A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Jetto bit his lips in vexation. Fu-ta was right. Fu-ta was always right! Some day the man would have to be removed. Already some of the others were begging to question him also. A benign smile made its way to his mouth.

  “Did Fu-ta think I was going to let them stay there till eternity?” he asked with a sweetness that was a cutting rebuke to the man who dared to question his judgment. “That damned mutation will give in, mark my words, and when he does, we will go out to the hidden spot. But first I must recruit the labor.”

  “You won’t do it by having the ones who can do it for you, thrown into jail,” Fu-ta said.

  Ganto, the scribe, looked up at the words. He had been an interested spectator to the play between the two men.

  “If we don’t stop killing them off, soon there won’t be enough of them to build a hut,” he said in his gentle, unobtrustive way.

  “What do you mean?” Jetto asked.

  “The ray we loosed on them accounted for more than half the population. When we were forced to use the blast power on them, we killed off another third. And since we were indiscriminate in the use of our force, many were killed who could have been put to use.”

  Jetto’s eyes rolled in his head. These mites and their way of looking at trifles. As if it mattered whether he killed off the whole population. That would make everything simple, then. Didn’t they know yet, that he had no intention of returning to Pa-Mura.

  “All right,” he said in resignation. “What do you want me to do?”

  “There isn’t much you can do, I’m afraid,” Ganto said. “But let us make some sort of arrangement with them for good will. Those two who were here this afternoon. Call them back. Let us talk to them.”

  “Very well,” Jetto said in agreement.

  TOMET the jailer yawned broadly.

  Damn them anyway! Waking a man from a sound sleep. Didn’t they ever go to bed? He looked angrily at the messenger, who returned the look with one of indifference.

  “Ought to ghet nhrid of nhe thcum,” he grunted, as he got to his feet. “ ‘nstead of nputting nthem in nhail. Nh’m. Nmaybe ’hat’s what Njetto whants to nhdo, eh?”

  The messenger shrugged his shoulders.

  Tomet gave him a sour look and shuffled off down the stairs which led to the cells. The messenger sat down in the vacant chair and waited for his return. It wasn’t long.

  Tomet literally erupted from the stairs. His mis-shapen face was grey, his eyes stared in wild dis-belief and his twisted mouth twitched.

  “Gone—gone,” he babbled hysterically. “All three. And the guards—blasted! The whole lot of them!”

  The messenger didn’t wait to hear any more. Swiftly, he turned and ran from the room.

  * * *

  Number 1 peered cautiously around the corner of the building. The street was empty of life. His eyes narrowed in speculation. He knew too well, the risk he was taking. And the consequences of being caught. But in that low, walled building across the way were a dozen men who would join him at a word. And he needed them badly.

  A sentry walked across the path of his vision. And a broad grin spread across the watcher’s face. It was double 7. The sentry whirled at the whispered sound which came to him from across the still-dark street. His fingers toyed restlessly with the blast pistol in his hand. Then he recognized the man who stepped out from the darkened doorway and a look of incredulous unbelief spread across his features. Quickly, he ran to the other and embraced him in greeting.

  “I—I thought, why we were told that Jetto had executed you,” he said.

  “Fah!” the other replied. “You know Jetto. That would have been the sensible thing to do. But not he. Torture first. So this little bird flew the coop. But tell me, are our friends still with us?”

  Double 7 went wide-eyed at the question.

  “But of course,” he said in a hurt voice, as if he was surprised that the other should even ask such a thing.

  Number one sighed in relief. “Good!” he exclaimed. Then he gave orders as though it was the natural thing to do and not as if he was a hunted man. “We can’t work in half measures now, things are coming to a head, I’m sure. And I’ve got to beat Jetto to the punch. Go back to the barracks and tell Number 9 to follow through with the plan we conceived. Kill all those who are not with us and don’t have any qualms about killing them. Then get several patrol cars and meet me at the space port on the lake front.”

  The other had been following Number 1 intently. When his leader finished, the sentry turned and left without a further word.

  THE Loop was dark. Darker than Norton had ever remembered it being. And quiet. With the unearthly quiet of a thing dead, yet having life. They were but two more shadows among the many of the street.

  A patrol car came around the corner and the two men melted into the shadows of a building’s entrance. A headlight swept across the panes of glass. Then the car passed from view. The two came into the open again.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Norton asked, halting their progress momentarily for his question, “that they have so enslaved the people in the two weeks since they’ve been here, that they are afraid to come out at night?”

  “It would be instant death for anyone,” Witson said.

  Norton shuddered. His mind had pictured once again the scenes of carnage he had pome across. If they could only get to the coast? The Murian had to get to his friends!

  Another car made its presence known. Again they flattened themselves against a wall. And again they remained undetected.

  “Who is this man who has gone for help?” Witson asked.

  Norton told him what had happened while he was unconscious. They continued their stealthy advance while Norton talked. At the end of his tale, they found themselves facing the broad stretch of Michigan Boulevard. The Mestrovic monument was directly across from them. Norton gave the thoroughfare a hurried glance. It was deserted. Motioning with his head for Witson to follow, he started across the street—and one of the patrol cars turned the corner of the next street.

  The two men were caught full in the headlights of the car.

  Norton ran full speed for the far curb. But before he got there, he heard a moaning cry behind him. Turning his head, he saw that Witson had stumbled to his knees. And saw too, that the car was bearing down on the fallen man. Whirling, he ran back to Witson. He ran bent low, like a football player with the ball. When he got to Witson, he bent and without losing speed caught him up in his arms.

  There was a screeching sound from a few feet away and Norton turned a horrified face in the direction of the sound. The car was almost on them. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light. And hard on its heels there came the sound of an explosion and Norton spun around in the wake of the concussion, but even as he fell, he twisted his body around so that it was protecting Witson.

  “Are you all right, my friend?” a voice asked.

  Norton turned his head. The gray, dawning light showed him who it was. The Murian! Norton rolled away from Witson, who was muttering profanely. He felt himself all over.

  “Y-yes. I think so. How are you Witson?”

  “Like the football at the bottom of a pileup, a little flattened but none the worse from wear,” the chippery little man said, arising and dusting himself.

  Norton followed the other’s example, looking curiously about him as he did so. The patrol car was a mass of twisted, blackened wreckage. Three, sleep-looking, torpedo-shaped cars were lined up at the curb. The ugly snouts of strange looking guns protruded from open ports in the sides of the cars.

  “Good!” the Murian exclaimed in relief. “Let’s go, then. We haven’t much time. Jetto knows that we have escaped.”

  The name was a spur to their feet. Quickly they followed the Murian to the car. He made room for them on the wide seat. Three men sat beside the driver.

  “Lucky for you my men spotted me as I was walking along,” he said. “They would never have stopped otherwise. And of course I recognized you both.”
>
  “Lucky so far,” Norton reminded him. “Let’s hope our luck will hold out.”

  “I see you still have the blast pistol,” the Murian said, looking down at the belt around Norton’s waist. “We’ll need more than luck from here in. We’re going in shooting. Better stick close to my side.”

  THE driver had turned the car until it faced the grassy parkway on the east side of the street. Then he let out the throttle and he zoomed across the park. In a matter of seconds, they were at the wire enclosure which barred the huge air strip that had been constructed at the foot of Congress Street. The other cars pulled up behind them and grim-faced, silent men piled out to form a group about Norton’s friend.

  “When we get to the gate,” the Murian said, “Number 4 will take the lead. If it’s barred we’ll have to blast it down. If not—then watch me and do as I do.”

  They nodded in silent agreement.

  The first faint streaks of rose tinged the east, as they arrived at the gate. It wasn’t barred. A sentry leaned somnolently against the gate. He gave them a cursory glance as they passed him. He didn’t notice that they weren’t all dressed alike. The last man through, slowed down and walked back to the sentry. Norton turned to see what happened. He saw only the faintest streak of light, as the sentry stiffened, then fell to the ground.

  To the right, about a hundred yards off, the control tower gleamed in a sudden, rosy reflection of light. Norton detected a faint movement on its serrated top. Now their movements quickened. Ahead he saw the gleaming shapes of huge space ships. Interspersed among them were the smaller, more sleek-looking ones that were the destroyers.

  A voice came rumbling down at them from the control tower:

  “Halt!”

  They paid no attention to the voice.

  “Halt or I blast!” the rumbling voice warned.

  Norton’s lips tightened. He couldn’t see the man who was doing the shouting. It was all too evident that they were at his mercy. But the band of ten moved on.

  The white glare of a spotlight came swinging around in their direction. It was the signal for pandemonium to break loose.

  A group of men burst from the control tower. Another group came running from the far corner of the airport, where there was a building which in ordinary times, had housed the personnel of the field. And between the racing groups were the parked goals of the space ships.

  “Let ’em have it!” Number 1 shouted as he broke into a run.

  In a second the held was criss-crossed by searching fingers of white lights, which held death for anyone caught in their beams. Ahead of him, Norton saw a man fall, to lie in a tortured, twisted heap. Something made him look up to the tower once more. He saw a man wheeling a massive shape onto a platform. He didn’t need more than one glance to know that it was a piece of artillery. Forgetting all else, Norton let the others run on as he knelt and took careful aim at the figure on the parapet.

  He watched with a spell-bound interest, as the beam of light went up from the muzzle of his pistol. He saw the stones crumble when the light struck the edge of the parapet. The light crept higher in a race with the man, who seemed to be having trouble with the field piece. Just as it reached him, he moved behind the gun. The light struck the gun. There was a tremendous blast of sound and the gun, man and entire roof of the tower went up in a flash of flame.

  Then Norton arose and raced for the ship which was their goal. Already Number 1 had reached it. In a few seconds they had all scrambled through its door. Norton panted to a stop and a hand reached out and literally lifted him through the hatchway. It clanged shut behind him.

  Seven men sat in attitudes of exhaustion on a long bench which ran the length of the ship. The eighth was at the helm of the ship. Norton’s suddenly quivering legs dragged themselves to the bench. He sat there for several minutes, gasping in long, shallow breaths. Beside him, Witson sat and stared through the glassed-in ports. There was something so odd in his expression that Norton followed his glance.

  They should have been in bright sunlight. Instead, only the pitch black of outer space met his look. Yet he hadn’t even known that they had started, so smooth was the take off. The man at the helm turned his head and said:

  “All right, men, man the blast-guns!”

  Instantly, those who had been sitting, seemingly so exhausted that it appeared as if nothing could make them move, leaped to their feet.

  “There,” one of them said, pointing to a seat set into the wall of the ship,” is a gun. Make yourself fast, because this ship is gonna go through an awful lot of movement. Press the trigger on the gun in jerks. And shoot at anything that comes in range.”

  The gun mount reminded Norton of the ones set into the jet propelled planes he had made for the government. Beyond that, there was a vast difference in the crafts. This one had blinding speed. He couldn’t understand how the pilot managed maneuvers at such a pace.

  THOSE who had come into the ship, only Witson remained seated. The rest were at the guns. Norton looked through the aperture before him. He saw the ship’s nose was pointed downward. The Earth and ship approached each other at a speed which dizzied him. Then the pilot flattened the ship out and Norton saw the field, directly below.

  He pressed at the trigger, but too late. They had already passed it. The others had not been so slow. In the single glance he had before the plane passed, he saw the parked planes dissolve into rubble, saw huge craters open in the ground. And again there was the transition from light to pitch blackness.

  “Norton!” a voice called.

  He turned and saw the pilot motioning him forward.

  “Sit here,” the other said when Norton reached him.

  Norton took the seat. Before him stretched a wide, curving glass which gave him a clear view of everything in front. It curved to such a degree, in fact that he was even permitted a downward view. The Earth was a huge ball, radiating a beautiful silvery light.

  “Listen,” the pilot said. “There’s a small chance that we might wreck every plane on the field, before they have a chance to send up help for them. Think we ought to take a chance?”

  “No!” Norton replied instantly. “Head for the coast. If we can make it there, I think I can organize things to give Jetto a plenty hot reception, when and if he gets to the bad lands.”

  The Murian nodded his head in slow agreement.

  “That makes sense,” he said. “But let’s see what the rest think of the plan.”

  He did something to the controls, turned and called to the rest who crowded around the two in the pilots’ compartment.

  “The Earthman speaks sense,” he said in conclusion. “At best we can only wreck the ships on this field. If we can reach his friends he feels that they will be able to do something. I leave it to you.”

  They fell in with Norton’s suggestion instantly. For the most part they were young, eager faced men, the stamp of adventure high on their foreheads. But there were two there, who were older. One of these snapped his fingers suddenly. And Norton saw his face take on a pallor at odds with its naturally ruddy complexion.

  “I—I forgot in the excitement. Number 1, there is something you must know. Your son . . .”

  The color fled the pilot’s face.

  “Wh—what . . .” his voice broke. “What of my son?”

  “Jetto has him,” the other said.

  A look of horror came alive on the pilot’s face at the other’s words. He opened his mouth but the words would not come.

  “I meant to tell you before,” the older man said, compassion deep in his tone. “He knew how you felt about his revolt. And so he kidnapped the boy just before we sailed. It was his trump card over you, and I think he will use it.”

  The pilot knew what he meant.

  “I swear it,” he said slowly and in a voice which held no sign of emotion, “that if he harms a single lock of the child’s hair that I will come back and tear out his heart! With my bare hands!”

  He turned and looked for a lon
g moment into the faces of those pressed around him. Then he said:

  “We go to seek Norton’s friends.”

  THEY turned and went back to their places at the guns. Only Norton saw the other’s face twist in hidden grief. There was nothing he could say—or do. He peered through the window. Anything, so that he would not have to look at the other. And saw a silver streak pass them, a silver streak which suddenly glowed redly.

  The pilot must have seen it too, for he suddenly called, “guns! Quick! ’Fore they blast us.”

  The ship was suddenly rocked from stem to stern. Norton was thrown against the instrument panel as the pilot heeled the ship over in a sudden maneuver. Then he stood it on its nose and gave it full throttle. Norton wiped the blood from his nose and watched with breathless interest, as the two ships raced through the black skies.

  Once again the ship was rocked as a blast took effect just to the stern of it. It had not been hit, but so terrific was the concussion it threw the ship around as if it were a leaf. The gunners in their ship were not losing time or motion. Despite the suddenness of the pilot’s maneuvering, they triggered their guns as calmly as though the ship was on the ground. A voice, loud, yet with that quality that told it was coming from a speaker announced its presence:

  “This is Jetto, your chieftain! I give you one chance to come back. Of I will have you destroyed.”

  The Murian’s eyes closed, as if in prayer. But the words were calm, as if he had long had them under consideration:

  “Blast away! We damn you! And whatever you do!”

  “Then die, traitors!”

  Norton’s eyes went wide when he saw what the other ship was doing. As if in answer to his wonder, there came over the speaker, Jetto’s command to the pilot of the pursuing ship:

  “Ram them!”

  It was a command to suicide! And the pilot obeyed, blindly and without question. He turned the nose of his ship in their direction and put the throttle full speed ahead.