The Collected Stories

by Earl

  1947

  REVENGE OF THE SPACE HERMIT

  Jon Jarl looked back as his one-man rocketship sped through space. The sun was only a bright star behind him, hardly distinguishable from all the other stars. In fact, the whole solar system and all the nine planets were far behind him, for he had gone past the orbit of Pluto. Before him stretched only the vast empty deeps between stars. The nearest star, Alpha Centauri, was some twenty trillion miles away.

  But there was something nearer than Alpha Centauri. There was a strange little wayward world, discovered in telescopes, which drifted outside the solar system. It was only five billion miles out. The wayward world had no connection with the solar system, but was drifting through space parallel to it. For a week Jon Jarl had been driving toward this outer planet on a mission for the Space Patrol.

  The terse message from headquarters had said, a week before—“Brute Blasko, wanted man, not found on nine planets. Possible he went to Outer World. Investigate.”

  And thus Jon Jarl had refitted at the Pluto station with extra fuel tanks and supplies. Then he had arrowed out into the unknown at top speed. Now at last the Outer World loomed out of the void. Jon could see it was a bleak world, unwarmed by any sun, but strangely enough vegetation grew everywhere. Jon was puzzled until he noticed the faint glow around its dark side. Then he understood. It was a world with a high percentage of radium in its soil. Radium could heat a planet quite as well as a sun.

  Landing and stepping from his ship, Jon felt a thrill. Not even explorers had as yet come out to this remote outpost. Very likely he was the first human being to set foot here. That is, unless Brute Blasko had come here to escape the dragnet of the law. Jon almost hoped he hadn’t, so that he could go back and have the distinction of being the first man to visit Outer World.

  After a cursory glance around, Jon took the ship up again and began skimming low over the small planet, eyes alert for signs of the criminal. Weary hours later, he had covered most of the planet’s surface and was almost convinced that he was alone on the deserted world. But then something caught the corner of his eye, drawing his attention.

  He banked his small craft and slanted it down. Just below was a rude stone cabin among the vegetation. A cabin on Outer World! Was it the secret hiding-place of Blasko?

  Jon landed cautiously a mile away and crept close. Ray-gun in hand, he approached the cabin, darting from tree to tree, tensed and ready for any gunfire if it came.

  When something did come from the cabin’s window, Jon Jarl forgot to dodge and stood rooted in amazement. It was an arrow—an ancient weapon he had never seen before except in museums. The arrow thudded into a tree alongside Jon. Had Brute Blasko run out of ray-gun charges, and resorted to ancient weapons?

  But the figure that stepped from the cabin a moment later was not that of a desperate criminal. It was a man in clothing as out-of-place in Jon’s scientific age as was the arrow. The man wore a crude buckskin costume. He had wild hair and a long unkempt beard. A word flashed instantly into Jon’s mind—hermit!

  “You—you live here on Outer World?” stammered Jon, still shocked at the strange apparition. “You’re a—a hermit?”

  “Yes,” he rasped. “I like—live alone. I hate people—civilization. You go—now—go—go!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jon. “Not so fast. I happen to be Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol, on official business. I’m not going till I’m sure Brute Blasko isn’t here. Have you seen anybody else lately?”

  The hermit shook his shaggy head. “Nobody lives on this world except me.” His words came easier now. “When I got disgusted with civilization, I picked this world because it’s the furthest I could get away. That was—um—thirty years ago. Since then nobody’s been on Outer World—nobody except you. Now you get!”

  “Friendly sort, aren’t you?” said Jon with a grin. “But look, I’ve been cruising for a week on space rations. Can’t you spare a bit of fresh meat or whatever you eat? I’d appreciate it.”

  For answer, the hermit growled again and brought up his bow menacingly, with an arrow ready to fly.

  Jon acted quickly. He batted the bow aside and crunched the fallen arrow under his heel. The hermit spat out a curse and swung angrily with his fists. Jon sidestepped, coolly caught the hermit’s wrist, and turned. In a smooth, flowing motion, he jerked the hermit off his feet, spun him over his shoulder, and landed him among bushes.

  As the hermit got to his feet, quite crestfallen, Jon smiled.

  “Let’s be friends, mister. Just give me a bite of something fresh, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “All right,” the hermit returned, suddenly friendly. “Come in and I’ll give you some fresh fruit.”

  Inside the shack, Jon took the fruit offered, a peculiar crook-shaped sort, with a tantalizing odor. As Jon ate, the hermit became a little more affable. “Living is pretty easy for me here. Warm climate, good air. Lots of small game I can shoot with my arrows. Lots of fruit too. The rest of the time I sit here and think what fools you all are back in civilization.”

  “A philosopher as well as a hermit,” mused Jon. “Well, you may be right, who knows? But I’ll be getting along now.”

  Jon rose—or attempted to rise. His muscles felt stiff. Swiftly, a numbness spread through him. He now saw a triumphant gleam in the hermit’s eyes. Through his lips, before they too refused to move, Jon hissed out an accusation.

  “That fruit—poisoned!”

  The hermit cackled. “No, not poisoned. It just paralyzes the muscles for a time. Throw me over your shoulder, would you? Nobody can do that to me and get away with it!”

  The hermit now picked up Jon’s stiff form and carried it out. Jon was fully conscious, but utterly paralyzed. As he carried Jon through the vegetation, the hermit spoke.

  “I’m not going to do you any harm. I’m just going to put you back in your ship. I saw where it came down.”

  Soon they reached the ship, and the hermit thrust Jon into the airlock, closing the door with a few final words. “You’ll recover in an hour. When you do, get off my planet.”

  An hour later, Jon’s muscles gradually unlocked. For an hour, he had been telling himself what he’d do to the hermit. But now, grinning, he put his hands to the controls.

  “Oh well, I’ll let him go. It’s his privilege to be alone if he chooses. I’ll take my hated presence away and leave him in peace.”

  But at that moment Jon paused, for across the horizon flashed another rocketship. It landed somewhere beyond the cabin. Could Brute Blasko have finally arrived on Outer World? Jon once more crept back to the shack. He arrived in time to hear a sound from within—the sound of kicking.

  “Shoot arrows at me, will ya?” came in harsh tones from the window. “I’ll kick ya black and blue, ya old goat.”

  Jon recognized the voice, for the Space Patrolmen were not only shown pictures of the men they sought, but they also heard recordings of the criminals’ voices. It was Brute Blasko. As Jon crept cautiously toward the window, he heard more.

  “Now get up, ya old fool, and get me something to eat. I’m not gonna kill ya. I need a hideout. This cabin of yours will do, and you’re gonna be my servant, see?”

  No answer came from the hermit. When Jon peered in the window, he saw Blasko sitting at ease, munching, while the hermit worked at the crook’s muddy boots, cleaning them. Blasko held his ray gun in silent threat.

  It was not in the code of the Space Patrol to shoot without warning, and besides, a shot now might hit the hermit. So Jon Jarl slid back behind a tree, gun in hand, and yelled out “Hello—Brute Blasko! Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol outside. Toss your gun out. Or come out shooting. Take your choice.” There was startled silence from the cabin. Then a minute later, the door inched open. The snout of the ray-gun poked out, and a ray-beam hissed, hitting the tree behind which Jon stood. Jon’s return shot gnawed splinters off the door.

  But Jon had underestimated his opponent. A second shot hissed high over his he
ad. Too late, Jon saw what it did. A tree branch cracked off and fell on Jon, knocking his gun from his hand. Blasko rushed out of the door before Jon could make a move to pick up his weapon.

  “Hold it!” Blasko yelled. “Stand straight and reach for ozone!”

  Jon complied with a sinking heart. He was trapped. Leering, Blasko approached within a few feet and leveled his gun.

  Jon waited for the killing blast. Time seemed to stretch into eternity. Would the shot never come? This waiting was agony. But the shot did not come.

  Blasko stood rigid, leering, gun extended. Not a muscle moved. He was frozen in that position—paralyzed on his feet.

  The hermit came up, a faint smile on his lips. “When he asked for something to eat,” he said, “I gave him the same fruit you tried before. That’ll teach him not to kick me.”

  “Thanks,” was all Jon could think of saying, as he started to drag the stiffened form away.

  All Jon heard from the hermit was a final mutter. “Now leave me in peace. Civilization—bah!”

  VENUS, 23RD CENTURY

  Venus gleamed like a bright jewel among the stars, as Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol rocketed toward it. Venus—the sister world of Earth. But as the one-man rocketship approached, Jon Jarl saw it was quite unlike Earth.

  Venus was surrounded by a thick blanket of clouds, through which the sun rarely shone. Under the cloud layers quivered an endless storm-tossed sea. Venus was almost all ocean. There were no continents such as on Earth, only scattered islands from pole to pole. It rained nine-tenths of the time on Venus, and the rest of the time it drizzled. The average temperature was 105. It had once gone as low as 94. Venus was 24 million miles closer to the sun than Earth was.

  All these things Jon Jarl knew from previous visits. But even he was caught unawares as the mighty winds gripped his ship and tossed it like a cork. Ramming power into the rockets, Jon regained control and bored into the teeth of the wind. Venus was a hot, wet, stormy world, much like Earth had been millions of years before.

  Finally, through the cloudy haze, Jon saw the looming shape of the so-called “Plastic Island.” It was an artificial island, man-made, and essentially it consisted of an enduring plastic platform, upheld by a series of giant pontoons. Metal could not be used, as metals corroded swiftly in the wet Venusian air. On the platform, which was a mile square, rested the buildings of an Earth colony. Population—perhaps a thousand, and all hardy souls. And it was here that the Space Patrol had set up one of its stations.

  Jon set his ship down neatly on the landing strip. The moment he stepped out of his cooled ship, a hot, humid blast of air hit him. Perspiration broke from his face and trickled off his chin. But as he walked along, he admired the firm underfooting of the artificial island. It was quite dry, whereas all natural islands on Venus were regularly washed over by tidal waves. That was why Earth people could not live on the islands. They had to set up living quarters on such man-made “islands” as this.

  Jon went into the Space Patrol station, where thankfully it was again air-conditioned to somewhat below a steaming hot day in the jungles of equatorial Earth. He saluted the uniformed officer, a captain.

  “Lt. Jon Jarl reporting, sir. I got your radio call in space.”

  “Hullo, Lieutenant,” returned the other, smiling crookedly as he went on. “Welcome to the soft breezes and balmy skies of Venus. Sorry to drag you down to this delightful spot, but I’m short-handed. Got to send you right out on a job.”

  The officer pointed to a Venusian map, with dottings of islands over the universal sea. He put a finger near one island. “This is Island K-9826. Near it is anchored a plastic island, like this one, but quite small. A group of scientists have been using it, studying local flora and fauna.” His face went grim. “But 48 hours ago, their daily radio reports suddenly stopped.”

  “And I’m to find out why,” said Jon.

  The captain nodded. “Dr. Woodward is in charge there. Find out if they’re in any trouble. If so, report by radio.”

  Within an hour, after refueling and checking the rockets, Jon took off again. He skimmed high over the giant waves and set a radar-course for Island K-9826. Trying to fly visually on Venus was like trying to fly through pea-soup.

  When he sighted the right island, carefully comparing it with the maps, he went beyond to where the plastic-island was anchored. Then Jon stared—it wasn’t there. Had it broken loose of its anchors? Drifted away? Been swamped by a tidal wave?

  Jon set his rocketship in wide circles, gradually spiraling out. He was about to give up when he spied something on the horizon—by radar rather than visually. He homed in on the blip. Yes, there it was, a small plastic-platform upheld by pontoons. It was just big enough to hold a group of small but comfortable plastic huts, which composed the headquarters of the scientists. But why was it way out here?

  Jon surveyed the artificial island carefully before landing. No sign of life. No sign of danger, either. He saw two other rocketships on the landing strip, unmolested. What could it add up to?

  Jon landed and stepped out. “Hallo!” he called. “Anybody here?”

  He was about to approach one of the huts when a form came hurtling onto the platform. It was a native Venusian. He had ridden the crest of a huge wave and flipped himself on deck. The Venusian was a short pudgy creature, standing erect on two webbed feet. His arms were more flippers than hands, and he now clapped them together like a trained seal, grinning. “Canny?” he begged. “Canny?”

  He meant candy of course. Jon smiled at the eager child-like native and went through his pockets. The natives of Venus were simple, backward people, in a low stage of civilization, comparable to jungle natives on Earth. With the coming of Earthmen, they had been as friendly as dogs, and soon learned to beg for sweetmeats. Jon held out a chocolate-tablet, always carried during space trips, and watched the Venusian gulp it down in happy relish.

  Jon had a sudden thought. “Look,” he enunciated slowly. “You know anything about what has happened here? Where men who live here?

  The native shrugged, but then pointed out to sea. “Boat—men—lost.” The Venusians had been unable to master the finer points of Earth language and used only key words.

  “What?” Jon was startled. “You mean the men left, in a rocket lifeboat? But why?”

  “I’ll tell ya why,” grated a voice behind Jon.

  Jon Jarl whirled to face a half-dozen grim men. The leader, with a harsh curl to his lip, pointed a ray-gun straight for the patrolman’s heart. “Drop your ray-gun John Law.”

  Jon Jarl weighed his chances. Drawing, he might get three or four of them, in lightning shots. But the others would get him. Slowly, he dropped his gun to the deck.

  “Outlaws?” he guessed. “You came in from space, took over this place, and sent the scientists off in a lifeboat, knowing they had one chance in a hundred to reach safety.”

  “Smart, ain’t ya?” the leader rasped. “But you guessed it. We’re gonna make this floating island our base of operations. A moving hideout. We can raid the other big centers in our rocketship, and then come back here. The Patrol will never locate us, as we move around. You only spotted us because we didn’t have time to get away from the spot where it was anchored before.”

  A clever scheme, thought Jon. Using the floating artificial island, they might well carry out a long series of raids on Earthmen colonies, all the while laughing at the Patrol.

  A new voice sounded. “Canny? Canny?” It was the Venusian, now begging from the outlaw leader.

  The outlaw’s answer was a vicious kick that sent the Venusian flying off the deck to the water. “That’ll teach ya to come beggin’ from me, ya brainless fish-face!”

  Jon Jarl tensed, but held himself back.

  “Now,” said, the outlaw, facing Jon. “Ever hear of walkin’ the plank? The old-time pirates on Earth used to pull that. We ain’t got a plank, so we’ll just tie your hands and kick ya off.”

  His hands tied behind him, a br
utal kick sent Jon hurtling down to the waves. Helpless, wave after wave washed over him, and he knew it was the end. It seemed like a dream when a pair of strong arms grabbed him and pulled his head above water. Then a pair of webbed feet propelled them both through the water at a speed no Earth swimmer could match.

  It was the Venusian native.

  “Them bad—you good,” was his short but concise explanation.

  A moment later Jon saw where he was being taken—a floating network of seaweed, through which a network of tunnels had been created. The natives lived inside the tunnels, safe from fierce storms.

  The Venusian babbled out in his own tongue, and a swarm of his fellows came forth, armed with long dried tentacles of some marine monster they had killed. Jon was untied, then swiftly borne back into the water by the natives. They did not answer his questions, only repeated the words, “Them bad—you good!”

  On the crest of a high wave, they all hurtled aboard the floating platform.

  The fight was brief and furious. The outlaws opened fire with their ray-guns and downed several natives. But they fired no second round. The long tentacle-whips snaked out with uncanny accuracy and wrapped around the outlaws’ necks. A quick jerk—a sickening snap—

  Jon tried to stop them, but it was all over in seconds. The outlaws lay dead. One by one the natives tumbled the bodies into the ocean, and they were gone.

  Before stepping into his rocketship, Jon said to his new friends, “You stay and guard this place. I will find the scientists and bring them back. And here’s something to keep you busy—”

  He handed them a whole box of chocolate.

  SATELLITE PRISON

  It’s lonely driving through space in a one-man rocketship. There’s nothing to see through the ports except the star-sprinkled black void. Nothing to hear except the thrumming of the rockets. Monotony sets in like a heavy shroud.

  So it was with Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol on his routine run from Earth to Mars. But halfway between the two planets there was a slight break in the monotony as Prison Satellite hove into view. Jon Jarl always marveled when he saw this small artificial world, for it was made completely of metal and had been towed out into space and set up in its own independent orbit.