Dimensiion X

by Jerry eBooks

  It had been built for warfare in an age when the sea and air were ruled by insensate rocket projectiles which flashed through the skies to spend their atomic wrath upon objectives which had long since ceased to exist; where infantry no longer was Queen of Battles, since the ravages of combat had wiped out the armies which began the war. And floods of hard radiation, sterilizing whole populations and making hideous mutational horrors of many of those who were born alive, had prevented the conscription of fresh armies which might have won the war.

  The conflict had been going on for more than a generation. The causes had long been forgotten; the embattled nations, burrowing into the earth, knew only a fiery longing for revenge. The chaos produced by the first aerial attacks had enabled the survivors to hide themselves beyond the reach even of atomic bombs to carry on the struggle. Navies and armored divisions exchanged knowledge; strategy and tactics underwent drastic revamping. Psychology, once the major hope of mankind for a solution to the war problem, now had become perverted to the ends of the militarists, as a substitute for patriotism to motivate the men at war. In new ways but with the old philosophies, the war went on; and therefore this armored monster clawed its way through the earth’s crust toward its objective.

  On the “bridge” of the underground warship, a small turret in the center of its roof, Commander Sanderson clung to a stanchion as he barked orders to his staff through the intercom. The ship proper was swung on special mountings, and gyro-stabilized to divorce it from the violent jolting of the lower unit, consisting of the drill, the treads, and the mighty, earth-moving atomic engines. But still some of the lurching and jouncing of the treads was transmitted up through the store rooms through the crew’s quarters to the bridge, and the steel deck underfoot swayed and shook drunkenly. However, men had once learned to accustom themselves to the fitful motions of the sea; and the hardened skipper paid no attention to the way his command pounded forward.

  Commander Sanderson was a thickset man, whose hunched shoulders and bull neck suggested the prize ring. But he moved like a cat, even here inside this vibrating juggernaut, as he slipped from one command post to another, reading over the shoulders of unheeding operators the findings of their instruments. The Seismo Log was an open book to his practiced eye; his black brows met in a deep frown as he noticed a severe shock registered only two minutes previously, only a few hundred yards to starboard. He passed by the radio locator and the radioman; their jobs would come later, meantime radio silence was enforced on both sides. The thin little soundman adjusted his earphones as the “Old Man” came by: “No other diggers contacted, sir,” he muttered automatically and continued listening. The optical technician leaped to his feet and saluted smartly as the commander passed; he would have nothing to do unless they broke into a cavern, and so he rendered the military courtesy his fellow’s could not.

  Sanderson halted beside the post of the environmental technician. This man’s loosely described rating covered many fields; he was at once geologist, radarman, vibration expert, and navigator. It was his duty to deduce the nature of their surroundings and suggest a course to follow.

  “Your report,” demanded Sanderson.

  “Igneous rock across our course at fifteen thousand feet, I believe, sir,” he replied promptly. “It’s not on the chart, sir—probably a new formation.”

  Sanderson swore. This meant volcanic activity—and whether man-made or accidental, that spelled trouble. “Course?” he asked.

  “Change course to one hundred seventy-five degrees—and half speed, sir, if you please, until I can chart this formation more accurately.”

  Sanderson returned his salute, turned on his heel. “Mr. Culver!”

  The young lieutenant commander saluted casually. “Sir?”

  Sanderson repressed another oath. He did not like the young executive officer with his lordly manners, his natty uniform and the coat of tan he had acquired from frequent ultraviolet exposure—a luxury beyond the means of most of the pasty-faced undermen. But, duty is duty—“Change course to one seven five. Half speed,” he ordered.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Culver picked up a microphone, jabbed a phone jack into the proper plug, and pressed the buzzer.

  Far below, near the clanking treads, Lieutenant Watson wiped the sweat from his brow—most of the ship was not as well insulated as the bridge, whose personnel must be at their physical peak at all times. He jumped as the intercom buzzed, then spoke into his chest microphone. “Navigation,” he called.

  “Bridge,” came Culver’s voice. “Change course to one seven five. Over.”

  “Navigation to bridge. Course, one seven five, aye, aye.” said Watson mechanically. Then: “What is it, Culver?”

  “Environmental thinks it’s lava.”

  “Damnation.” The old lieutenant—one of the few able-bodied survivors of the surface stages of the war—turned to his aides.

  “Change course to one seven five.”

  Peterson, brawny Navigator Third Class, stepped up to a chrome handle projecting from a circular slot and shoved it to “175,” then turned a small crank for finer adjustment. Slowly the pitch of the great blades shifted—the sound of their turning, muffled by layers of armor, abruptly changed in tone.

  Chief Navigator Schmidt looked up from a pile of strata charts. “Ask the exec to have a copy of the new formation sent down here,” he said, speaking as calmly as if he were a laboratory technician requesting a routine report. Schmidt was the psycho officer’s pride and joy; he was the only person aboard the underground cruiser who had never been subjected to a mental manhandling as a result of that worthy’s suspicions. He was slightly plump, pink-cheeked, with a straggling yellow mustache—just a little childish; perhaps that was why he had never cracked.

  His request was transmitted; up on the bridge, the environmental technician threw a switch, cutting a remote repeater into the series of scanners which brought him his information. Chief Navigator Schmidt heard the bell clang, fed a sheet of paper into the transcriber, and sat back happily to watch the results.

  The great drillhead completed its grinding turn; the blades tore into the rock ahead of it again.

  “Navigation to bridge: bearing one seven five,” reported Watson.

  “Carry on,” returned young Culver. He pulled out the phone jack, plugged it in elsewhere.

  Ensign Clark stroked the slight, fuzzy black beard which was one of many ego-boosters for his crushing introversion, along with the tattoos on his arms and the book of physical exercises which he practiced whenever he thought he was alone. At Culver’s buzz, he cursed the exec vigorously, then opened the circuit. “Power,” he replied diffidently.

  “Bridge to power: reduce speed by one half. Over.”

  “Power to bridge: speed, one half—aye, aye.” Clark put his hand over the mike, shouted at the nonrated man stationed at the speed lever. “You! Half speed, and shake the lead out of your pants!”

  The clanking of the treads slowed; simultaneously the whine of the blades rose, cutting more rapidly to compensate for the decreased pressure from behind the drill.

  In the hot, steam-filled galley, fat Chief Cook Kelly lifted the lid from a kettle to sniff the synthetic stew. “What stinkin’ slum—an’ to think they kicked about the chow back in the Surface Wars.”

  “Chief, they say there was real meat in the chow then,” rejoined Marconi, Food Chemist First Class.

  “Why, Marc, even I can remember—” he was interrupted by the intercom’s buzz.

  “Attention all hands!” came Culver’s voice. “Igneous rock detected, probably a fresh lava flow. We have changed our course. Action is expected within a few hours—stand by to go to quarters. Repeating—”

  Kelly spat expertly. His face was impassive, but his hand trembled as he replaced the lid on the kettle. “We better hurry this chow up, Marc. Heaven only knows when we’ll eat again.”

  Lieutenant Carpenter raised his hand, slapped the hysterical Private Worth twice.

  “Now
shut up or I’ll have the psych corpsmen go over you again,” he snapped.

  Worth dropped his head between his hands, said nothing.

  Carpenter backed out of the cell. “I’m posting a guard here,” he warned. “One peep out of you and the boys will finish what they started.”

  He slammed the door for emphasis.

  “Well, sir, you did it again,” said the sentry admiringly. “He was throwing things when you got here, but you tamed him in a hurry.”

  “We’ve got to get these cells soundproofed,” muttered Carpenter abstractedly, putting on his glasses. “The combat detachment bunks are right next to them.”

  “Yeah, sir, I guess it’s harder on the combat detachment than the rest of us. We’ve all got our watches and so forth, but they haven’t got a thing to do until we hit an enemy city or something. They crack easy—like this Worth guy in here now.”

  Carpenter whirled on him. “Listen, corpsman, I’m too busy a man to be chasing up here to deal with every enlisted man in this brig—I’ve got the other officers to keep in line. And let’s not be volunteering information to superiors without permission!” he hissed.

  “I’m sorry, sir—” the guard began—but the lieutenant was gone!

  The sentry smiled crookedly. “O.K., Mr. Carpenter, your big job is to keep the officers in line. I’m just wonderin’ who’s supposed to keep you out of this cell block.”

  Corporal Sheehan dealt the cards with sudden, jerky motions; his brow was furrowed, his face a study in concentration. One would have thought him a schoolboy puzzling over a difficult final examination.

  Sergeants Fontaine and Richards snatched each card as it came, partly crushing the pasteboards as they completed their hands. Fat old Koch, Private First Class, waited until all the cards had been dealt, then grabbed the whole hand and clutched it against his broad stomach, glancing suspiciously at his fellow players.

  Their conversation was in terse, jerky monosyllables—but around them other men of the combat detachment talked, loudly and incessantly. Private Carson sat in a corner, chain smoking in brief, nervous puffs. Coarse jokes and harsh laughter dominated the conversation. Nobody mentioned Culver’s “alert” of a few minutes before.

  “Three,” grunted the obese Koch. Sheehan dealt him the cards swiftly.

  “Hey!” Richards interrupted, before play could begin. “I didn’t like that deal. Let’s have a look at that hand.”

  “Know what you’re callin’ me?” retorted Sheehan, snatching the deck as Richards was about to pick it up.

  “Yeah—I know what to call you, you lyin’, yella cheat—”

  Sheehan lurched to his feet, lashed out with a hamlike fist. Richards scrambled out of the way, bringing chair and table down with a crash. A moment later both men were on their feet and squared off.

  Conversation halted; men drifted over toward the table even as Fontaine stepped between the two players. Koch had not yet fully-reacted to the situation and was only halfway out of his chair.

  “You fools!” shouted Fontaine. “You want the psych corpsmen on our necks again? That louse Carpenter said if there was another tight we’d all get it.”

  Corporal Sheehan’s big fists clenched slowly. “That low, stinkin’—”

  “Sit down,” said Koch heavily. “Fontaine’s right. The psychs probably have a spy or two planted in this room.” His eye rested briefly on Carson, still smoking silently alone in the corner, seemingly oblivious of the commotion.

  “That Carson,” muttered Richards, shifting the object of his anger. “I’ll bet any money you want he’s a stool for Carpenter.”

  “Always by himself,” corroborated Sheehan. “What’s the story about him—born in a lab somewhere, wasn’t he?”

  The others were moving away now that it was plain there was to be no fight. Koch picked up the cards, stacked them. “Carson may not even be human,” he suggested.

  “The science profs have been workin’ on artificial cannon fodder for years, and you can be sure if they ever do make a robot they’re not goin’ to talk about it until it’s been tried in combat.”

  Carson overheard part of his statement; smiled shortly. He rose and left the room.

  “See?” Richards went. on. “Probably puttin’ all four of us on report right now.”

  Lieutenant Carpenter placed the wire recorder back inside its concealed niche, polished his glasses carefully, opened his notebook, and made several entries in a neat schoolteacher’s hand:

  Friction betw. Sheehan, Richards worse—psych, reg. next time back to Gen. Psych. Hosp. New Chicago. No sign men susp. Koch my agent; K. planting idea of robots in crews’ minds per order. Can reveal Carson whenever enemy knows Powers mfg. robots in quantity. Fontaine well integrated, stopped fight—recomm. transfer my staff to Sanderson.

  He put the notebook away, began to climb the nearest metal ladder with the mincing, catlike tread which the whole crew had learned to hate.

  The lone guard before the massive lead-and-steel door of the central chamber saluted as the lieutenant passed. His task was to safeguard the ship’s most important cargo—its sole atomic bomb. Carpenter asked him several routine word-association questions before proceeding.

  The lieutenant paused just once more in his progress upward. This was to play back the tape of another listening device, this one piped into the quarters of the men who serviced the mighty atomic engines. Making notes copiously, he proceeded directly to the bridge.

  “Captain, my report,” he announced, not without some show of pride.

  “Later,” said Sanderson shortly, without looking up from a rough strata chart the environmental technician had just handed him.

  “But it’s rather important, sir. Serious trouble is indicated in the combat detachment—”

  “It always is,” retorted Sanderson in some heat. “Take your report to Culver; I’m busy.” Carpenter froze, then turned to the young lieutenant commander. “If you will initial this, please—” Culver repressed a shudder. He couldn’t keep back the rebellious feeling that the ancient navies had been better off with their primitive chaplains than the modern underground fleets with their prying psychiatrists. Of course, he hastily told himself, that was impossible today—organized religion had long since ceased to sanction war and had been appropriately dealt with by the government.

  The Seismo Log recorded a prolonged disturbance directly ahead, and as Sanderson began his rounds the environmental technician called to him. “Sudden fault and more igneous activity dead ahead, sir,” he reported.

  “Carry on,” replied Sanderson. “Probably artificial,” he muttered half to himself. “Lot of volcanism in enemy territory . . . Mr. Culver!”

  Culver hastily initialed the psycho officer’s notebook and handed it back. “Sir?”

  “Elevate the cutters twenty-five degrees—we’re going up and come on the enemy from above.”

  The order was soon transmitted to navigation; Lieutenant Watson’s efficient gang soon had the metallic behemoth inclined at an angle of twenty-five degrees and rising rapidly toward the surface. Chief Schmidt dragged out new charts, noted down outstanding information and relayed data topside.

  The ship’s body swung on its mountings as the treads assumed the new slant, preserving equilibrium throughout. An order from Ensign Clark of power soon had the ship driving ahead as fast as the cutters could tear through the living rock.

  “Diggers ahead,” the thin soundman called out suddenly, adjusting his earphones. He snapped a switch; lights flickered on a phosphorescent screen. “Sounds like about three, sir—one is going to intersect our course at a distance of about five thousand yards.”

  “Let him,” grunted Sanderson. “Mr. Culver, you may level off now.”

  “Electronic activity dead ahead,” and “Enemy transmitter dead ahead,” the radio locator and radioman reported almost simultaneously, before Culver’s quiet order had been carried out.

  “Go to general quarters, Mr. Culver,” ordered Sanderson quick
ly. The exec pressed a button.

  Throughout the ship was heard the tolling of a great bell—slowly the strokes lost their ponderous beat, quickened in tempo faster and faster until they became a continuous pandemonium of noise; simultaneously the pitch increased. All of this was a trick devised by staff psych officers, believing it would produce a subconscious incentive to greater speed and urgency.

  The observational and operational posts were already manned; now, as quickly as possible, reliefs took over the more grueling watches such as that of the environmental technician. Medical and psych corpsmen hurriedly unpacked their gear, fanned out through the ship. Ensign Clark’s voice faltered briefly as he ordered the power consumption cut to a minimum. The great cruiser slowed to a crawl.

  The galley was bedlam as Kelly and Marconi rushed from one kettle to the next, supervising the ladling of hot food into deep pans by the apprentices who had assembled in haste in response to Kelly’s profane bellowing. Chow runners dashed madly out the door, slopping over the contents of the steaming dishes as they ran. “Battle breakfast” was on its way to the men; and even as the last load departed, Kelly shut off all power into the galley and shrugged his squat form into a heavy coverall. Marconi snatched two empty trays, filled them, and the two men wolfed their meal quickly and then ran at full tilt down toward the combat detachment’s briefing room.

  Here the scene was even more chaotic. Men helped one another hastily into coveralls, rubber-and-steel suits, metallic boots. They twisted each other’s transparent helmets into place, buckled on oxygen tanks, kits of emergency rations, first-aid equipment, and great nightmarish-looking weapons. Richards and Sheehan, their quarrel temporarily forgotten, wrestled with the latter’s oxygen valve. Koch struggled mightily with the metal joints of his attack suit, Fontaine checked the readings of the dials on a long, tubular “heat ray” machine. Carson, frilly outfitted, manipulated the ingenious device which brought a cigarette to his lips and lit it. He took a few puffs, pressed another lever to eject the butt, and wrenched his helmet into place with gloved hands. From now until the battle was over, the men would carry all their air on their backs, compressed in cylinders. Underneath the shouts and the rattling noises of the armor could be heard the screams of Private Worth from his cell next door. They were suddenly cut off; one of Lieutenant Carpenter’s watchful corpsmen had silenced the boy.