by Earl
Syl.
Sirius: Not so good. Your messages are coming through spotty, with letter gaps and static dots galore. My dials show your wave is coming in weaker every minute. It must be shot through with holes. Jerre.
Antares: That’s the way I feel, too—shot through with holes! And tomorrow is Christmas Day! The menu calls for a special chicken dinner with real vegetables and genuine fruit dessert, and not one synthetic concentrate. The irony of it! The one day out of our 35-day voyage that real food is to be served, no one will be able to eat it, for we have lost all but a pathetic ghost of our appetites. There is also scheduled a big party for the evening, with our second mate as Santa Claus, and a Christmas tree and presents, with all the other holiday trimmings! Funny how even after a century and a half of interplanetary trade and mingling, our old Earth customs and holidays hold good, even out here in this timeless, traditionless eternity.
But I’m afraid it will be a rather grim Christmas Day for us, what with all of us on edge and unable to sleep or eat. Well, I see it’s close to 7 o’clock, and that’s when your relief comes, I believe. As for me, I’ll be on duty another 3 hours. Then a 6-hour gap in which I’ll stare at my bunk and try to imagine what sleep would be like. I’ll give you a sig at—come on, brain!—at 4 o’clock. O.K.? Syl.
P.S. I have so many spots in front of my eyes that if I met this red-haired space Amazon right now, I wouldn’t be able to tell if she were pretty or ugly. But I would bet on the ugly! S.O.
Sirius: Right on the 4 o’clock, Sylvester. Jupiter, but I sympathize with you and the rest on the Antares! It must he a mess of no fun. I hope we manage to skip by that electron band. If . . . stand by a sec. QXN. . . .
QX again. Just took a message off the automatic, from Zarno, relayed from a scout ship investigating the electron band. It says the disturbance is spreading! Seems to be filling the Third Quadrant, too! That completely blocks the lanes to Mars. And here are general orders to decelerate at double time, which means we are definitely turning back to Earth. Say, this is what they call an emergency! All ships ordered to turn back to nearest port. Officials beginning to come in, Syl. Let’s have your sig at 4 o’clock. Jerre.
P.S. Glad to see you still have your sense of humor with you. As long as conditions on the Antares don’t drive that from you, all’s well. J.M.
Antares, December 24th, 4:05 p.m: QX Antares to Sirius. Can you hear me, Sirius? Have been sigging for five minutes. QX—QX—QX! Answer immediately, Sirius! QX—QX—QX——
Sirius: RP—RP—RP——
Antares: O.K., have raised power. Can you hear me now, Sirius?
Sirius: Just about. This is Jerre. Thank Heaven we’ve regained contact. I’ve been waiting since 4 o’clock for your sig. One little power QX squeezed through a minute ago. Raise your power a bit more—too many letter gaps.
QXN.
Antares: Right, Jerre. Have raised power almost twice. Hope the tubes hold out. The Antares is more or less of a madhouse right now. Imagine close to 300 insomniacs wandering about in a weird violet glow that fills the interior of our ship. Our eves are red from the bad lighting and from the blinding effects of the sparkling on the hull that reflects into the ports. Our hair is standing on end from electrification. The air we breathe reeks of ozone. Eating is out of the question. We’re all running some sort of fever that makes our skin burn maddeningly.
Many of the women and children passengers are violently ill. Cap Bernshaw has converted the stronger men into a temporary hospital force. In fact, he has instituted a practical martial law. He is walking around armed, as well as five trusted officers. No telling what may happen among those badly frightened, tortured passengers. It’s not a pleasant situation.
Our supply of battery light is running low, and for the first time in the history of this, or any other, ship, as far as I know, we have broken into the candle supplies and distributed them.
Candles are wasteful of oxygen, but we must have some light. Have you ever seen a candle, Jerre? Years and years ago they used them to decorate Christmas trees.
But we’re not thinking much about Christmas here. All we’re talking about is when we’ll ever run out of this electron band and get our engines started. And become human beings once more! We’ve all lost flesh—some terribly. Those sick are in a delirium, or—perhaps—insane. Passengers are not as blunt-nerved and inured as spacemen.
Lord! When will we run out of it? Since the Sun rotates on its axis, and must swing the electron band around with it, we ought to pass out of it eventually! Actually, of course, since the Sun rotates in 25 days, we should have been out in a few hours. But Sun spots have a habit of coming in chains, so the band is a continuous series of flaring cones along Sunline A, intersecting the space between Mars and Earth in the Third and Fourth Quadrants. The irony of it is that since we are aimed for a post opposition and speeding Earth, we have almost the same relative velocity from Mars that the electron band has. The cursed thing has actually been tagging along with us, like a leech, for 6,000,000 miles!
And I’m afraid it has cut us off completely from Mars, both physically and by radio. QXN—stand by—am going to try to contact Earth or Mars stations. . . .
4:21: QX. No go, Jerre. The only contact I have right now is with you, and at binormal power. I had Zarno about 3 hours ago. Then it flicked out as though suddenly choked off. That damned electron band must be like a holeproof wall between this sector and Mars. The strange part of it is, though, that I haven’t been able to raise Earth, either. Have you had any radio trouble? The control man insists our set is all right, and is functioning perfectly, but he must be wrong.
Syl.
Sirius: Syl! He’s probably right! And our control man must be right, too, because we lost contact with Mars three hours ago, and with Earth right after that! The electron band that you’re passing through has now completely filled the Third and Fourth Quadrants, a solid interlacement of cones 10.000,000 miles wide between us and Mars! I’ve determined that by timing the rebound echoes of my own power signals on long wave, which have no penetrative power and must reflect from the limits of the band. Right?
Jerre.
Antares: Yes. hut that doesn’t account for Earth being cut off through the First Quadrant. Syl.
Sirius: Earth? We’re cut off from Earth in the same way! Didn’t you get the ace-emergency QXX from Chicago at 12:30? That there’s another region of disturbance centering in the First Quadrant, Sunline B! Jerre.
Antares: Good Lord, no! No such warning came through at all here! I had a suspicion—Jerre! That means we’re hemmed in by those two bands! Cut off from both Mars and Earth! Any chance of your ship cutting into the Second Quadrant? Syl.
Sirius: No—too much velocity. Stuck we are. The last 6 liners scheduled to leave Earth were held. And the last 5 from Mars also. The Antares and the Sirius are the only two ships en route at present. Better notify your captain of this immediately. Jerre.
Antares: Right! QX you later.
Syl.
Antares, 5:03; Official: Captain Bernshaw of the Antares to Captain Rollaway of the Sirius. Since the electron bands have cut off communication to both Earth and Mars, the Antares’ position is extremely precarious. We will make one more attempt to start our engines, as we are now getting clear of the electron band we have ridden through for the past 2 days. If our engines do not respond, suggest that you, being under power, swing ship toward us immediately. In the case that we are unable to get our engines started in the next 12 hours, my passengers must be transferred to the Sirius before this delay makes it impossible to intersect Earth in its orbit. The fuel reserves of the Antares will be sufficient to power the Sirius in a transquadrant course to escape the electron bands. That is all. Bernshaw. QXN.
Sirius: Will swing ship immediately.
Rollaway.
P.S. unofficial: Funny how unemotional words can be, isn’t it, Syl? Captain Rollaway’s eyes were deeply worried as he read your message. He thought a long minute; his eyes gr
ew tortured. He can’t ignore Captain Bernshaw’s appeal—it is that?—but every delay means danger. What is your position at present? Jerre.
Antares: Fourth Quadrant, Sunline D-9, 14 power days out from Mars, and 2 cursed days of coasting. We’re just about at the mid-point. You must be rather close to our position; I’ve timed your replies at 10 seconds. About 1,000,000 miles. We’ll be close enough for phone contact soon. What’s your present velocity?
Syl.
Sirius: We’ve been decelerating at triple time for the past 6 hours. Our speed with respect to Mars is about zero now. The last order we received from Chicago was to head back for Earth via the Second Quadrant, which at that time was clear. Heaven knows if it is now! Something tells me, Syl, that both our ships are in a tough spot.
Jerre.
Antares: Tough’s the word, Scotty, but never say die. I hope to live to see this crimson-curled Venus who roams the spaceways! It does look, though, that we’re between the devil and the deep, if the electron band has closed in at our backs like a trap. First Quadrant, Sunline B, eh? That’s bad. The Sun’s rotation, and therefore the swing of the band, is faster than Earth’s orbital movement. That means it is inevitable that the Second Quadrant will be closed to us, if it isn’t already. Lord! I hate to think of our ship having to cross another band! At the end of it we’d be counting the dead and—insane! We could, of course, simply hold our ships in the clear area—in which you now are—and wait for a path to open. But by that time Earth will have gained more in her orbit than we could make up with our limited fuel. Worst of all, M-rs w—l -y -h—e——
Sirius: QX Antares! You have flicked out. Give me power sig. Standing by, QXN.
Sirius; 5:46 p.m. QX—QX—QX—Antares! Please answer—QX—QX——
Sirius, 7:00: Shins calling the Antares—QX—QX—QX—
Sirius, 9:00: Antares, please answer!
QX—QX—QX——
Sirius, 12:00: QX—Antares. QX—Antares. QX——
Antares, December 25th, 12:06 a.m.: Ans-er-ng QX S-ri-s—S-1.
Sirius: It’s time! You’ve been ether dead for 7 hours! What happened? And by the way, Merry Christmas! Jerre.
Antares: Yes, Merry Christmas. A very Merry Christmas. Big explosion in the fuel hold at 5:08 yesterday! Cause unknown. Results: lower stern completely ripped out, at least a dozen lives lost, all instruments dead, rest of ship badly strained. Repaired radio in space suit. Ship threatens to fall apart any minute! Forced oxygen supply is keeping up pressure, but won’t last long. We are in desperate circumstances. SOS! SOS! Can you——
Sirius: Antares! Go on! . . . Antares! If you can hear, but can’t answer, hang on as best you can. We are coming for you! Your radio signals check only one second—80,000 miles. Can you give a power sig?
Jerre.
Antares: QX—QX—OX——
Sirius: O.K., no time to lose. Give me power sigs every 10 seconds. As soon as we’ve orientated our position and speeds with a direction finder, we’ll approach. Sig!
QX—QX—QX——
Sirius: O.K., distance 72,000. Shouldn’t take more than an hour to——
QX—QX—QX——
O.K., 3 degrees, 7 minutes off Sunline——
QX—QX—QX——
O.K. ——
Sirius: O.K., we’re swinging ship! We have your approximate direction. We’ll transfer you inside of a hour. Hang on! Oh. Lord! If you could only talk to me. Syl——
QX—OX—QX——
O.K., clipped off a few miles already——
QX—QX—QX——
O.K. ——
Sirius: O.K.—hurray! We’ve just sighted you! You’re a tiny pin point of glowing violet there in the star Reid. All of us here are praying we’re in time. You are growing rapidly. We’ll be up to you in a jiffy, make contact, and——
“Blow yourself to hell! This is Sylvester O’Brien talking by phone. I have a beam on your aerial. Connect up.”
“Hello. Syl! Jerre talking. Jupiter, but it’s good to talk for a change, instead of banging radio keys. Ready for rescue?”
“Ring me Saturn, yes! But tell your captain pronto that we’re dynamite. We’re charged with electricity like a thunderbolt. Tell him to have your ship come only close enough to spear across a line—say 500 yards. The vacuum in between will protect you then. We will have our passengers come across in space suits—into one of your locks. They will discharge themselves individually by touching metal.
“Tell Rollaway to hurry! You see, our only chance to escape the two electron bands that are closing us in is by going up out of the plane of the planets. Rise above the bands, which lie side by side in the plane.
“That’s why we have to hurry, because after we reach free space, we have to make a bee line for Earth’s orbit and intersect it before Earth gets there, or else! This is still Christmas Day. We ought to have the poor old Antares emptied by midnight, and be on our way. That’s about the margin of time we have. Got all that straight?”
“Yes. Syl. You sound very weak. Are you—hurt?”
“Sort of, Jerre. I’m turning the phone to my assistant, in fact. Say, your voice sounds high-pitched. Are you nervous?”
“I—I guess so. Anyway, Syl, I’ll expect to see you in person soon. Come right to the radio room when you get across.”
December 25th, 11:45 p.m. A haggard-faced, tall young man, with his broken arm bandaged to his chest, entered the radio room of the Sirius and asked for Jerre McRoy. He stared in bewilderment at the young and pretty red-haired woman who rose smilingly to greet him—stared—stuttered—held out his good hand.
“How are you, Jerre?” he asked.
THE ELIXIR OF DEATH
The story of an unscrupulous alchemist whose sins brought down upon him a weird and terrible doom
MASTER ICHNOR surveyed his philtres and potions, all neatly arranged on broad wooden shelves, with rapturous pride. Brewed of rare materials and subtle compounds, distilled in an atmosphere of sorceric incantation, and delicately perfumed with myrrh and sandalwood and coriander, they possessed a potency priced highly in the commerce of life. His eyes strayed from one to the other—cuprous green, coral pink, crystal amber, xanthic yellow, they were of all colors and all uses. Some were love-charms, others medicines to cure ailments; again, there were liquids to quell riotous emotions, solutions to inflame passions, concoctions that could wreak havoc or do good, as they were used.
Necromancer and alchemist, Master Ichnor was famed in all Normandy as a powerful doctor-magician. His laboratory-wrought products were much in demand, and sold for princely amounts. Not only did he combine a rare chemical skill with a hoary lore of age-old secrets, but he infused his lotions and salves and fluids with a great sorcery. His familiar, reposing in the abhorrent hulk of a fat sleepy toad always perched on his writing-table, was a clever and obedient spirit, and his many conjurations gave him contact with the most remote and powerful nether entities.
His laboratory—part of an ancient cave of unknown origin—was replete with alchemical apparatus and the more gruesome paraphernalia of a sorcerer. Alembics, athanors, cucurbits, pelicans, furnaces and stills stood intermingled in a semi-confusion with rhombuses, glaring skulls, censers, idol-images, shelves of bleached bones, and jars of rare items such as frog’s eyes, wolves’ teeth, and pigeon’s blood, for his sundry concoctions. Even the living-quarters—several small rooms to the rear of the laboratory—were cluttered with curious painted stones and sticks, half-rotted totem poles, finely inscribed pentacles, and a veritable library of yellowed parchments and books.
But Master Ichnor frowned as his eyes came at last to an empty space among the phials and bottles. At one time he had had the place taken up with a flask holding a sparkling golden fluid, a solution able to prolong human life beyond its normal span. This elixir—it approached the ancient idea of the universal panacea—had been able to rejuvenate die old, stir the young to wild happiness, and arouse in any partaker a pure joy of living, no matter
how irksome his life. A mere cupful—it had sold for a small ransom in tiny portions. But the space for the bottle remained empty, for Master Ichnor had been unable to procure a second time one of its priceless ingredients.
Intent upon his examination of the many glass containers and their refined contents, Master Ichnor failed to notice that his young assistant, pumping the bellows, was wrapped in thought, unmindful of his charge. The hot coals beneath one copper bulb of a huge pelican flared as though fanned by a hell-breath, and caused the retort’s contents to begin a violent boiling. Not long could the fragile upper chamber of glass stand the terrific pressure, and suddenly it burst, spattering the scalding liquid in a fine spray for many feet.
STAGGERING from the thunderous concussion Master Ichnor fell against the shelves he had been regarding, knocking to the rock floor several expensive philtres. He whirled in a rage, glaring at the young man on the floor, who had been thrown there by the force of the explosion.
“Margo, dolt! What have you done?”
“Master, I——”
“Blithering idiot! You have ruined what I so laboriously prepared for final distillation. And these——”
Looking from the shattered pelican to the pools of liquid at his feet, the alchemist flew into a purple wrath. Margo, frantic and speechless in fear, cowered into the comer in a tremble.
“Spawn of Beelzebub, you are no better than my last assistant! It was his failing to let the fires die; you, in turn, fan them to a fury. I am cursed with nitwits for helpers. They will drive me to an early grave with their carelessness.”
