by Earl
“Then I suppose you Plutonians will be back here from time to time to get certain metals?” Bill asked cautiously. He was trying hard to detect hesitancy or some other sign of prevarication in Laro’s tone. So far, he couldn’t say one way or another.
“No, Bill. You can tell your fellow men that the people of Pluto will never again come to the earth as plunderers. Certain of our scientists have progressed in the field of transmutation of metals to the point where the goal is in sight. Before we again run out of needed metals, we will be able to manufacture them from the common materials of our world. Then Pluto will indeed be independent of the universe, which is a dream of every true son of Isot. . . . a dream I have renounced in my heart.”
“Then you are really coming back to earth sometime?” asked Bill.
“Yes. . . . sometime. But, as I say, this world need not fear further robbery from my people because transmutation will solve our problems of metal-shortage.”
“By transmutation do you mean changing one element to another?” Sam asked almost skeptically.
“Exactly,” replied Koor Laro evenly. “Our science, excuse my frankness, is far in advance of earthly science. We have things your scientists have never dreamed of. When transmutation is fully developed, we will be able to take our aluminum, beryllium, magnesium, silicon, calcium, lithium, and other abundant elements and transform them into iron, gold, mercury, radium, etc., by the controlled interchange of electrons and protons. When the time comes, I am afraid there will be a revolution of industry on my world. Suddenly flooded with metals we formerly had no use or source of, I wonder just what the reaction will be? It would be similar to conditions here on earth if suddenly gold, silver, platinum, radium, and actinium became plentiful.”
“Yes, I can see what changes that would bring about,” Bill agreed. There was a moment of silence till he again spoke.
“Koor Laro, how is it that you Plutonians, separated from us by billions of miles, are-so similar in physical form? How is it you can breathe our air and stand our climate?”
“Bill, I know you find it hard to believe that I and my men are from another world. There is still doubt in your voice and eyes. In a way, I can hardly blame you. As it happens, conditions on my world are very similar to conditions here, except for sunlight. Up on Pluto we receive hundreds of times less light from the sun than you on earth. Perhaps Jack hasn’t told you that each of us Plutonians has fitted over each eyeball a thin formfitting film of a material which absorbs almost all light except the little we need for our super-sensitive eyes. Without these we would be stricken blind even in this so-called night-time of the Arctic. As for heat, our world has a high percentage of radioactive metals which give us a surface temperature equal to your tropics. Our atmosphere has about the same percentage of oxygen, but a much higher percentage of the rare gases, helium, argon, neon, krypton, and xenon, and consequently less nitrogen.
“Now, as to our physical form, our history, reaching back some hundred thousand earth years, has it that our ancestors came originally from Mars. There must also be some connection between Mars and Earth in past ages, because the Martians are very similar to your race of Indians or Mongolians. So it seems that we people of the solar system are all of a common stock, however different in advancement or nature. We have all come from an original stock whose ultimate origin is a mystery; they may have come from outer space for all we know or can say.”
At that moment, the door opened, and quick as a flash, the Koor wiped the look of geniality and friendliness from his face so that when the Plutonian entered, he looked very stern and haughty. The two newspaper men realized that this was necessary in view of the fact that Gest Laro had his reputation to guard against slander among his own men. Too friendly an attitude to the earthmen would brand the Koor as a traitor to Plutonian isolation. The Plutonian delivered his message and disappeared.
“Your humble pardon, gentlemen, but I am called away on duty. I am at your service again whenever you say.”
As Bill and Sam walked to their room, the latter spoke. “Well, Bill, what’s the verdict?”
Bill shrugged his shoulders. “I guess Koor Laro is what he claims to be. He’s glib enough to convince anybody.”
Sam shook his head deprecatingly. “Boy, oh boy, but you take the cake for a skeptic.”
Bill merely grunted.
CHAPTER VIII
The Pocket Transmitter
l The night of the fifth day had been out alone in the camp with a Plutonian guard always at his heels. He had wanted to check up some things for his story. Sam had excused himself and gone back to their room. Bill actually got writer’s cramp from his continuous scribbling. He swore softly for having forgotten his portable, but who would have thought of its need and all this happening here near the North Pole?
When he returned to the ship, it was quite late. As he walked down the corridor, it was filled with the Plutonians changing shifts. The majority of them scarcely noticed him as he made his way to his room. The Plutonian guard left him at the door.
Bill opened the door softly, thinking that Sam was in bed. He was surprised to see the lanky pilot bending over a small table with earphones on his head.
“What are you doing, saying your prayers?”
Sam Peters jumped up. He had not heard his companion enter. On his face was a sheepish look as if he had been caught in some misdeed.
Bill noticed it. He squinted his eyes. “Say, what’s up?”
“Bill, it worked!” cried Sam.
“What worked, you big ox?”
“My pocket transmitter!”
Bill Nevers became all excited. He hastily locked the door and ran over to Sam.
“D’ya mean it?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Yes. Sit down and cool off. I was monkeying with it, and just for the devil of it, I put on the earphones, twisted the dials and pronto the kid brother barks, ‘hello, hello.’ ”
“Where did you get the juice?” Bill was trembling now.
“Well. . . . you see, before I came here, I thought I’d drop in on Gest Laro. He wasn’t in his room and I got to snooping around. I wasn’t really looking for a battery, but when I saw this one, I knew I could use it. I don’t know what kind of a battery it is, but believe me, it’s plenty powerful.”
“Sam, this is great! Give me that thing. I’ve got a lot of talking to do.” Bill reached out feverishly for the earphones.
“Oh, no you don’t!” The other drew the small apparatus back and clutched it firmly.
“What do you mean?”
“Because you’re going to do no chattering while I know about it. Laro trusts us and that settles it.”
“Listen, listen! Be reasonable!” the reporter pleaded passionately. “This isn’t going to affect our good behavior. All I want to do is give Old Man Brown the scoop. I won’t give anything away by that! Can’t you be reasonable? Aw, Sam. . . .”
Sam Peters thought carefully while Bill stood shaking like a leaf. Jack Berry had told them their location. The aliens were leaving in the near future. Even if he let Bill give the Old Man the story, he doubted if anybody could find them before the ship left. The only reason they had found the Plutonians was because of sheer luck. They had headed for the Pole and had struck the camp because it was in direct line with their course from where they had been blown off the regular route by the storm. Then came the thought of what this would mean to him, Sam Peters. It would be the biggest and freest advertisement his pet invention could ever get. Without a doubt, this would put it over Sam was swayed by this thought.
“All right, go ahead; but remember!—not a word about our position! You can tell the Old Man everything else but that. We made a promise, and if you don’t stick by it, I will. Savvy?”
“O.K., Sam. Now get the kid to call Old Man Brown over by the phone and let me know when he’s there.”
The pilot put the apparatus to his mouth, manipulated the miniature dials for a moment, and then spoke to his brother.
Sam was talking low. “Hello! Yes. That you, chief? O. K. Bill wants to talk to you. Can you hear me all right?. . . . good!”
Bill’s hands were actually shaking as he adjusted the earphones. This was his biggest moment! “Hello, chief! Bill talking. Got the biggest thing ever put over! Are you ready to take it?. . . . Listen, Brown, these people, that ship is from Pluto!. . . . Pluto!. . . . yes, that’s what I said and I’m not kidding! . . . Pluto!. . . . the planet Pluto, the one they just discovered here on earth a few decades ago. All right. . . . got that?. . . . then listen. . . .”
Far into the night Bill Nevers talked and made history. He told Old Man Brown all of importance so that he could feature it—detail for detail, all the information he had gleaned about this epic event. His hair became tousled and sweat poured from his face. Never before had a young reporter put over something this big!
Sam Peters dozed off occasionally as the hours dragged on. He had lighted cigarettes endlessly for Bill. He wondered if he’d ever finish. He shot glances at his companion. Never had he seen anyone before so engrossed in his work. He thought he saw a certain madness in the other’s tireless chatter and the wild look that was upon his features.
Sam was drowsing again. Suddenly he jerked up his head.
The hoarse whisper that was Bill’s voice was saying, “. . . . All right I’ll give you the location. . . . longitude . . . .”
Bill never finished. In one mighty leap, Sam hurtled through the air, tore away the earphones, and then as Bill looked up in murderous rage, swung his powerful fist clean on his jaw. Without a sound, Bill Nevers fell from his seat to the floor.
The lanky pilot stood above him and looked down at the huddled form of his companion. He was shaking and a hurt expression covered his face. No, it wasn’t Bill’s fault. He knew him better than that. It had just been the damned strain he had been under all night. He bent down, picked up the limp form, and carried him over to the bunk.
Then he returned to the transmitter. The setting had been disturbed and it took five minutes to connect up again. The excited voice of the editor was yelling “Hello, are you there? What’s happened? Hello, hello for all he was worth.
“Hello! Listen, Brown. . . . yeah, now listen. . . . Bill just collapsed from the strain and can’t talk any more . . . you’ve got all you need, anyway. . . . what?. . . . I don’t know the damned location. . . . good-bye.”
Sam Peters was sorry that he had had to do it. Bill had a chance to make a name for himself and he was not going to let him spoil it by being a cheat. He was even a little sorry he had let Bill talk at all. He felt guilty. Laro, an alien from another world, and a prince of good fellows, had trusted them to withhold the story till his departure, and they had betrayed his trust. Sam Peters was somewhat bitter with himself as he crawled into his bunk. Later in the night, he awoke to hear Bill snoring evenly and breathed a sigh of relief. He had evidently fallen from his unconscious state into deep sleep in the exhausted condition he was in.”
When Sam awoke late next morning, he heard Bill whistling like a lark. Then he burst into song, and interchanged that with little grunts of pleasure and satisfaction.
Bill caught Sam’s eye. “Good morning, you rotten cheese!”
Sam felt a load slip off his shoulders. When Bill greeted him like that, he knew that there was nothing between them.
“Ditto yourself, Lazy.”
“Boy, am I happy—am I joyful. . . . say, just think, Sambo, the papers will be out by now. Big headlines: PLUTONIANS PLUNDERING EARTH. COME BILLIONS OF MILES TO GET COPPER. HOLDING TWO REPORTERS CAPTIVE, etc., etc. Gosh, oh gee!”
l Bill cavorted around the room while he tried to tie his necktie. Sam smiled indulgently. Bill could be such a kid at times like this, But it wasn’t conceit in Bill; it was justifiable pride in a great accomplishment. As he seemed to have forgotten all about the crack on the jaw, Sam wisely refrained from mentioning it as they left their room and headed for Koor Laro’s office.
They found the Koor just ready to go out on duty. “Just one question, Koor Laro,” Bill said. “How long do you expect to be here on earth yet?”
“I’m sorry, Bill, but it is as yet indefinite. All I can say is that it will be no longer than two weeks.” Then he left.
Bill turned to Sam. “Two weeks! Wow! I told Brown no use to send up planes because they’d be gone in three days. Then he asked for location. I don’t remember. . . . say, Sam,” Bill’s voice became suddenly frightened. . . . “Sam, I didn’t tell him, did I? Good gosh. . . . !”
“No, you didn’t, Bill,” Sam answered grimly.
Bill sighed in relief. “Thank the Lord I didn’t. Say, what happened there? I remember Brown asked for location then. . . . all of a sudden you were standing there all blurred. . . . I could hardly see, I was so weary. . . . and then all of a sudden everything went blank. . . . I musta passed out. . . . is that what happened, Sam?”
Sam saw that Bill really had no clear conception of that crucial moment. “Exactly, Bill, I saw you swaying, ran over, and caught you just in time. I told the Old Man that was all and we both went to bed.”
“Well, that’s that. Say, I think you’d better sneak back that battery before Laro finds out it’s gone. We won’t need it again. I’ll wait till I get back for the rest of the story.”
It was but a short distance from their room to the navigating room, and they returned the stolen battery without detection by any Plutonians. That done, Bill suggested finding Jack Berry. They met him as they were about to step out of the ship.
“Hello, fellows. Just had a talk with Gest Laro and he said to ask you two if you’d like to look over the ship. What say?”
“Dandy, Jack. Something I’ve wanted to do before. Let’s go,” answered Bill enthusiastically.
The ship which had brought the aliens from another world was divided into five tiers running lengthwise. The navigating room and the newspaper men’s room were both on the first and lowest tier, as were all the living quarters of the Plutonians. The second tier was the storing place for food, water, and fuel for the engines. They traversed it hastily as it contained nothing of interest. Door after door down the central corridor was marked in hieroglyphics to designate the contents of each. Berry led them into one of the food rooms to show them the simple Plutonian bill of fare. In large metal friction-top cans was contained the gelatinous product from which the aliens derived sustenance.
“When I first came here and tasted this mess,” confided Berry, “I knew I could never live on the stuff, so I received permission from Laro to go on a periodical hunt for bear, seals, and fish. I’ve got my own little stock of meat down below.”
“Funny I never asked where that meat Laro fed us came from. Well, that explains it, Jack, and thanks a lot,” said Bill.
“What are you going to do up on Pluto, Berry?—turn native?” asked Sam.
“Oh, no. Laro tells me they have wild game up there that I can hunt.”
The third and fourth tiers were the vast storerooms for the ores.
“The malachite fills all of the third tier and some of the fourth,” said Jack. “Laro says he expects to make a stopover at Titan, satellite of Saturn, on the way back to pick up some iron, which they are in need of on Pluto at present,” explained Berry.
But it was up on the fifth tier that they spent the most time. Here were the mighty engines that hurtled the monstrous ship through space, and the little pilot room, up at the front. They walked amongst a maze of vacuum tubes of gigantic size, heavy cables lining the walls and ceiling, large relays of shining beryllium, a conglomerate of switches, mostly automatic, condensers, transformers, motors, generators, and a host of unrecognizable, complicated machines. Bill and Sam realized for the first time what Gest Laro meant when he
said their science was way beyond that of earth. This was a graphic illustration. It was like the operating room of a large broadcasting station multiplied a hundred times.
“This gravity-distorting force is a sort of ray, from what I understand about it,” commented Jack Berry to the two dumbfounded visitors. “It is generated by a force derived from the atoms of silicon.”
“Oho, atomic power!” ejaculated Sam.
“No, Sam, not exactly. I said the same thing when Laro told me about it, but he says they don’t really use the ultimate power of the atom. That is still for future discovery, he says. This force that runs the ship is taken from the atom, all right, but it is only a small part of the total energy there. That is why they need so much fuel. If they could use the total energy of the silicon atom, a small block of it would run this ship from here to Pluto and back a hundred times. But they use something like a hundred tons of silicon for one trip. The residue, after they strip it of the energy available with these machines, is still silicon but of an atomic weight several points lower. They throw it away because no more energy can be obtained from it by their methods.”
The pilot room was a nightmare of controls.
“Say, I’m actually dizzy,” cried Bill as he swept a hand across his eyes and looked around again.
There was a multitude of instruments with scales, dials with numbers, throw switches, buttons, and levers. The two newspapermen felt as ignorant savages might feel if suddenly placed in the cabin of a modern airplane.
“Say, how many men does it take to run this boat?” asked Sam.
“Five,” answered Jack Berry. “There are one main pilot and four assistants. The head pilot does nothing but read instruments and bark out orders. The others pull the switches and press the buttons.”
At that moment, a red light flashed three times above them.
