by Earl
Royce Howe went white, but made no move to avenge the open insult. Instead, he slumped down with his head in his hands. The outpost men stared at him, uncertain whether to sympathize with him or condemn him as a braggart.
The Jules Verne Express came down with a thunderous belching of its undertubes, like a fire demon. Space-suited figures ran toward it from the dome, through the swirling flakes of frigid atmosphere. At the top of the dome burned the brilliant magnesium flare that was always lighted to guide space ships through the general murk of the atmosphere.
After a moment the outer lock opened and Perry Howe’s space-suited form emerged. He dropped to the ground, fell to his knees, but struggled up alone, pushing his brother and others away. With violent gestures he indicated that the refueling should start, as though he had made up his mind to continue despite his last message.
CHAPTER IV
Last Leg
PERRY HOWE tried to help the men carrying tins to the rear hold, but gave up, leaning finally against the ship’s hull. Royce Howe ran back and forth through the thick pall of Pluto’s eternal snow-storm of frozen gases, urging the men to hurry though he knew they could not hear through their suits’ tough fabric.
Fifteen minutes later they were done. Royce Howe came out of the space ship after his examination of the engine. He took his brother’s arm and half carried him to the dome. The men followed. Inside, Commander Perl had just finished flashing the report to Earth with his sending apparatus which was used only in emergency.
Perry Howe took off his helmet. Everyone gasped. His skin was purple-black from cosmic-ray burn. Broken blisters, raw looking, ran down the soft skin of his cheeks. He grinned twistedly through his unshaven, unwashed mask of a face.
But his voice was a hoarse thick croak when he said: “I thought I might go on for a minute, but I can’t. I’m done up! This ray-burn—pain—itching—no sleep—no rest. Nerves shot—” He spoke groggily, like a man half-conscious on his feet. His face twitched with pain and utter exhaustion. Its youthfulness accentuated the lines of haggardness.
Royce Howe stared at his younger brother pityingly, but then his face went a little hard.
“You’ve come this far, Perry,” he said tersely. “You’ve got to finish. The record’s the thing. You have a bad burn, but it’ll have to be treated on Earth, anyway. There are no facilities here. You’re too tough to be in actual danger from it.”
“Yeah, the record’s the thing,” repeated the young flier, as though he had been chanting it in the past hours. “But I can’t—make it. Sorry, Roy, can’t—” He dropped into a chair like a falling weight. His head rolled.
Royce Howe grabbed up an oxygen bottle handy for emergency and opened the valve directly under his brother’s nose. The sharp draught quickly revived the exhausted space flier. Then Royce Howe jammed three ammonia tablets into his mouth and shook him by the shoulders. His brother winced with pain where raw blisters lay under his suit, aggravated by its roughness.
“You’ve got to, kid!” Royce Howe growled in his face. “Do you hear? You can’t let yourself, and me, and the name of Howe down. The eight-planet record wouldn’t be anything to the nine-planet record you have within grasp. It would be second-hand glory. It’s up to you to finish—understand!”
The outpost men were muttering. Commander Perl spoke.
“Why not let him rest a few hours? He’s twenty-five hours ahead of Stevenson’s time. Beating that is all that counts.”
“Can’t let him rest here,” cried Royce Howe. “Put him flat on his back, and he’d stay down for a week, condition he’s in. He can go on! There’s always a reserve of strength and endurance in a man that comes out at the last. Perry, you must go on! Perry—”
THE young flier had again fallen senseless. Royce Howe reached for the oxygen bottle. Commander Perl put a hand on his arm, preventing him.
“I dunno,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t drive the kid to doom. He might start off okay and then lose consciousness on the stretch and drift out to get lost for good. You better let well enough alone, record or no record.”
“The record’s the thing, eh?” spoke up Jed Alcher suddenly. “Well, here’s your chance, Howe! You’ve been talking that ship across space all this time. Why not take it in yourself?”
A tense hush came over the men in the dome. Jed Alcher had brazenly voiced a thought all the outpost men had had. Life on harsh Pluto had made them all hard. They revered one quality above all others—courage. They could only despise a man who lacked it. And even Commander Perl, for once, failed to step in to protect Howe from this mental inquisition.
Royce Howe knew he had to answer. And he knew he would be judged by his reply.
“It—it wouldn’t stand up to Stevenson’s solo record,” he stammered lamely.
“No, but it would be a time-record in its own class!” pursued Jed Alcher cruelly. “I see something as plain as day. You covered up with all that talk about the record, but you wouldn’t take a chance on the engine yourself, because you once had an explosion. I saw you go in and look the engine over, Howe, and your face gave you away when you came out!” He pointed his thick finger. “Look at him, men—willing to send his own brother—”
“Stop!” said Royce Howe, his voice like a pistol shot. “You’re wrong, Alcher. The engine will stand up, I swear it. I know engines. It’s taken a lot of punishment, but it’ll easily hold up until Earth.”
“Then why don’t you take the ship in?” said Jed Alcher relentlessly. “Are you afraid?”
Royce Howe looked around wildly, as though seeking a way of escape. But there was no escape from the accusation that seemed to vibrate in the air like a living thing. Even Commander Perl looked at him searchingly, condemningly.
“I can’t take the ship in!” Royce Howe said hoarsely. “I tell you I can’t. If Perry were awake, he’d tell you how it is. You see, I—”
“Lost your nerve completely, eh?” broke in Jed Alcher sneeringly. “Pah!” He spat on the floor contemptuously. “I can see the yellow streak up your back, right through your clothes!”
Royce Howe’s face went white, and he opened his mouth as though to pour out a flood of hot words. But suddenly his eyes glazed. He knew that nothing he could say now would change their opinion. They had branded him, and only one thing could take away the stigma. Sweat came out on his brow.
Suddenly he snapped himself erect. He faced the men whose eyes held stony scorn.
“All right!” he backed. “I’ll take the ship in! Help me carry my brother to the ship. The quicker he gets to an Earth hospital, the better.”
The tense atmosphere broke. The outpost men relaxed their grim faces. In their rough way, they felt justice had been done.
“Well, that’s more like it,” rumbled Jed Alcher grudgingly. “Now smoke that ship to earth and—well, good luck!” He stuck out his hand, all animosity gone.
Royce Howe shook it, but the sweat still stood out on his forehead. He had a queer look in his squinting eyes, as though he foresaw doom.
“It isn’t as bad as all that,” said Jed Alcher, with surprising good grace. “You have plenty of chance of coming through. You said yourself the engine looked okay.” He himself carried the limp form of Perry Howe to the ship.
ALL the men were out there, watching, as Royce Howe closed the outer lock and vanished from view. The engine had been idling since the landing and was ready for take-off. But the ship did not leave, immediately. For long minutes it remained there on the frozen surface of Pluto, its long streamers of flame beating into the frigid atmosphere.
The outpost men stood wondering at the delay. Jed Alcher was muttering to himself.
“Losing his nerve again, probably. If he comes out—”
He started. The hatch-lock did open. But only a hand appeared to toss something white in their direction. Jed Alcher picked it up. It was a rolled piece of paper, with a metal weight attached to it so that the winds would not blow it out of their reach.
&n
bsp; Then the ship’s engine thundered out violently. The long, sleek craft slid forward and lifted smoothly after a short run. In seconds, the vermilion flare of its rockets had receded into the gray vault of the Plutonian sky.
The Jules Verne Express was on its way to Earth, on the last leg of its tremendous journey around the Solar System.
Inside the dome, Commander Perl unrolled the paper and read its hastily scrawled message first to himself, then aloud.
“Commander Perl and the men of the outpost-,” he read, “I’m going to drive the ship as hard as I know how, toward Earth. And then I’m going to die. I should have explained, but you wouldn’t have believed me anyway. Besides, this is the only way to get Perry the record he deserves. I’m glad it’s turned out this way.
“That explosion of my ship two years ago ended my career as a pilot. As the Earth announcer said, it was a miracle I lived. A tiny sliver of steel lodged itself in my head, touching my brain. They couldn’t remove it as they had removed the other pieces of metal in my body. The operation would be certain death. It is there yet. At any moment, in the past two years, it might have moved into my brain, killing me.
“The doctors told me that. And they said I must never pilot speed ships again, or ride any ship in space that went faster than average rates. There are many free electrons in space. The faster a ship goes, the more electrons it plows through. At high speeds, the resulting effect is a measurable magnetic field. In any magnetic field, the sliver of steel in my brain would move—and kill me.
“When you read this, I’ll be driving this ship to the limit, building up speed and setting a true course for Earth. The magnetic field will be building up also. I’ll be ready at a moment’s notice. At the first twinge of pain in my head—I must receive some warning—I’ll get in the airlock and leave the ship. Eventually my body will gravitate into the rocket stream and be burned to ashes.
“I leave the rest to Providence. I’m setting the automatic fuel cut-off for ten hours ahead. The ship will coast for about fifty-five hours. Perry will have come out of his unconscious state by then. He’ll have strength and will enough to decelerate, when he realizes it’s life or death. He’ll land safely.
“I have one request to make—that you men keep my secret. Report me lost on Pluto, body not found—it happens often enough to forestall suspicion. Perry will have made his solo flight unmarred. I think you’ll all agree with me that he deserves it. You’ll never tell Perry, of course. He’ll think he somehow managed to get the ship off himself, though he won’t remember how.
“Good-by! With us, the record’s the thing. Royce Howe.”
THEY were all gathered around the radio, at the outpost, when the report came in from Columbus Space Port seventy-five hours later.
“Here they are—Perry Howe and the Jules Verne Express, back from their epochal space flight! A great feat by a great lad! Perry Howe has set the new record of nine days, twenty-three hours and four minutes for a complete circle of the Solar System!”
Perry Howe’s blackened, worn face appeared in the television screen. He muttered some conventional phrases for the network. He appeared dazed. Then he raised his voice.
“Roy, I know you’re listening, up on Pluto. You should be here with me, sharing the glory. Somehow, you made me go on, when I wanted to quit. You—and the spirit of Verne. This great, crazy crowd should be cheering you, too—” He broke off, swallowed, then went on.
“They’re hauling me off to a hospital. Guess I need it. But I’ll be up to get you in a couple of weeks, old boy. I’ll bring the record-cup along. You won it, too!” His face and voice faded from the screen.
In the dome of Pluto’s outpost, Jed Alcher’s booming voice came as an echo.
“You’re right there, kid! Your brother won it, too.” He turned to his companions. “But we’ll never tell the kid, will we? We can’t let Royce Howe down! He was about the bravest man that ever lived!”
He glared belligerently.
“And I’d like to see anyone here say different!” he added, lest they think he was going soft.
PRISON OF TIME
When Barry Carver was shot down in the Sahara, his urgent message undelivered, the Dictator nations were about to crush the Allies. But that was before Barry found Shorraine, Land of the Mirage and the demon people of Phoryx, who schemed to enslave all Earthmen—and Sha-tahn, guiding power of all Dictators!
BARRY CARVER groaned. A great light pressed against his tortured eyelids. He opened them and winced. A torrent of sunlight stabbed into his eyes, blindingly. He rolled himself over spitting sand from his mouth. He raised a hand to the tender lump on his head. How long had he been out? What had happened?
Memory stabbed into his mind, as the sunlight had stabbed into his eyes. The attack, by three enemy ships whose wings bore the black swastika! They had brought his lone ship down—
Carver raised his head and looked through the heat haze that lay over the mighty Sahara. The cloudless blue of sky was clear. They had left, satisfied that he could not have survived both the business-like strafing of their machine-guns and the crash.
Barry Carver grinned. They were wrong. By a miracle he had come through unscathed. Not a bullet had touched him. He remembered nothing of the crash. Obviously his body had been thrown clear, onto the cushioning sand.
He looked around.
There his small ship lay, a twisted, shattered wreck that would never fly again. It had come down like a rock. The engine had buried itself out of sight. Rows of bullet-holes, neat and orderly, zigg-zagged across the crumpled wings. Gasoline soaked sand rapidly evaporated in the hot sun. By that he knew he had been unconscious only a few minutes. Why the plane hadn’t burst into flame, toasted him to a corpse, was another miracle. Well, he must accept the little finger of fate.
He came to his knees, and suddenly found himself dizzy, almost nauseated. He fought off his weakness. No time now to be a weakling. He must carry on somehow, reach an Allied-held port, deliver his message. It was vital. More vital, perhaps, than any other phase of the Great War that had turned the entire world into an armed camp, in 1942. Scouting over western China, far from where the Japanese-American Front lay, he had spied a secret Japanese army marching southward. If they once smashed through to the coast of India, the Dictator Coalition would have driven its first wedge through the Allies’ earth-girdling belt of continuity.
Barry Carver had decided this information must go directly to GHQ, in London. Radio was out of the question, because of the barrage of artificial static made by both sides in the attempt to hinder the other. So he would fly, since he had a long-range scout ship fueled for 3,000 miles. He had had his choice—north or south route. North lay the enemy in full force; too risky. But south, via Arabia and the Sahara, then north to London—that was the safest route.
But of course, as chance would have it, the few of the enemy’s devil-dogs patrolling northern Africa had seen him, given chase, shot him down . . .
VITAL information. Bravely, he set out on foot across the burning sands, equipped with one canteen of water, a pair of binoculars, an automatic and a compass. Young and strong, he refused to be pessimistic about his chances. He would soon find an oasis. Or run into a caravan. He plodded away from his wrecked plane, out into the ocean of sand that heaped endlessly to all horizons.
Three days later, Barry Carver was not so sure of himself. He sucked the last drop of carefully rationed water from his canteen and flung it away. Wearily, he raised the binoculars to his blood-shot eyes. Nothing but sand, sand in all directions. Bitter curses rasped from his parched throat. Vital information. Was he to die with it searing his brain?
That afternoon, under the pitiless sun, his mind began to wander. He fought against it, but hopelessly. He was going to die, out in this sandy hell! All else slipped from his mind, even the Great War that was blasting humanity. He moaned like a wild animal. „His blistered feet, burning skin, aching throat were driving him mad, mad!
Then he saw it�
�the great, spired city ahead of him. He broke into a stumbling run, shouting hoarsely. Saved! The people of the city would give him water. How sweet it would taste!
He stumbled on, but the distance was greater than it first seemed. To inspire his failing strength, he peered at it through the binoculars. How hazy it looked; it wavered! That must be his eyes. But there was water, great fountains of it cascading up in lush patches of greenery. There were even people on one of the balconies, staring at him. He waved, but they stared stonily. Why didn’t they come out to help him?
He again took up his tottering lope, cursing at the loose sand that dragged at his feet.
Suddenly, through the fog of his mind, a terrible thought pierced. A mirage—it might be that! No, it couldn’t be—mustn’t be!
Yet what was such a great spired city doing out in these wastes? Doubts trooped through his agonized mind. It shimmered, that city. It wavered and floated over the sand. It wasn’t real. It was a phenomenon of refraction, an image cast across miles of desert. A diabolical vision sent to torture him in his last hour of life.
Barry Carver’s mind was paradoxically shocked to calm and sanity by the dread realization. His poor burned feet automatically propelled him toward the wonderful vision, his whole body straining forward. But his mind, clear and rational, told him he was chasing a chimera.
Another hour and it would be over. He would sink, drained of strength, to the hot sands. His information would die with him; the Great War go on without him. Perhaps some day a wandering desert tribe would find his bleached bones. His epitaph would be written in the drifting sands.
Stumbling on, refusing to lie down and wait for death, Barry Carver’s eyes appraised the city of the mirage with almost philosophical detachment. How real it looked, and yet how unreal. Distorted by heat waves, it seemed like no city ever seen on Earth. Its towers and spires had a slim grace unknown to ordinary architecture. It stretched right and left and back interminably. Yet beyond it, through it, he could see plainly the hateful dunes and ridges of the vast desert.
