Space Lawyers: A Collaborative Collection

by Nat Schachner; Arthur Leo Zagat

  “They’ve got him, sir, bringing him in.”

  A low-toned order. The soldiers sprang to their post. A whirring signal. At the other end of the room the steel wall began to move upward, and water rushed in. A tremendous vibration shook the chamber: a ponderous thudding. The water rose to the level of the balcony and stopped. I looked at Bradley.

  “We’re beneath the surface, aren’t we?” I asked. “How is it that the water doesn’t fill the room?”

  “Pumps,” he replied. “Tremendous pumps that draw the water out just as fast as it comes in, and shoot it out again into the sea. We can maintain any desired level in here.”

  Then I noticed that the black flood was rushing by beneath me at a terrific rate.

  Something bulked in the opening. Two tiny subs drew in, a black and a green. The steel wall rushed down again, and the vibration ceased. From the green craft heavy grapples extended, clutching the black, enemy scout. I saw a gaping hole in the black boat’s nose, where its eye had been smashed.

  Men were clambering over both vessels’ hulls, tugging at the hatchway fastenings. The black one flew open. I leaped to the deck. Bradley after me, and jumped down into the hold.

  In the little cubby-hole that was all the machinery left space for, a pale-faced form in green-gray crouched against the wall. His eyes stared in fear. A Russian, praise be. And not far from my size and build.

  “Off with his clothes, quick!” I yelled, stripping mine as I spoke. Bradley looked at me queerly, and shrugged his shoulders. “Quick, man! Everything depends on speed!”

  He shook his head, as one who listens to the vaporings of an imbecile, but turned to obey. I was standing there—naked, studying the Easterner’s face, his body. No scars. Good.

  Jim turned to me, the prisoner’s clothing in his hands. An exclamation burst from him. He looked back at the trembling Russ, then at me. “My God, Eric, how did you do it?” he asked.

  I smiled. “All right, is it?”

  “You’re his twin; no, you’re himself! If I’d had a drink today I’d be sure I was seeing double. How on earth—you had no make-up, no time—”

  I was sliding into the Red’s gear as I talked! “I’ve trained all the little muscles in my face—muscles you others don’t even know you have. Started when I was a kid, then made a good living at it, acting. Comes in handy now, damn handy. I can make anything of my face, and hold it forever if I have to. Chink, Russ—anything. Distort my limbs too, and change my voice. That won’t be necessary now. Simple, but it takes a lot of practice.”

  I was dressed by then, a counterpart of the enemy officer—I hoped. If I wasn’t—well, I wouldn’t live much longer.

  “Now, out with the Russ and my clothes. Don’t leave a bit, if you value my life.”

  A light of comprehension illumined Jim’s face. “You’re going to pass yourself off as this man? You’ve got your nerve with you!” he exclaimed.

  “Exactly.” The cubby-hole was clear now. “Now take that spanner, and bang me over the head. Not too hard; I don’t want a cracked skull, only a splashed scalp. Then pile me where it will seem I crashed against a projection of some kind when the grapples took hold. That bunk edge will do. Batten the hatch, and cast off the grapples. I hope their automatic control is still working, otherwise my scheme’s gaflooey.”

  Jim stuck out his great paw. “Good luck, Eric,” he said, simply. Then he clutched the spanner. I saw it go over my head…

  Voices around me, harsh, guttural voices. Russian! By the Nine Dogs of War, I had pulled it off! But what were they saying? I was inside the lines, but was my deception successful? Or had my face relaxed with the shock of the blow? I thanked my Russian grandmother then for all the time she had spent teaching me her mother tongue.

  “Boszhe moi, the poor fellow must have had an awful smash. He hasn’t come to yet.”

  “The doctor will be here in a minute. He’ll revive him.”

  I breathed a prayer of gratitude. They didn’t suspect! But I didn’t like this doctor business. Well, I’d have to stall through that as best I could.

  I seemed to be lying on hard rock. I opened my eyes, staring blankly, straight up. A bearded face was bending over me, the captain’s crossed sickles on the shoulder straps just within my vision. Behind, and above him, towering straight up—my God!—what was it? A green wall, a vertical green wall, going up and up! It looked like—but no: how could water stand straight up like that, for hundreds of feet?

  I almost betrayed myself with a gasp! A dim bulk showed in the translucent depths of the wall. It rushed toward me, took form. A fish, a huge, blind fish, its cavernous mouth stretched wide. It came straight for me, just above. In a second it would leap through. A scream of terror trembled in my throat. Then it hit the edge of the translucent green wall—and vanished! Was I dreaming? Had Jim hit me too hard?

  Something stirred in the back of my mind. I sensed dimly that here lay the explanation of the disappearance of the New York, the very mystery that I had come to solve. Almost I had it; then it slipped away.

  “Here’s the doctor!” someone said. There was a little stir of activity about me. I allowed my eyes to close, as if in utter weariness.

  “What’s all this? What have you got here?” A gruff voice, intolerant.

  “One of our sub-sea scouts, sir. Just come back, after some delay. Her eye was smashed, and there are grapple marks on her. Must have been caught, and then slipped away. She was leaking badly. We got her through the lock just in time.” Jim had evidently added a few touches of his own. “Comrade Pauloff seems to have been seriously injured. He’s got a bad cut on his scalp, and was unconscious till a moment ago. Opened his eyes just as you came along.”

  “Hm. Let’s see.” I felt a none too gentle hand finger my wound. It throbbed maddeningly. The doctor spoke again. “A nasty crack, but no fracture. Here, you—wake up.” I made no move. “Come on, wake up!” I heard the plop of a cork being drawn from a bottle; a pungent odor assailed my nostrils, choked me. I writhed, pulled at the hand holding the bottle to my nose and opened my eyes.

  “That’s better. How do you feel now?”

  I raised a hand to my injury and muttered, in Russian. “Hurts, papashka.” I kept my expression as blank, as uncomprehending, as I could.

  The doctor flashed an understanding glance at the captain, then turned back to me. “What’s your name?”

  Memories of my grandmother’s tales of her youth came flooding back to me. “Pavel, son of Pauloff.”

  It was the formula of the Russian student, in his teens.

  “Your rank?”

  “Second year. Petrovski Gymnasium.”

  The physician turned away. “No use bothering him now. A clear case of amnesia.

  “He’s been thrown back to his high school days. I’ve had a number of cases like that among your scouts lately.” Blessed inspiration! “Only cure is rest. Get him over to the infirmary. We’ll evacuate him to a base hospital tomorrow.”

  I was in a cool white bed, in a low ceilinged room, white painted. There were other beds, vacant. A uniformed male nurse puttered around. There was an elusive green tinge to the light that poured in through the one window.

  The door opened and a sergeant came in. “Comrade Alexis!”

  “Well, what is it now? Have they found another gold-bricking officer to mess up my clean beds?”

  “A party from corps headquarters will be here in fifteen minutes for inspection.”

  “Let them come. They won’t find any specks of rust on my instruments, like they did on Comrade Borisoff’s.”

  “They’d better not. You know what happened to him.”

  “Yeah. Chucked into the ray. Well, he didn’t give the burial squad any work.” And the two laughed, a laugh that had more than a hint of sadistic cruelty in it. “If I had my way,” the nurse went on, “I’d do the same with all these nuts that come back from the scout ships raving of home and mother. It’s my idea
that they’re all bluffing. It’s a good way to be shipped to the rear, where the captured dames are. Say, did I tell you about the last time I was on leave—”

  The two whispered, their heads close together. My brain was working frantically. Things had gone well so far, but I had to get out of here before the morning, or I’d be sent to the base and lose all that I had gained by my daring.

  The door snapped open. “Smirnow!” (Atten-shun!)

  I was on my side, facing away from the wall. I remained so, staring blankly across the room. I hoped the inspection would be over quickly. The fewer the enemy officers I had looking me over, the better. Someone back there was snapping questions. That voice—where had I heard it before?

  “Your patient. What’s his trouble?”

  “Amnesia, sir. One of the scouts.”

  “Oh, yes. Let’s look at him.”

  Someone was walking across the room, then standing above me. His hand was just at the level of my eyes—a hand with the little finger twisted queerly into the palm. I knew that hand: it was the Ferret’s! A cold shiver ran up my back. I almost stopped breathing.

  Of all the infernal luck in the world, to have the Ferret walk in here! He was chief of the Red’s Intelligence Service, the shrewdest, sharpest, cruelest of them all. Many of our best men had gone west because of his uncanny instinct for piercing disguise. They said he could smell an American. And many of our most strictly guarded plans had been smashed through his infernally clever spying. Only a month before I had him in my clutches; saw the very rope around his neck. But he had slipped away, and left me empty-handed and kicking myself for an ass.

  I held my breath as I felt those gimlet eyes of his boring into me. Would he sense who I was? Surely he could hear the pounding of my heart. How long he stood there I don’t know. It seemed like hours. I tautened, waiting for him to call out, determined to sell my life as dearly as I could.

  But for once the Ferret was fooled. He turned away. “Take us into your kitchen,” he snapped at the nurse, then there was the tramping of feet and the slamming of a door.

  The breath whistled from me in relief. I turned cautiously. I was alone. Now was my chance. I jumped from the bed and started toward the window. Once out, I’d find some place to hide. I let my face relax; there was no use for that particular disguise any longer. The window was up. I was on the sill. Another second and I’d be out in the open.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” came the Ferret’s silky, cruel voice. I whirled. There he was, just inside the door. His little black eyes glinted dangerously over his hooked nose and sharp chin.

  “Oh—Bolton! Something made me turn back. Glad to see you.”

  His hand flashed to the ray-tube in his belt. At the same moment I left the window sill in a desperate leap. Clear across the room I sprang, and before he had time to pull his weapon I had one hand clamped around his wrist, the other clutching his throat. We crashed to the ground.

  I was in pajamas, barefooted, he fully clothed. His leather shoes drove into me viciously, even as his face turned purple. The pain was excruciating, but I dared not cry out. His left thumb found my eye, was digging in.

  The crash of our fall must have been heard outside; another moment and all would be lost. I was momentarily on top as we rolled across the floor. With a supreme effort I pulled his head away from the floor, then crashed it down. He slumped; lay still.

  The door knob was turning as I jumped frantically through the window. I heard a cry behind me. Rough, uneven ground. No one about. To my right was a rocky cliff, and at its base what looked like the mouth of a cave. Any port in a storm: I dived into it.

  It was a cave, all right, or rather a narrow tunnel winding some distance into the cliff. I ran back at top speed, till I crashed into the end of the passage.

  I crouched there, panting. It was beastly cold, and the dampness struck into my bones. I shivered, then laughed grimly. I wouldn’t shiver long. When the Ferret came to and revealed that Eric Bolton was around, there wouldn’t be a stone left unturned till I was found. Those birds had good cause to want me rubbed out.

  Already I could hear faint shouts from without. The chase was on. I was caught, right enough. Trapped like any rat.

  I felt around me in the darkness and my hand lighted on a round stone. It just fitted my fist. Well, I’d get one of them, anyway, when they found me. Cold comfort in that, but I didn’t feel like giving in tamely.

  Footsteps sounded out at the tunnel end. So soon! I gripped my rock tightly, and waited.

  But—it sounded like only one man. I drew myself together. Maybe I had a chance. A dim glow showed where the passage curved, then a disk of light flashed on the wall and flitted about. The fool!

  The steps came on, slowly, stumblingly. The disk of light grew smaller as its source drew nearer. Then he was around the corner, bulked for a moment against his own light as it was reflected from the wet wall. That moment was enough! The stone left my hand with all the force I possessed. It went straight to its mark: a sickening thud told me that. The form dropped, and the flashlight clinked on the rocks.

  I listened. Still the shouts from without, but no steps inside. I was safe for a time. But the searcher would surely be missed, and others would come looking for him. I had only one chance. I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t lose anything. If I stayed here my goose was cooked.

  By the light of the flashlight I examined my quarry. A renegade Frenchman, apparently. A private. In a trice I had his uniform on me and had twisted my features to match his. Little did I think when I acted under the Klieg lights that the fate of two continents would some day depend on this gift of mine.

  He stirred; groaned. I hesitated. Then—well, I couldn’t chance his crawling out. His ray-tube was newly charged. I left a heap of ashes there as I walked away…

  I was outside the cave. I darted a glance around. My refuge was not the only hole in sheer rock; it was literally honeycombed. From one, then another of the cavern mouths a soldier emerged. Each strode across the uneven, rocky plain to where an officer stood with what was apparently a map in his hand. As each searcher saluted and reported, the officer made a mark on the map. Someone came out from the cave-mouth next to mine. I fell in behind him.

  “No one in cave twenty-one, sir.”

  “To your post.”

  The private turned on his heel and marched off to take his place in a company formation that was rapidly taking shape near by. My turn was next. What was the number of my cave? A mistake now, and I was through.

  I saluted. “No one in cave twenty, sir.”

  “To your post.”

  Had I hit it? When the final check-up came would there be two reports for one cave, none for another?

  A front rank man moved aside. Good: that meant my place was just behind him. My luck was holding. And never did a man need luck more!

  Now was my first chance to look about, to discover what sort of place this was. It was an oval plain, roughly a mile wide by five miles long. Buildings, squat structures of corrugated iron, were scattered here and there. In the distance, to my left, what seemed a great hole in the ground glowed; a huge disk of light.

  Dry land, here, where there should be nothing but a waste of waters!

  Puzzled, I strained to see what bordered the plain. It was a tall cliff, running all around, and towering high in the air. But it wasn’t rock, for it glowed strangely green in the flood of light that illumined the place. And it was clean cut, rising sheer from the unevenness of the ground.

  Then I remembered. The vertical green wall that soared above me as I lay dazed from Jim’s blow. The translucent green wall in whose depths I had seen the blind fish rushing toward me. Water! The sea! Impossible! There were scientific miracle-workers in the enemy’s ranks, but they couldn’t have hollowed out a pit such as this in mid-ocean; forced back the very ocean to create this amphitheatre, this dry plain on the Atlantic’s very bottom: held back the unthinkable w
eight of Earth’s waters by a nothingness. Incredible!

  Yet the accomplished fact stared me in the face.

  My eyes traveled up that impossible wall. It must have been at least six hundred feet high. At its summit, in a murky haze that heaved and billowed, I made out strange, dim bulks that hung, unsupported. A long line of them, a long ellipse following closely the curving of the cliff. Underneath the nearest, barely perceptible, I could make out a lens-shaped cage of wire. I began to understand.

  Overarching everything was a great dome of heaving cloud.

  “Smirnow!”

  The long line snapped into immobility.

  “By the left flank, march!”

  We were moving, marching. Then my ruse had succeeded. I had chosen the right cave number. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  The command for route order was given, and at once a buzz of talk broke out around me. “Damn them, they’re sending us right off to work! We missed our mess, hunting for that damned spy. But that don’t mean anything. It’s back to the tunnel for ours.”

  “Oh, quit your bellyaching, Andreyeff. Another week, and we’ll be in New York. Just think of it, the richest city in the world to loot! And women! Why, they tell me the American women are to the Frenchies and the cold English-women as the sun is to the stars. What’s a meal more or less when you think of that?”

  An obscene laugh swept through the ranks. Guttural voices boasted of past exploits—black deeds and sadistic cruelties that had marked the trail of the hordes sweeping over Europe from the windy Asiatic steppes.

  As we marched, I noticed a peculiarity of the rocky floor. There were no sharp edges, no sudden cleavages in the uneven terrain. It looked, for all the world, as though the stone had been melted, then frozen again in a moment. An unbelievable pattern was forming itself in my mind. If what I thought were true—!