by Earl
Stand by for the blast.
ONE Hundred Fifty-Second Day.
The mercury lake is gone. All went as planned.
The blast undermined a whole section of the valley-crest. Like a thousand Niagaras, the mercury metal thundered down into the valley. It was an awesome sight, from our safe perch on the plateau. Plants, reed-trees, animals—all vanished beneath that silver flood.
Imagine, if you can, Boulder Dam dynamited and letting not water but mercury spurt through into a basin filled with teeming forest life. Imagine millions of gallons of liquid metal hurtling down, with an impact that seemed to shake the whole planet from end to end.
Earth has its glaciers of ice and floods of water. Mercury has glaciers and floods of mercury, on a scale a hundred times more destructive.
We were startled to see the pyramid collapse and go along as bobbing bits of stone. But no man-made, nor even Martian-made structure could withstand that smashing, churning, roaring avalanche of metal fluid.
Robertson let out a groan.
“Good Lord! Why did the pyramid have to go? It might have revealed the secret of the Martian Age, with a little more study.”
We consoled him by pointing out that there must be other pyramids on Mercury, with their perfectly preserved machine chambers. The Martians must have set up more than one, on Mars, Venus and Mercury, or we would not have found them so easily.
Within an hour, the mercury lake had drained down, covering now the valley floor. Green and furry debris bobbed on its surface, and a film of organic oil. At one stroke we had wiped out all that life. But again, as with the pyramids, there must be other valleys. We had not consigned the life-forms to extinction.
“Still,” sighed Markers, turning away with a shudder. “I almost have the feeling we murdered those—”
He stopped, but we all knew what he meant. We know Swinerton couldn’t have imagined the whole episode of the plant-brains. Has our record been broken after all? Have we saved our ten lives, at a cost in other lives that can’t be reckoned in any terms we know?
We don’t know. We almost forgot to retrieve our fuel, thinking those strange thoughts over moodily. Captain Atwell finally led five men to the spot, which will now be uncovered. It will be rolled back, a drum at a time. They should be back soon.
Well, Earth, throw out the anchor! We’ll be there soon.
Hello, Venus! Sorry to hear of one of your men dying, from the death-mold. Keep your courage up. You’ll lick the death-mold with all your UV-apparatus.
Stand by—
Startling news!
Captain Atwell and his party just returned—without the fuel. It wasn’t there, where we buried it! Will resume later, after we have discussed this alarming turn of events.
ONE Hundred Fifty-Second Day—Noon.
We have the fuel, but it’s a strange story.
Our first thought, when Captain Atwell announced the stunning disappearance of our reserve fuel, was that the mercury tide had ripped it along, down into the valley. We even looked down there, expecting to see smashed drums and perhaps a film of useless fuel over the new lake.
There were no signs, but nevertheless the fuel was gone. We stared at one another bleakly. We were marooned on Mercury.
“Swinerton!” Parletti suddenly exclaimed. “What was he shouting before?”
But instead of running to him, Parletti ran outside the ship, and began peering in all directions. He pointed suddenly. Then we all saw it—a drum of fuel a few hundred yards away. We ran to it. It was whole. It rested a few feet above what had formerly been the mercury-level of our lake. The other drums were scattered along the plateau slope, for a mile along, all above the mercury-line.
“Do you know what it means?” said Parletti. “It means that our fuel has been here, high and dry like this, for three months! When the mercury first flooded here, from the melting glacier, it simply picked up the drums and finally tossed them here. All the while that we waited, our fuel was waiting for us to see it. And there was no need to at all drain the lake!”
We looked at each other sheepishly.
Like fools, though we had intelligently remembered that almost everything would float on Mercury, including our heavy ship, we had stupidly failed to think of our fuel bobbing right up and floating away. Fortunately the mercury from the glacier had seeped down gently enough not to smash the drums, but merely toss them up and whirl them away. The shore it had tossed them on was opposite the glacier-source.
Our faces are red. How could ten men miss that elementary thought?
Well, Earth, how come you didn’t think of it? Billions of you! Sometimes the obvious is too profound to grasp.
We stored the drums in the ship. Swinerton had been quiet for hours. When we opened his door, he slowly looked up at us.
“I saw those drums,” he said in a hollow voice, “just after you locked me in. Why didn’t you listen? Well—too late now. We’re ready to leave, aren’t we? Captain Atwell, I commend you on bringing ten men through four months of the dangers of Mercury—without sacrificing a life!”
We all winced. We knew what he meant, why his tone was infinitely ironic. He was looking down into the valley, under whose floor a series of catacombs were choked with crushing mercury.
We’re ready for take-off. Stand by—
ONE Hundred Fifty-Second Day—Afternoon.
Take-off successful, but trouble developed.
At a height above Mercury of a thousand miles, the engine began missing. Tarnay reported that a complete rear jet-bank is out of order. Without that, we had no chance of building up enough velocity to reach Earth in less than a year.
Rather than risk a landing back on Mercury, with our crippled rockets, Captain Atwell pointed out Mercury’s moon.
We have landed on that, having no maneuvering troubles because of its extremely light gravitation.
This tiny moon is little more than a big rock, or mass of metal. We will try to repair our damaged rockets. As you might guess, the mercury lake caused it. Its vapors, constantly surrounding the ship, worked into the outside tubes. It amalgamated with parts of the jet-valves, weakening them. Mercury vapor is a destructive influence with all harder metals, in time. That was another thing we failed to foresee.
To be candid, our entire rocket system wouldn’t stand an hour’s highspeed operation. The repair job-well, we can try.
The outlook is grim, but we haven’t lost a life—yet. My battery power is needed now for welding. Will resume when conditions warrant.
Mercury Expedition Number One signing off.
WORLD OF ILLUSION
The Mad Moor was the roughest, toughest spaceman in all the Universe, but even his powers were taxed beyond endurance on that strange Rock of the void, where spirit voices spoke their warnings out of the nothingness and intangible terrors sprang up with the speed of thought!
THE setting sun threw the mountain-tops to the ground in long, jagged shadows. On the slope the cabin was lost to view in the growing gloom. The lone, lighted window on one side glared red and baleful like the Planet Mars.
It was a warm summer evening. In the darkness outside sat Mad Moor. The smoke from his pipe writhed straight upward. Not a breath of air was stirring. On a small table before him was a huge jug of Yanson ale. To the right of him were some empty chairs.
Three young space officers had promised to spend this night with him. This hideout in the mountains was their secret. A solemn promise had been made by them never to reveal it, or the existence of the man who lived there. They thrilled to the adventure of it all. They always came in the dead of night and by Wacon Chart. A great secret it was, too, for Mad Moor was a legendary hero to the rest of the universe!
The old space captain stared up into the night sky. How those blinking stars beckoned to him! But his days of adventure and exploration were long since done and over with. Space-travel was no longer hazardous. Super-science had made it as safe as a baby’s cradle.
The hours sped as he s
moked and dreamed. The jug of Yanson ale was lifted periodically.
He stopped his puffing. A pin-point of light was sweeping in a great arc in the vaulted blackness. His teeth clamped tighter on the pipestem as he watched.
Some minutes later the glaring beam of a rocketbus stabbed the darkness. It was searching for its usual landing place. Like some monstrous night-bird it came down. Silently it glided to rest on the sward a short distance from the cabin.
Bob, Dick and Bill raced up the slope. They were all but breathless from the effort as they stood before Captain Moor and saluted. “Reporting for duty, sir,” they chorused and then burst into merry laughter.
“Aye, lads. A duty more willing to the heart than ship’s chores, I’ll warrant.” He winked at them.
Bob Andrews dropped into a chair. The other two followed suit.
“There’s the Yanson ale, lads. Help yourselves. You’ll go thirsty waiting for my manners. It is the only thing I know of that takes the sky-air out of the system properly. By the Tarps of Titan, it warms not only the innards but the very soul of a man. You’ll agree with me on that score?” He looked from one to the other.
THEY nodded in unison as they drank.
Their eyes sparkled in the glow of light that fell across the table from the open door of the cabin. The silver braid of their neat, green uniforms glistened, and the old captain could not help but admire their trim looks and bearing.
“If you’re comfortable, lads, we’ll start with the yarn. Is there anything . . .”
“Yes, Captain,” Dick broke in eagerly. “I’ve been on a furlough for two weeks. I went Titan-way and visited the Brongel Memorial. Did you know that great scientist in your day?”
Mad Moor brought a fist down with such force it made the jug dance. “Did I know him!” His booming voice shattered the stillness of the night. “Eric Brongel. ‘Doc,’ we called him. Those few of us whom he called friend. You’ve read of hermits, recluses and the like of centuries past. By the Jeets of Luna, Doc was a whole bundle of them wrapped in one. I never knew a mortal in my day so stingy with companionship as he was. I guess it was his great mind. He had too much to think about to be bothered with ‘flies,’ as he always called the rest of the peoples of the universe. Lads, I’ll tell you a yarn about this Doc that’ll make you think the Yanson ale has addled my brains.” Captain Moor restuffed his pipe. Over the flame he squinted at the three space officers as they made themselves comfortable. His cold, penetrating eyes cradled hidden fires as he began to recall his old space-days when exploration in the cosmos meant signing a contract with death. . . .
MAD MOOR’S STORY
IT WAS in the fall of 2238. Now mark me, lads, I might be a trifle leeward on some of the dates. It has been a mighty long time since the Black Comet blasted in the void.
We had just gotten in from a trip out Saturn-way. And a misbegotten voyage it had been. By the horned Jooras, everything had gone wrong from the start. We hadn’t been out three weeks when a small meteor ripped a compartment wall. I lost three men before the safety panels closed and we could don our space-suits to repair the damage. On the way back, over half the crew was in their bunks. They had contracted a strange malady on one of the moons we had visited. And to top it off, my relief pilot made a bad landing. I was fit to be tied and madder than a bull.
After hours of incessant work attending to the needs of my men and ironing out the confusion rampant on board the Black Comet, I wearily retired to my hotel. Before I left, the medicos assured me that the crew would soon be on their feet.
I had scarcely gotten to my quarters and in my much needed bath when the bell rang. My nerves were as raw as the jagged edges of a wound. I was over-tired. My mind was black with rage. “Come in,” I thundered.
Seconds later an officer of the U.N.A.[1] stood before me. His outstretched hand held a message.
“Read it,” I roared. I had a reputation, lads. The officer fairly trembled before my wrath.
“Commander West desires your immediate appearance at Headquarters,” he read.
“Oh, he does, does he? Well, tell him . . . The officer snapped to stiff attention. It choked the words in my throat. I cooled down. I realized not even Mad Moor could get away with that. I knew Ira West well. I might be as brusque as I pleased to his face. But to an officer of his army it was a matter of ethics. “Tell Commander West I will see him as soon as I am finished here.”
“You are to leave with me, sir. I have an army plane waiting for you,” he said politely.
“Good. Make yourself comfortable, lad. I’ll join you in a quarter of an hour.” He saluted and left me to finish my bath.
Three hours later I was ushered into the Commanders office. Ira West was a fine specimen. The lines in his face, the gray streaks in his hair only, showed that the mammoth responsibilities of his high position took a relentless toll.
“Sit down, Moor.” The corners of his mouth broke into a smile. We were both fighting men and admired each other.
“What’s up, Ira?” I said, lighting my pipe.
“You’re blasting Saturn-way . . . tonight!”
I SPRANG to my feet. “By the Homed Jooras, I just came from there!” I thundered.
“I know. But you are going right back,” he commanded sternly.
I reached such an extreme point of wrath that it burned itself out in a flash, and I calmed down. “Look here, Ira. Why do you always pick on me? I’m busy. I have a lot of things to do. You have a whole damned army to do your bidding, but still you call me in. Why?” I almost pleaded.
“Because my whole damned army is not Mad Moor,” he spoke up candidly.
Well, lads, I wouldn’t be a human being if a compliment from a man like Ira West was not to fall in the right spot. “All right. You win.” I growled nevertheless. “But I’ve had the worst trip of my career, Ira. Sick crew . . . bad landing . . . and a meteor had part of my number and nearly . . .”
“Good!” he said so vehemently that it irked me.
“Good!” I cried; “to lose three men and face certain . . .”
West’s laugh cut me short. “Why, you hell-larking rascal, I didn’t mean it that way. Now let’s start at the beginning. Have you heard of a man by the name of Eric Brongel?”
“Went to school with him. Why?”
“That was quite a spell ago, right? You haven’t seen him since?”
“No. But I heard he has built himself quite a reputation as a scientist and an inventor. Likes to be left alone, I hear.”
“A regular phantom. Hops from one moon to another to keep his whereabouts a secret.” Ira West shook a finger in my face. “But we need the man. He is a genius. And you have got to find him for us.”
“Oh, just like that!” I burst out, snapping my fingers.
“Hardly. It is a tough assignment and that is why I called in the only man who is capable of doing it. That’s you!”
“Must be something mighty big,” I shot back.
“Exactly. That was why I had said ‘good’ when you told me of your mishaps. Two months ago he announced that he had invented an Electro-repulsion Screen and then vanished into thin air. Up to his old tricks as usual. Calls the rest of the humans pesty ‘flies.’ We have to drag him from his lair, cajole and sometimes threaten him to let us use the results of his brilliant mind. Do you realize, Moor, what that invention of his means to the universe?—the dangers of space travel cut at least eighty per cent!” His eyes bored into mine.
I sat silent—in deep thought for some moments. By the Seven Suns, beads of sweat stood out on my forehead as I recalled those horror-filled moments when a meteor rips a ship’s hull. I have been inside of such wandering derelicts out in the void—steel coffins filled with dead! Lads, it is a ghastly sight! It stabs a nameless fear into the most courageous heart. The rest of the dangers of space-exploration in those old days were a mere bag of shells to us adventurers, compared to this one outstanding disaster which constantly faced us. And now . . .” I banged a fist down
on the desk. He can’t get away with that, by the Jeets of Luna!” I roared. “Why does the rascal announce these inventions and then . . .”
“Egotism, Moor, egotism,” Ira West cut in. “And he can do it.”
“The hell he can!” I stormed.
“Now let us look at this thing in a rational light. With the announcement he also sent a warning to us. He said, ‘Let the flies beware if they try to use their highhanded methods with me in the future. I have a new weapon!’ Now then, Moor, you can see why I am sending you and not the Intelligence Service after him. I cannot let the man become a murderer and an outlaw. He is too valuable. And men of his type can become as destructive in their whims as they are beneficial to mankind by their superintelligence. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded. I could see, lads, that Ira West was right. I was always a man of action. But I also had the luck to be born with a “clear head” at all times. It is a great combination and always makes a man a leader among them. It was a tough assignment. Caution and foresight would have to outweigh all other methods of approach. Ira West could read that in my eyes. The comers of his hard mouth turned up. The confidence which shone in his eyes, lads, made me feel mighty grand.
“So he it out Saturn-way?” I said half to myself.
“Right. And if you find him in that ocean of moons, history will undyingly proclaim that there never was or will be a second Mad Moor!”
I gripped his extended hand. “By the blasted stars, Ira, your job is bigger than mine. Why, I’m just a hell-larking rascal and doubt if history will waste one word on me,” I said in all earnestness, as I punched the Tel-Ra dial on his desk and called Ruk-Sara. I ordered him to have the Black Comet ready to blast off at the second hour of the night-period . . .
An hour later, after having shared a beaker of Yanson ale with Ira West and going carefully over plans, I left the U.N.A. headquarters and embarked upon one of the weirdest adventures that ever befell mortal man. . . .
DISEMBODIED SPIRITS?
