to get a lick of work out of the rest of them since. They're scared to death."
"THE BALTO DOME?" Webb exclaimed involuntarily. That was where Stet had claimed he had seen unauthorized flashes four days ago.
"So that surprises you, Webb Foster?" Qys of Callisto grunted softly, his white skin twitching, his eyes rounder than ever.
"You will please desist from such comments," Forbes declared sharply. "The council has already discussed that phase of the matter and come to a final decision."
"Ah!" Webb's eyes glittered; his lips tightened. "So I have been the subject of a council decision, have I?" he said slowly. "In other words, I am under suspicion."
"Not at all," Ixar of Mars murmured quietly. "It means only that our nerves are rasped; that, as scientist after scientist, the keenest minds of the system, vanished into nothingness, in spite of all protection, of all guards, suspicion was bound to flare up." He smiled the slow Martian smile. "We've even accused each other."
"Of what?"
"Of seeking to disrupt the council, of attempting to establish a personal dictatorship over all the planets. That is why the brains of the system are being removed—to make the path easier for the final attack."
"Do you believe that?"
The Martian's eyes slid around the circle of his co-rulers in the visor screen. "No, I do not. For none of the planets have been spared. It is my theory—and Zog of Venus and Forbes of Earth agree with me—that the danger lies from beyond the system. These men have vanished in spite of all safeguards. They have been plucked from the midst of the most sensitive warning instruments, without any vibration recording itself. This science is not of our planets. It must come from beyond. I fear" —and he paused to let his words sink in— "that this is but a preliminary invasion of beings from outer space—beings invisible to our senses and instruments, beings possessed of a science mightier than any of our contriving. We are in a serious danger."
Webb grinned wryly. He thought again of the disregarded warning the faithful Stet had given him—of strange fumblings along the pani-glass. Had the invaders thought that he, Webb Foster, was inside? Yet that did not sound right. For Stet had seen and heard the fumblings, the gropings, on the detector screens. Whereas Ixar had just said— A startling theory flashed across his mind. Perhaps the instruments had shown nothing; perhaps it was the mysterious extra-sensory equipment of the Titan which had apperceived the disturbance, and attributed it to the screens. Good Lord! In that case—
He swung around the circle of the visor screens. "Thank you for the warning," he told them grimly. "I shall take the necessary precautions."
"We wish you to do more, Webb Foster," retorted Forbes. "You are the only one left in the solar system that can help us. We want you to trace this terrible business to its source. If what Ixar says is correct—and I think it is—we stand on the brink of some dreadful doom."
"I am merely a scientist," Webb pointed out. "You have your space patrols, your interplanetary guard. That is their job."
Forbes made a gesture of helplessness. "They've tried their best. Even now they're covering all the planetary spaceways, conducting a systematic search. And while they are searching, more men are being plucked from ships, from special underground chambers. They are being made a mock of; their formidable weapons are useless. Only your brains stand between us and disaster. If you should fail—"
"Thank you for an unmerited compliment," Webb interposed coldly. He knew he was still an object of suspicion. He could read the truth in the eye of Pardee of the Moon and Qys of the Jovian satellites. "There are others that are competent, or better, than I. I am extremely busy just now. Why not ask Ku-mer of Mars to try his powers?"
He caught the swift, blinking glances that flashed among them and wondered. Ixar took it upon himself to answer.
"Ku-mer," he said with quiet weariness, "was the first of the scientists to disappear."
Webb digested that. If Ku-mer, with all his vast resources, had been taken, then— He looked longingly back to his inner cell. He had been on the verge of that ultimate, universe-shaking equation. Now it would be lost—perhaps forever.
"Very well," he said. "I shall do what I can. But," and he cut short their buzz of approval, "I must be permitted my own methods, without supervision and without hindrance. And the first of my requests is that no hint be permitted to leak out of this conference."
"Agreed," Forbes said hastily—too hastily, Webb thought. For he saw the scowl on Pardee's face, the fierce suspicion in the huge eyes of Qys.
"Do you wish," asked Ixar with delicate intonation, "a patrol of ships around your laboratory?"
"Not a one," he retorted firmly. "I want, above all, to be left alone."
Chapter 2
WEBB FOSTER completed his preparations. They were simple. Nothing untoward showed on the surface of his planisphere. It is true that he polarized the surface, so as only to permit light vibrations to come through, but that was always done when he was at work. In the depths of his cell, however, he did this and that. Then he went calmly to sleep, a tiny pressure button concealed in his right fist. But first he ordered Stet to watch before the detector panel.
The huge black Titan goggled at him foolishly. "Master not going to make search like big council say?" he asked in hurt tones.
Webb laughed at his injured countenance. "No, Stet, I am not. As a matter of fact, I am going to let the invisible kidnapers come for me. I would rather meet them on my own terms."
The giant grinned understandingly. "You make yourself bait, eh, master?"
"Exactly. Now get to your post and remember your instructions."
The next few hours were difficult to bear. Webb pretended to be asleep, his eyes closed, his breathing relaxed, his right hand sprawling in a natural fist. Unknowing who the enemy was, how he would strike, or what his powers, he was determined to avoid all suspicion of preparedness. But, most of all, he relied on the extra-sensory perceptions of Stet. He was certain that his instruments would not register the coming of the stealthy invaders, but he was just as certain that the Titan's strange intuitions would feel their presence and give him warning in time.
Webb had
never known space to be so quiet before. And airless space is at all times the very acme of silence. No air currents stirred or whispered with dry leaves; no distant water murmured plangent tales; no insects hummed their strident song; no plants swelled with sap and expanded with little crinkles of sound. He was alone in the universe. Stet, watchful before the panels, might have been on distant Betelgeuse.
Webb was a brave man, but this endless waiting for the unknown was an unbearable strain. He wanted to open his eyes, to move his cramped limbs, to scream out. He did not.
Then, suddenly, a cold wind seemed to stir over his heated forehead. It was Stet's voice, whispering along the thin wire next to his ear, its resonance damped so that it was inaudible a foot away. "Master! I hear fumblings! I see a light on the screen! Master!"
Webb set his teeth, counted ten slowly. It was the hardest work he had ever done in his life. Then he pressed his button. Bathed in a sweat, he opened his eyes.
The cell was diffused in a strange, un-Earthly luminance. It was color, and it was not color; it was light, and yet it was darkness also. Webb had, by contacting certain concealed transformers of his own invention, brought all space waves, from the infinitesimal cosmic rays up to the mile-long Hertzian pulses, within the range of visible light.
The familiar central cell seemed something strange, remote. He seemed in a different universe. He saw through the dural walls, pierced the mazy dance of molecular vibration. But there was nothing else. His aching fingers, ready to press the button a second time—to create an impenetrable space warp around whatever it was that had come for him—relaxed. He uttered an oath. Stet had been premature—or mistaken!
SWIFTLY, he launched himself out of the chamber, up the catwalk toward the detector panel. The ebon Titan stood before the darkened screen, his eyes rolling fiercely, his gleaming skin bunched with moving muscles, his great hands flexing and unflexing as though they were already winding joyfully around an enemy throat.
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