by Earl
ROCKET RACE
Cruising about the limitless lanes of outer space, Lieutenant Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol liked to pass away time by reading of Earth’s past history. He came across an item which read:
“In 1947, the First Rocket Race was held on Earth. It was open to all new rocket-planes which were then being invented. The race was won by Lieutenant John Charles of the State Patrol, but he defaulted by not appearing before the judges, so the award went to Thomas Crane.”
“That was over 300 years ago,” mused Jon Jarl, “in the days before interplanetary travel. In the 20th century, they were just beginning to use rocket power, and nobody had yet reached the moon or planets. What was life like in those days on Earth?”
Jon sighed and turned to his controls. Earth hung before him, a huge globe where he would soon land. He stiffened suddenly. He noticed the odd dead-black patch of space before him which blotted out the stars behind it. It looked something like the famous “Coal Sack” seen in telescopic photographs of distant nebulae.
Was it dangerous in any way? Jon tried to swerve the ship, but it was too late. He plunged directly into the center of the black formation. His senses reeled then. He felt as if he were falling endless miles down a strange pit. The sensation only lasted a few seconds, and then suddenly all was clear again. Earth hung before him and all was well.
Jon let out his breath and relaxed. Nothing had happened after all. He looked back and saw the black formation behind him. He had simply shot through it, like going through a dark tunnel.
Jon lowered his ship over mighty New York City, heading for La Guardia Spaceport, but then he blinked. What was wrong with New York? Why had it shrunk? It seemed small, and the skyscrapers short. And where was the great Everest Building, 250 stories high? It was a famous landmark for space flyers, but he couldn’t see it at all!
But then there was a haze over the city, so maybe the Everest Building was obscured by mist. Puzzled, Jon slanted down to La Guardia Spaceport, but then swung away again. La Guardia Field was just a tiny patch, too small for any speedy rocketship to land. It wasn’t the giant La Guardia Spaceport he had known.
Utterly baffled, Jon flew over Long Island till he saw a small town and level fields. He landed in a meadow with plenty of clearance. He debarked from his spaceship in time to see a state police officer park his motorcycle on the road nearby and approach him on foot.
“Hey, you,” the officer called. “What’s the idea landing here? Got engine trouble, or just cutting up?”
“No, I have no engine trouble,” said Jon.
“Wise guy, eh? Just decided to land here for fun, eh? Okay, you get a ticket. What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol.”
The state policeman glared. “State Patrol? Not in that uniform, buddy. I’m going to arrest you for impersonating an officer of the law, that’s what!”
Jon was utterly bewildered. “Wait a minute, officer! Something is all mixed up here. Tell me, what—uh—what year is this?”
The man stared. “Are you crazy? It’s 1947. What else?”
Jon swallowed. That explained it. Now he knew why everything was so different from 2261. Somehow, he was back on Earth in the 20th century, 300 years before his own age! And the police of this time, not knowing of the Space Patrol, were about to lock him up for fraud!
But suddenly, the officer’s attitude changed. “Hey! Now I know. You’re one of the racers. You’ve got a new-fangled rocketship there, ready for the race. But for gosh sakes, man, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Race? I don’t know anything about a race—”
But the officer, all smiles now, hustled Jon toward his ship. “Guess you overshot La Guardia. You’ve got to hurry. The race begins in an hour. Come on, I’ll see that you get there.”
The officer climbed in with Jon, all eager now to help what he thought was a young rocket pilot who needed guidance.
“But I don’t—” began Jon.
“Hurry,” came back. “Head for La Guardia. Did you register for the race yet?”
“No, I—”
“I get it. You just finished the ship, and you didn’t have time to register and all that. Well, I’ll take care of that. Get going.”
Jon gave up resisting and took off, heading back for the field. “Say, this is some smooth rocketship you have,” admired the officer. “Almost feels like it could go to the moon.”
Jon Jarl had to smile within himself. His ship had been to the moon and all the planets. But in this day and age of 1947, he remembered that no ship had yet gone into space.
Jon was worried about landing at the tiny field, but the officer commanded—“Go on, land. They’ve cleared all other air traffic away for the day.” And using his powerful nose rockets for braking, Jon managed to roll to a stop along the concrete runways.
“You stay here and wait for the starting signal,” the officer yelled as he jumped out. “I’ll go and register you. I’ll explain that you didn’t have time before. This is an open race, for any and all entries, with no restrictions, so you’ll be accepted. And win the race, my boy. I’m plugging for you!”
Jon sat stunned. Now he was in a race! But he didn’t even know in what direction to fly. He looked out and saw the line of ships along the field, all of them with rocket propulsion, and all of them with wings. These were rocket-planes, designed to fly over Earth’s surface, not to go into space. Space ships needed no wings.
A loudspeaker suddenly blared across the field. “Attention, racers! As you all know, this is history’s first Rocket Race. You will take off at the starting signal. Your destination is the Municipal Airport at San Francisco. Good luck to you all. May the best ship win!”
Jon grinned suddenly. Why not go through with the race? He’d show these 20th century people some real speed! So when the starting BOOM sounded, Jon shot airward with the other racers. They all zoomed up into the stratosphere—where rocket propulsion was most efficient. Then they leveled off.
Jon saw one ship draw ahead of the rest. Jon drew abreast of it and noticed it was named the Mary Ann. Pacing him, Jon read his velocimeter. Only 900 miles an hour! Was that the top speed of which ships of this kind were capable? Jon opened his throttle and took up a steady pace of 1200 miles an hour. The other ships were soon lost behind him.
Less than three hours later, Jon landed at San Francisco’s Municipal Airport. Nobody expected him so soon. None of the officials were out on the empty field, and the crowd was just beginning to appear.
But one lone figure rushed out toward his ship—a girl.
“Tom!” she yelled. “You did it! You broke all records! Nobody knew you could make it as such terrific speed, and . . .”
She stopped, dumbfounded, as Jon stepped from the ship.
“You’re not Tom!” she gasped. Then quite suddenly, she burst into tears. “Tom lost! And he had his heart so set on winning! He put all his money and time into building his ship. He was certain that he could invent the best rocketship on Earth! And now . . . and now . . . somebody else wins! We were going to be married on the prize money. But we’ll have to wait again now.”
“Is your name Mary Ann?” Jon inquired.
Amazement shot across the girl’s tear-clouded eyes. “Why, yes. How did you . . .”
“Never mind,” Jon said. “But your boyfriend will still win. His ship was leading all the rest. When he comes in, he’ll get the award. If the judges ask for me, tell them I went to the moon!”
Soon Jon’s ship was plunging away from Earth. Scanning the skies ahead, Jon found the black “coal-sack” again, and plunged into it. When he came out the other end, he knew he was back in his own time, the 23rd century, for he picked up a radio broadcast which confirmed it.
In time the black “coal-sack” was investigated by scientists, and was found to be a strange “space-time warp” which formed a pathway from the 23rd century to the 20th. Jon had stumbled on it. It vanished later, mysteriously.
&nb
sp; But when Jon reread the old record, he suddenly realized its true significance. The Lieutenant John Charles of the State Patrol—the way the police officer had registered him—was himself, Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol!
1948
DUEL IN SPACE
Leaving Jupiter, Lieutenant Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol began his routine run toward Mars. He passed Callisto, one of Jupiter’s eleven moons, and cruised into open space. Nothing much had been happening in the spaceways lately. Jon Jarl was almost hoping for something exciting to pop up. His wish came true.
His radar screen showed that two ships were ahead, in empty space, spinning and moving in circles. That was odd. He rocketed close, and then he saw what they were up to. They were fighting! Sizzling electric bolts came from both of them, as each was trying to blast the other one to bits. It was almost like a dog-fight between planes, only these were rocketships out in interplanetary space.
It didn’t look like a pirate ship attacking a victim. Nor were they warships. They were just two small private ships, the kind used by wealthy people to tour the planets, the type that mounted a single small ray-gun on the bow for protection.
Puzzled, Jon used his radio. “Ahoy! What goes on there?”
Evidently they had seen his ship, for an answer came back from one. “Keep moving. We’re having a duel. Go away or you might get hurt.”
A duel! A duel in space, not with traditional swords, but with two rocketships, wheeling and shooting at each other! It was the craziest thing Jon Jarl had ever run across.
“Halt!” Jon barked, then. “Duelling is illegal, in any shape, manner, or form. Stop this silly game.”
“Get away from here!” came back the screech. “This is between us. Keep your nose out of it and scram!”
“Stop, in the name of the law—!” began Jon, but they ignored him and kept on with their strange duel, shooting electric bolts at each other in a killing frenzy.
Jon set his lips. He aimed his Ray Cannon and pressed the trigger. A livid red ray of destruction sprang forth and sang past the nose of one ship with a deadly whine. Jon did the same to the other ship. Both stopped shooting, as if in fright.
“Hey!” came one duellist’s gasp from the radio. “You’re a police ship.”
“Right,” snapped Jon. “And I’ve got you outgunned with my Ray Cannon. Now both of you head down for Callisto and land. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
Cowed, the two ships obediently turned and soon made a landing on Callisto, followed by Jon’s ship. They all stepped out. Jon saw that the duellists were two young men, dressed in the spun-glass clothing of the rich.
“Now what’s the idea of fighting a duel?” Jon demanded. ‘“First of all, who are you?”
One of them spoke up. “I’m Charlz Chawson. And he’s Glenn Laird.”
Jon nodded. He suspected as much. Both of them in Who’s Who. Both of them bluebloods, of distinguished families. Spoiled sons of the rich, seeking new thrills and escapades.
“And your quarrel?” asked Jon.
“We were at a party on Ganymede,” explained Charlz Chawson. “Glenn Laird tried to say the Mars Marauders are a better baseball team than the Venus Villains, which is stupid!”
“It is not!” yelled Glenn Laird instantly. “And you’re a crack-brained idiot!”
They glared at each other.
Jon shook his head sadly. He could see it all now. Two young hot-heads quarreling over baseball teams. Harsh names flying back and forth, followed by invective. And finally, challenging each other to a duel. It was an affair of “honor.” Once the challenge had been given, neither could back down without appearing to be a coward.
“We knew if we tried to duel there, others would interfere,” Chawson went on. “So we decided to go out into space and use two rocketships. We didn’t expect a police ship to stumble on us.”
Jon looked at them, half in pity, half in anger. “I should arrest you both, you know. Duelling, with intent to kill, is a criminal offense.” He paused. “But I’m going to give you a chance to finish your quarrel here—the right way.”
Jon turned to his ship, tossed inside his two ray guns from his holsters, and came back. “No weapons within reach. Now go ahead, you two. Fight it out—man to man!”
The two young men stared at each other, surprised.
“What’s the matter?” taunted Jon. “Afraid of physical violence? Afraid to use your fists? Get going. You’re going to fight it out this way until one of you gives in, or until you both call it quits. I’ll be the referee.”
The antagonists needed no further prompting. They rushed at each other with muttered insults, hammering away with their fists. Grunts rose from both.
Jon stepped back, smiling. Maybe they would work off their rage at each other this way. It was rather a unusual fight because the gravity of Callisto was so slight. Callisto, no more than 3300 miles in diameter, had only one fifth the gravity of Earth. Thus the two men only weighed about 35 pounds each. And because of their lightness, their blows had much less weight behind them.
They were in a woodland area of the moon. Beyond the clearing in which they had landed stretched forests of the spindly, red-leaved trees of Callisto.
“You will cease fighting!”
Jon whirled at the voice behind them. The two fighters stopped and stared. Stepping from the trees was an inhuman form, shaped like a man, but with a glinting skin that flashed like the facets of a diamond.
“A crystalline man!” gasped Jon, suddenly remembering the native population of Callisto, a slow-witted tribe that had never been friendly with Earth-people. Their bodies were based on silicon rather than carbon, with flesh as hard—and nearly as transparent—as glass. Hence their nickname, “crystalline men.” They were deeply suspicious of any races other than their own.
The crystalline man moved forward slowly, silicon joints creaking, his gem-like eyes glittering ominously. He held a weapon in his hand. “You are Earthmen,” he gritted. “We hate Earthmen. Come with me. You will work in our radium mines.”
Jon shuddered. He had heard of Earthmen falling into the clutches of these savage crystalline men and being forced to work in their radium mines. The terrible radioactive rays kept burning, burning. No Earthman could come out of these mines alive.
“And I haven’t got my guns,” groaned Jon to the two duellists. “I put them in the ship before. I could try to make a run for it . . .”
“Do not try,” warned the crystalline man. He must have overheard the low words. “I will shoot you down with my flame gun.”
Jon tried an old, old ruse. “Drop your gun! One of our men is behind you!”
The dull-witted crystalline man half turned before realizing the trick. Jon leaped forward before he could aim and fire. He hit the crystalline man at the knees and tumbled him down with a thud, so that the weapon flew out of his hand into a thicket.
Jon and his two friends now jumped their enemy, but the crystalline man had terrific power. He came to his feet, roaring, casting them off like sacks of feathers. His rock-hard fist then smashed Chawson and Laird flat.
Jon had one desperate hope. He slid under the monster and heaved him on his shoulder. Every muscle straining, Jon hurled him twenty feet into the air, overcoming the light gravity. When the crystalline man came down, his frightened shriek was drowned out by the crash. He broke into a hundred pieces, like chinaware.
Panting, Jon helped his friends to their feet. “Well,” he grinned. “Do you want to continue your fight now?”
Chawson and Laird hesitated. Slowly their eyes met, and suddenly Chawson shot out his hand. “Our quarrel all seems silly and childish now. Shake!”
“I’ll forget that you ever began a duel,” Jon said. “I won’t arrest you. Now get back to Ganymede where you belong.”
Jon turned before each stepped into his separate ship.
“By the way,” he said with a grin, “you’re both wrong about the Mars Marauders and the Venus Villains. The beat team is t
he Saturn Sharks. Watch them win the Planet Series this year!”
THE SPACE TRAP
Lieutenant Jon Jarl laid his blue-and-gold uniform away. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He had to smile. He looked strange in a plain civilian suit. And it almost felt funny not to be in a spaceship, cruising the space lanes and their many dangers.
Lieutenant Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol was on vacation. Two whole weeks to do nothing but loaf and enjoy himself. He went out and took a taxi-copter to an outlying suburban home. He was invited to a party by his old friend, Pete Halloran.
“Look,” Jon said to Pete, as they went in. “Just introduce me as Jonny Jarl. Skip the Lieutenant. I want to forget all about the Space Patrol for two weeks.”
“Oh, brother!” was all Pete said, with an odd smile.
Jon knew the reason a while later, as the group of young people started up a game of story-telling. The story-hero was named Staunchheart. He had a girl friend, Delicia. And the dastardly, nasty villain was Dr. Shnarl.
The idea of the game was for each person in turn to take up the story, putting the hero or the heroine in some frightful trap, engineered by the fiendish villain. The hero then had to rescue himself, or the girl, in some logical way—the invention of which was the task of the next story-teller.
The universe was the limit. The story could range anywhere in space, to the furthest star or the most impossible planet. And each story-teller, in turn, took delight in putting the hero or girl in more and more fantastic traps.
Jon squirmed at first, listening to the story. He had hoped to forget all about space for the evening. But gradually he became interested in the nonsensical, spun-out tale, each episode more exciting than the last.
The girl to the left of Jon found the hero, Staunchheart, with his feet encased in cement, being dropped down into a pool of boiling oil, on the planet Horrideo. How could he save himself? The girl screwed up her face in thought and then—
“Well, our noble hero, Staunchheart, thought fast! Just before he hit the surface of the pool of oil, he threw down a lighted match! The oil blazed up and the terrific heat cracked the cement away from his feet! Staunchheart then quickly dove under the oil, safe from fire, and swam to shore. He was a bit singed of course, when he dashed up on the land, but then our hero has superb physical stamina, so he ignored it.”
