by Earl
Eagerly, he fumbled with the octant, then steadied to Jake the readings. Rapidly, triumphantly, he put down the figures.
“And now we can attack,” ZlkZee said fiercely. “Now that we know where Tharkya lies. Millions of ships will rend aside the veil before Tharkya and bomb that wicked world to oblivion!”
Terry Kaine forgot his numb body. He thought pleasantly of bombs dropping on Tharkya—everyone a hit in that planetwide city. Bombs, bombs, millions of them, for the cruel beings who had destroyed Veloa’s body!
VII
FAR across the rim of the Galaxy, where the appalling emptiness began to the next island universe, rested a small yellow sun, type GO, like Sol. Like Sol, it had a family of planets, one of which revolved at a distance of 98 million Earth miles.
This planet was 8,100 miles in diameter. Its surface was three-quarters blue water, one-quarter land. Its north and south poles were regions of eternal ice and snow, its equator jungle hot. Its rotation period was 22 Earth hours, its year 398 of those days.
Summer, fall, winter and spring alternately laved its face. Forests and grains grew luxuriantly, and furred, feathered and scaled animal life romped over the fossils of their ancestry. A two-legged upright animal with intelligence ruled the planet.
It was a second Earth.
“Dymoor,” announced ZlkZee. “The headquarters of the Legion of Freedom.”
“Blast me if it isn’t Earth all over again!” MacLean sighed. “Eh, Terry?”
Kaine nodded heavily.
“Buck up, lad,” MacLean said sharply. “Dymoor must be full of lovely girls. Earth, too, only you didn’t notice them there. Now why in the name of Aldebaran must you lose your heart to this one girl, an alien at that—”
“Hush, fool,” the spider-man interposed. “Love is of the mind, not body.”
“Indeed!” the engineer retorted. “Well, I don’t picture any female mind—not even one of your own spider-women—falling for you!”
ZlkZee gave a clacking chuckle. “In turn, one of our women, seeing you, would turn away in horror. You might call that biological relativity. Look to your landing, monster!”
Under the spider-man’s directions, MacLean lowered into the atmosphere over a triangular continent with two huge oceans on both sides. On one coast, within an indented harbor, gleamed a city. A city beside which New York might have seemed a backward village.
“Dymoor’s greatest metropolis—Myr,” ZlkZee informed. “Descend.”
“Wait a minute,” MacLean objected. “I see a Tharkyan local Patrol ship loafing around down there, over the port. Maybe they’re on the watch for us.”
“Hardly,” the spider-man denied. “Remember that no Tharkyan back there saw us—alive. They’ll have to check all the Tax-Bearers before they find which are missing. It will take them days. By the time they do pin our identity down, and send the alarm to Earth, Klak and Dymoor, we’ll have the attack plans launched. Descend!”
With misgivings, MacLean sidled the ship past the Patrol. It made no move to intercept. No news had come yet from distant Tharkya that four members of the outlawed Legion of Freedom were at large.
The space port of Myr was reminiscent of New York’s, bustling with activity. Checking in, Kaine and MacLean, under ZlkZee’s instructions, posed as Dymooran traders, returning with an empty ship after delivery of cargo. ZlkZee and Veloa lay hidden in the locked hold. If the Tharkyan port official saw the spider-man, and especially Veloa’s broken body, his suspicions would flame.
The Tharkyan glanced at the two Earthmen casually. Only to a wary eye would they stand as bogus Dymoorans, with slightly varied racial characteristics. Kaine held his breath.
“Busy day,” complained the Tharkyan, waving a lax hand. “Move on rapidly. Don’t clutter up the ways!”
Rolling the ship to a dock berth, MacLean let ZlkZee out of the hold. “Ornery blue devils!” MacLean growled. “Never met one yet with manners.”
“Be glad we checked in so easily,” ZlkZee murmured. “On a slower day, they might have nosed around. However, we’re safely in. Now, we must rush to headquarters.”
A commercial aero-cab took them over the tall-spired city toward its outskirts. Veloa’s hypnotized form lay swathed in silken blankets. The cab-driver, like any on Earth, questioned nothing. Business was business.
THEY were landed before a ramshackle country home, so like plantations of America’s south that Kaine blinked. Dymoor had certainly followed a development closely paralleling Earth, in all things. More startling yet, a sleepy old negro answered the door.
“Yes suh?” he queried. The Earthmen’s voice-machine translated an inflection of drawl.
“Is the master in?” ZlkZee said.
“Massa?” the black Dymooran echoed vaguely. He mumbled on, as though saying something always lurking in his slow mind. “Only Tharkya is Massa of the universe.”
“Yes,” ZlkZee returned. “Tharkya is master of all—except souls!”
An electrifying change came over the blackman. He peered up and down. No one was in sight. The cab had gone. His eyes flashed.
“Enter, ZlkZee!” he said, all trace of drawl gone. “I thought it was you, but had to make sure. You gave the password. President Kylar waits below.”
The blackman led them through dim, dusty halls and down steps into a dank basement. He pressed a concealed button. With a low hiss, a rock door pivoted aside. Beyond were light and sound, in a huge sunken chamber.
A dozen Dymoorans stood facing the doorway, all armed with dis-guns. The foremost, white-haired and aristocratic, holstered his gun and strode forward with outstretched hand.
“ZlkZee!” he greeted. “What are you doing here? These other two are”—his old eyes widened a little—“Earthmen!”
“Lon MacLean,” ZlkZee introduced them. “Agent S-14 of Earth. And the other is Terrance Kaine. I think you will be glad to greet him as a Legionnaire, President Kylar!”
“Terrance Kaine!” Kylar said eagerly. “Splendid! A Tharkyan-trained man, worth his weight in gold. I greet you, Kaine, and—”
Kaine woke from a sort of daze. He had only been dimly aware of events since the escape from Tharkya. He had carried Veloa’s swathed, limp form, since arriving at Dymoor. Tenderly he had carried her, lest the poor tortured body suffer more.
“Never mind all that,” he snapped haggardly. “Take care of this girl. I think she’s your daughter.”
“Veloa!” Kylar gasped. “What—”
“Inquisition!” ZlkZee said bluntly.
For a moment there was utter silence in the room. The Dymoorans clenched their fists, like Earthmen. Kylar took several deep breaths, while they all watched. The younger men stood ready to support him, if need be.
The venerable president stiffened finally. “All right,” he said quietly. “Let me see her. Dr. Voro, your medicines!”
KAINE laid the girl down on the indicated couch. The place was outfitted completely as living headquarters and sick bay, for long periods of hiding. The doctor, Voro, pulled back the blankets. The watching eyes sickened at the sight—and then burned savagely.
“Death to Tharkya!” Kylar spoke for them all, in a deadly calm voice. “Death to the cruel tyrants!”
Thunderously, fists upraised, the cry was repeated by all. Then Kylar’s shoulders sagged.
“We’ve said that before, again and again, at each fresh outrage. But how can we fulfill our vengeance? How can we attack? We know not where Tharkya is hidden—”
“We do that!” MacLean contradicted, expanding his chest under their startled eyes. He tolled the figures out eagerly. “Five galactic units from the hub, in the direction of Sector Z-18. Nearest major star, Beta Sagittarius. That’s where Tharkya lies, my hearties!”
“There?” Kylar gasped. “How do you know this thing that no one has been able to ferret out for a million years?” ZlkZee told the story, from beginning to end.
“At last we know!” Kylar murmured fiercely. “At last we can attack. Co
uncil of war is in session, men! Follow me.” He turned. “You too, Kaine of Earth. You are skilled in space-nautics, being Tharkyan trained.”
But Kaine was standing over Veloa, as the doctor injected hypodermics.
“Will she live?” he whispered.
“Of course,” the Dymooran medico nodded. “ZlkZee’s hypnosis carried her through to here—acting as a soothing anesthetic. Medical care will do the rest.” He smiled a little. “I think I can safely say our Dymooran medical art is superior to yours of Earth.”
“Will you operate?” Kaine insisted. “Use plastic-surgery? Can anything be done?”
“Operate? Plastic-surgery?” The doctor looked puzzled. “We use bionic methods.”
“What will she”—Kaine gulped—“be like?”
Dr. Voro shook his head. “I make no predictions. I cannot say.”
Kaine stood dumbly, thinking of a wheel-chair in which would respose a shapeless, deformed body surmounted by a maddeningly lovely face.
“Kaine! Are you coming?” Kylar’s hand was tugging at his arm. “We cannot waste time now—”
Kaine turned on him bitterly. “How can you be so indifferent to your own daughter’s well-being?”
Kylar seemed surprised. “She’s in good hands. What’s done is done.”
MacLean was at Kaine’s side. “Besides,” he whispered, “she isn’t human. Don’t make a fool of yourself, lad.”
Dr. Voro looked up sharply. He had caught the whisper.
“If you imply,” he said coldly, “that we aren’t human in the sense that you are, you’re the fool. Dymooran and Earthian genes and chromosomes follow the same pattern. One of our biologists went to Earth recently on research and determined that. Intermarriage is possible, for instance, between our races!”
Kaine jerked as though a lash had struck. It was the one thing he had dreaded to hear. Surely in all the universe no man or being had ever been the victim of a more monstrous joke!
“What of it?” Kylar snapped impatiently. “This talk is meaningless.”
“Is it?” ZlkZee said softly. “Look at the Earthman’s face, while he gazes down at Veloa!”
Kylar started, meeting Kaine’s eye. They stared at one another. An Earthman, and the father of a girl who could have walked the streets of Earth all her life and never been challenged as a denizen of another world.
“Come,” the Dymooran leader said simply, “we will plan how to destroy the race that did this to her—whom we love!” Kaine followed, stony-faced, hardlipped. MacLean shivered a little. “I’m glad I’m not a Tharkyan right now,” he muttered to ZlkZee. “I saw that lad wade into ten men once, rowdies molesting a girl on Earth. He made them cry for mercy. When he’s mad, he’s mad down to the last electron!”
VIII
COUNCIL of war!
Not a war of nations or continents, or even worlds. A war of galactic proportions, involving the destinies of more than a million races of peoples. It was a significant moment, Kaine realized, in the history of the Milky Way Galaxy. The last attempt at revolution had been a thousand Earth years before. Like all preceding, it had failed miserably, swamped by Tharkyan might. What chance did this one have?
Curiously, Kaine reflected, the last revolt had taken place while Earth was yet undiscovered to the Tharkyans. Way back during the Middle Ages a mighty battle had raged far out in space, unknown to Earth. Mankind on Earth had been throwing off the yoke of Islamic rule at the time, pursuing its own petty little destiny. Now all such civil wars of the human race were meaningless, against the background of Tharkyan domination. All Earth history was meaningless. The shadow of Tharkyan overlordship had been there all the time. The Tharkyan masters had been roaming space even when man first emerged from the ape, an age before.
Now Earth too lay under the heel of Tharkya, along with a million other worlds. Earth’s sympathy must lie with any rebellion.
But what chance did this one have?
Kylar stood before a lighted, three-dimensional chart of the Galaxy. It was smaller than those on Tharkya, but no less complete. With a long pointer, he jabbed at the unmarked Dark Nebula in which Tharkya nestled invisibly.
“At last we know!” Kylar said eagerly. “We’ll swoop down on Tharkya and bomb it out of existence!”
Kaine groaned a little. Typical revolutionary talk—restless, fierce, but childishly optimistic.
“Just like that!” he spoke up, breaking into their cheers. “Just charge there with a few ships and drop bombs. What about the Space Patrol, armed with energon dis-rays? They have ten million Patrol ships in operation! I happen to know. How many ships can you muster?”
Kylar smiled peculiarly.
“A hundred million. Will that help?” Kaine gasped.
“A hundred million! How—what—” Kylar spoke slowly. “You don’t realize our organization. We mean business. The Legion started a thousand of your years ago, just after the last abortive revolt. Slowly, carefully, grimly, it built up—adding members, agents, spies, important men. We have active, though secret, members on every one of the million and thirteen worlds. Each world is contributing, on the average, a hundred fighting ships. That makes our hundred million.”
Kaine felt a surge of wild hope. With that kind of an armada, they did mean business! Then he felt a drop of elation. Numbers alone meant little.
“How are they armed?” he queried. “The best we could do—rapid-fire guns using explosive shells. It’s the most effective weapon in space warfare, with the one exception of the dis-ray. However, we do have a unit of ships with dis-guns too, powered by energon we’ve secretly extracted ourselves. About ten thousand. We can use them as a spearhead.”
“Ten thousand dis-guns against ten million!” Kaine muttered dubiously. “Still a long, long chance.”
Kylar nodded.
“We have no illusions. With the luck of the gods, we have a chance.”
“Why not organize more?” Kaine suggested. “Gather more and more ships. Why strike prematurely?”
“We must strike now, or never,” Kylar responded solemnly. “The Tharkyan secret service has gradually wormed out information about the Legion. Lately, they’ve been snatching our agents right and left. Any moment, through Inquisition, our headquarters may be exposed. The whole system would collapse, then.” He paused. “Veloa was the last agent to be apprehended.”
Kaine’s nerves quivered.
“I see,” he grated. “You’re right. Attack now. But where are the ships? What’s your battle plan?”
“The ships are on their respective worlds, at hidden docks—fueled, stocked, primed, ready to go at a moment’s notice. The signal is ready to go out, calling them to arms. We plan on meeting at some strategic spot, near Tharkya, now that we know where Tharkya lies.”
He moved his pointer to a dead star ten galactic units above Tharkya. “Our armada will meet here, for the drive on Tharkya!”
Kaine pondered. “No, I don’t think—”
HE stopped, his scalp prickling. He was suddenly aware of eyes on him—hundreds of pairs of cold, silent eyes. There were only a dozen Dymoorans present, but he felt all those other eyes. MacLean was clutching his arm.
“Look, Terry—beyond the chart. Those rows of television screens!”
Kaine was barely able to make them out. Each reflected a dim image. And each image was of a different being—a dogface, turtle-face, bird-face, insect-face, and dozens that were unnameable except to an experienced galactic biologist.
Kylar noticed their shock.
“I forget you are new members,” he apologized. “These are our Legion subcommanders, in the various sectors. Low-power, scramble-wave television is used. Tharkyan detectors might trace one down, after several hours hard figuring. We never connect more than a few minutes at a time. Now, Kaine, go on. Your opinion, I might add, is respected by all of us. You are Tharkyan-trained, in space-nautics. And the Tharkyans, in spite of what they are, are supreme in that field.”
Kaine gripped hims
elf. He was addressing perhaps a thousand other beings. He must weigh every word.
“Meeting within the Galaxy seems to me dangerous,” he resumed. “The Tharkyan Space Patrol is bound to meet some of the contingents by sheer accident. The alarm will go out. Tharkya will instantly man its defenses, taking away all the element of surprise.”
Heads nodded, in the screens.
“Keep it up, Terry lad,” MacLean said a little proudly. “You have their ear.” Kylar nodded too. “We realize that. But no matter where we meet, the same will happen—”
“Not if you meet outside the galaxy!”
Kaine said quickly. “Say a few units beyond the rim, at its narrowest point. That is, up from the hub, perpendicular to the disk-shape of the galaxy. The Tharkyans don’t bother to patrol beyond the rim. We could meet there safely!”
A murmur came from the television delegates to the war council. A murmur of approval.
“Fine!” Kylar commended. “Then the massed armada can slowly creep within range of Tharkya for the surprise blow—”
“Slowly?” Kaine broke in again. “And take a chance of being spotted with each added hour? Why not take a running start, out there in the emptiness, build up velocity, and plunge straight for Tharkya at top-speed? If the Patrol spots us, they still wouldn’t have time to really man all defenses on Tharkya.”
Kaine paced before the screens, raising his voice.
“Don’t you see? Our one and only chance is surprise. A quick, staggering thrust. Bombing Tharkya before the Patrol gathers in force. Because I’ll guarantee you one thing—not one of our ships will come back!”
“What?” demanded Kylar. “We have them outnumbered ten to one—”
“And they have dis-guns,” Kaine grunted. “We can’t stand against them forever. Every ship will go, I tell you!”
Kylar’s shoulders sagged. “You must know, Kaine of Earth. What can we do, then? What chance have we of victory?”
“One chance!” Kaine whispered. “Our fleet must deliver a knock-out blow, before it is decimated. Then, with Tharkya reeling, the rest of the galaxy must rise and deliver the final stroke. With any and all ships, commercial and private, they must down the Patrol—by ramming!”
