by Earl
Then Allison jumped up to take a stiff slug of Medicinal Purposes from the medical kit. “I needed that,” he said, straightening up but still trembling all over. “When I explode this story on Earth, it’ll be like a thousand atom bombs going off at once. The biggest headline of a century—UNKNOWN SPACE PIONEER BEAT WENTWORTH TO MARS! And then I give ’em the second barrel—ALIVE TODAY! HEAR HIS STORY IN PERSON!”
Allison was babbling. Gregg sat paralyzed.
“Don’t you see, man? That puts you in the Hall of Fame of Interplanetary History. The first man—the true first man—to reach Mars!”
Gregg struggled out of his shock. “I’ll—I’ll become famous for that—today!”
“Famous?” Allison spat out the word as if it were obsolete or totally inadequate. “They’ll take you on parade to Mars and Venus and Ganymede and Titan and all the rest. Nine planets and 33 moons, all inhabited today. You’ll be shown off to them all, not less than a billion people by the time they finish the tour of the famous space hero who first set foot—his left foot—on Mars, back in 1970.”
Gregg looked a bit frightened now. “I—can’t we just settle for one parade down Fifth Avenue? Nine planets . . . a billion people . . .!”
Allison gripped his shoulder.
“Steady, man. Keep your nerve. Yes, it’ll be an ordeal, all right. Steel yourself for it. You can’t get out of it. You can’t disappoint millions upon millions of people who will idolize you, worship you, cheer you day and night. Good thing you slept 303 years. You won’t get much sleep from now on.”
Gregg was already wilting, wiping his moist face. “I almost wish—” He stopped.
“You almost wish the meteor had finished you off?” grinned Allison. He sobered. “I’m sorry, Gregg. I know your type. You wanted a little acclaim of course, but not oceans of it. It’s going to be tough on you, friend, tough. But sheer up, it’ll be over in a year or so. After it all simmers down, you can relax and start living your own life again.”
“Live my own life again,” echoed Gregg, more happily. “I guess I’ll just have to grit my way through it till that day comes. Then I can—”
His face clouded. “Then I can—what? What can I do in this far future—my—future—displaced from my times? I’ll probably be like a hillbilly here in your advanced times. Allison—can you understand? That scares me too!”
Allison nodded in sympathy, “I know. It won’t be easy, adjusting to our modern age.”
Broodingly, Gregg pursued the topic. “To be quite practical, how can I earn my living here in 2273? I was just an ordinary rocket pilot of my time. You must have millions today, far better trained. How will I compete in your economic system? Earn my daily bread? Make money?”
Allison stared. “But Gregg, don’t you remember—?” He smote his own forehead. “Stupid me! How could you remember or even know? But you don’t have to worry about money, Gregg. You’ll be one of the richest men alive today.”
Gregg’s face reflected only blank incomprehension, as if Allison had suddenly switched to ancient Sanskrit.
Allison sat down, lit a cigarette, and explained slowly, taking pleasure in the surprise coming up for his guest.
“Here’s the pitch. Back in 1971, a year after you were spilled into space and knew no more, the United Nations assembly of Earth met and put through a very vitally needed set of laws, governing the exploration and settlement of space worlds. Briefly, they internationalized all planets, which was smart, avoiding endless bickering and possible war. But then, they also decided it was only fitting and proper that the great men who first opened up space—regardless of nationality—should be rewarded for their daring. So in 1972—again after you vanished in space—the Planetary Prizes were set up.”
Gregg waited, wonderingly.
Allison finished. “According to the provisions, each man who first set foot on any new world was granted 1-100 of one percent of all mineral rights on said world, for his lifetime!”
Gregg gasped.
“Right,” Allison agreed, “it takes your breath away. It sounds like a small percentage off hand, but think how big each world is. Frobisher, the first man to reach the Moon, was a millionaire in five years. The Moon was mined for silver, uranium, and endless quantities of copper. On Venus, a bonanza of diamonds was found, putting the Kimberley Mines to shame. Kobawska, the first man to plant a flag on Venus, died a very very rich man.”
Allison paused, giving Gregg time for the next shock.
“The riches of Mars surpassed them all, when the dry sea-bottoms were found practically paved with gold.”
Gregg rode out the shock. “Then James Wentworth got all that wealth—”
Allison cut in. “Wentworth died in 1972, one year after he reached Mars. He died—of all things—from a fall in his bathtub. He never collected a penny, since mining operations didn’t start on Mars for years. His heirs would have inherited his Planetary Prize—only he had no heirs. But most important of all, he is disqualified anyway, being the second man to reach Mars.”
Like a prosecutor pounding home his case, Allison pointed a finger at Gregg.
“You were the first man.” Gregg got his tongue working with an effort. “You mean, I—I—?”
“Collect?” Allison said. “Certainly. You’ll be established now as the true winner of that unawarded Planetary Prize for reaching Mars first.” He mumbled some figures. “Let’s see . . . last I heard . . . 200 billion Sol-dollars per year . . . hmmm . . . fifty years . . . uh . . . well, in round figures, you get a neat little pile of a billion. You’ll be a billionaire, friend.”
“I don’t believe it,” snapped Gregg, turning to stare out into space through the port. “This is all a dream. A crazy, cockeyed dream. I’m still floating in space . . . frozen . . . my mind wandering. It must be that.” He whirled. “Or else you’re making this all up, Allison. Playing some kind of cruel joke on me, laughing up your sleeve.”
“Joke?” grunted the reporter. “Try and laugh it off when they dump the first million in your lap and ask where to unload the other carloads waiting outside. . . .”
Allison’s voice stopped dead. “Wait! I forgot something. Great Orion! What proof have you that you reached Mars? Now hold on—no offense. Sure, I believe you. You’ve proved It to me by your simple, sincere way of telling it. But the Planetary Prize Committee—they won’t hand over a billion dollars on your word. They’ll want proof. Have you any?”
Gregg shrugged. “I don’t know. If it’s still here—” He was fishing in the pocket of his torn leather jacket. “Yes, here. I stuck it in my pocket when I was on Mars.”
He held out a stone of peculiar gold-red hue.
Allison took it, turned it over in his hand, then split the air with a war-whoop.
“A Martian sea stone—unmistakable—from the ancient dry sea bottoms. That stone is your proof, friend, beyond a shadow of a doubt. It’s worth a billion to you!”
Gregg himself had a doubt. “But why will they take my word about the year? I have no proof about that, that it was 1970.”
Allison waved. “Don’t worry about that minor detail, friend. You see, they did keep records in those days of all flyers lost in space. The names are unknown to the glare of fame, but they’re down in black-and-white. Somewhere will be a record of one John Henry Gregg who was lost in space in 1970, Rest in Peace. Good joke on them, eh? But once more—are you sure of the year? Was it 1970?”
Gregg nodded firmly. “It was just a month after my 30th birthday. A person doesn’t get mixed up about those things.”
“No,” agreed Allison. “A full year! You reached Mars a whole year ahead of James Wentworth! You’re in, friend. In for the parades, and blazing fame, and that billion bucks! We’ll land on earth in ten hours. Better get some sleep now. You’ll need it.”
On Earth, at Idlewild Spaceport, the spacejet landed.
Mark Allison swung open the hatch, letting a draft of cool fresh air in.
John Henry Gregg took a deep
breath—his first of Earth air in 303 years—half in delight, half wincingly.
“I suppose there’s a crowd waiting already,” he gritted.
“I radioed ahead,” nodded Allison. “Nothing for you to do now but face it, friend.”
Gregg squared his shoulders’ marched out.
He stared around, dazed. “The crowd!” he gasped.
Allison grinned tightly.
Gregg gasped again. “The crowd—where is the crowd?”
“What crowd?” asked Allison, quietly.
Gregg spluttered. “Why—why those cheering millions you promised. You said millions would idolize me, cheer me, parade me all over town. “But—there’s nobody here!”
“You sound pretty disappointed, friend,” said Allison. “In fact, you sound indignant. But I’m indignant too, Gregg—or should I say enraged?—at your scheme!”
“Scheme?” stammered Gregg. “Wh-what are you babbling about? Arc you mad?”
“Yes, very mad,” snapped Allison, his voice rising in intense bitterness. “Boiling is the word. You hooked me, roped me in like a baby, building me up to the biggest newspaper scoop of all time, only to have it fall with a dull thud at my feet. All I’ve got now is a story of a cunning hoax An attempted swindle, of the Planetary Prize for Mars. But that money isn’t for you, friend. Nor the fame and honor and glory of a space pioneer. Nor the cheering crowds. There’s no crowd here, only two men coming toward us—in uniform. They’re your welcoming committee.”
“Police?” Gregg stood paralized.
“You won’t tell the true story so I will,” Allison ground out. “Maybe I won’t have all the facts quite straight but it’ll be close enough. You simply jumped into space deliberately, a few days or weeks ago—not 303 years ago. Yes, you took a chance, a risk that you would die. But young and strong, you knew you had a 50-50 chance to be space-frozen alive. And you jumped out near the main Mars-Earth space lane, with a thousand ships passing a day. You took the calculated risk—and won. I picked you up and revived you.”
Gregg was mouthing protests, but Allison charged on loudly.
“The other details were simple—buying a torn old 20th-century pilot suit—practicing the old-English accent of 1970—schooling yourself to ‘forget’ all space history past that time. Elementary, too, carefully picking up a Martian sea-stone and stuffing it in your jacket. And cleverest of all, looking up old records and finding that one John Henry Gregg did lose himself in space in 1970, an unsung hero.”
Allison went on with scornful admiration.
“Yes, you played the part to perfection—that of a man born 303 and more years ago, destined to be a space hero. And how did you hide that gleam of greed in your eyes, when I told of the Planetary Prizes? Because of course that was your whole scheme to claim the billion dollars for first reaching Mars.”
The two uniformed men held Gregg by the arms now, as he struggled violently.
“It was all perfect, I assure you,” Allison rasped. “You had me completely fooled—completely!”
As the handcuffs snapped shut, the wild man shouted madly.
“But then what tripped me up? If I fooled you, how could I fail What tripped me? Tell me—I’ve got to know!”
The smile on Allison’s face was almost pitying.
“One little thing betrayed you, Gregg—or whatever your real name is when the police drag it out of you. No, not a little thing a big glaring thing. Sometimes the obvious escapes a person. You plugged all the little holes, but you left one hole big enough for an elephant to march through.”
“What?” shrieked the man whose alias was Gregg. “What was my mistake?” And he no longer had a 20th century accent.
Allison looked in the sky toward space, with half dreamy eyes.
“The stars and planets wheel in their eternal orbits, eon after eon, never disobeying set laws—never. Think once, you poor fool. Earth’s year is 12 months. The year of Mars is almost 23 months, almost double. Thus the two planets only come close together, in conjunction, once every two years. Wentworth reached Mars in 1971, when it was at its closest to earth, only 36 million miles off. You said you beat him by one year—in 1970.”
The prisoner staggered, in dawning comprehension.
“Sure,” said Allison. “By the immutable laws of space, Mars in 1970 was in opposition with Earth!”
“1969 I should have said!” screamed the man who called himself Gregg, as they dragged him off. “Why didn’t I say 1969?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” mused Allison, “while you slept. Wondering why any man in his right mind would make a mad dash for Mars, in 1970, when it was way around on the other side of the sun, at its furthest distance from earth of 235 million miles! It didn’t make sense.”
He grinned.
“No, it didn’t make cents—for you.”
1954
THE MONSTER—OR, THE MONSTER?
Valler had the right approach to the problem, but . . .
“WELL, ANDREW VALLER! Enjoying your study of interplanetary specimens?”
Feeding the animals, Valler turned in surprise. His biological research-camp was isolated, deep in the hills, by Earth security-regulations. He worked alone, without assistants, and visitors seldom came. Most people didn’t like this particular work, dealing with mobsters of many worlds.
“Hello, I didn’t expect company—” Valler choked off, staring around; there was no one in sight. Valler stood a moment frowning, then shrugged. He was a man of snap judgments. There was no one there; ergo, no one had spoken. Period.
Valler went back to feeding the animals, taking his usual delight in holding the food beyond their reach and letting them slaver and whine for it, while he goaded them with a blunt iron bar.
“Yes, you heard a voice, Andrew Valler,” came again. “Don’t ignore me; that is rude you know.”
Valler dropped his goad. This time there was no mistake. It had been as clear as a bell in his ears . . . no, not in his ears. In his mind.
Telepathy. But who—?
Valler stiffened as he slowly looked around at the dozen cages in open air, holding specimens of native animal-life from a dozen different worlds. The question suddenly came out chillingly different.
What had spoken to him, by telepathy?
Valler had thought, up till now, that he was studying only animal-life, comparable in low brain capacity to earthly mammals. His skin crawled; now it was obvious that one of the planetary creatures was intelligent.
But which one?
“Yes, which one of us?” rang in cold, clear telepathic tones, tinged with that other unique trait of intelligent life—sarcasm. “We all look alike to you—that is, unhuman. Which one is I, Erko Kajj?”
Valler gripped his gun, peering at each cage closely. Yet how could he tell, visually? They all looked monstrous to human eyes. Scaly, simian, piscine, winged, furred, fanged—each appeared to be a dumb brute in outward form.
Obviously reading his thoughts, the voice again slid into his mind. “Not one of us looks manlike or brainy. Which one is I, Erko Kajj? Which one?”
Valler was bending his head, like a person trying to determine where a voice came from. Perhaps. . .
“It won’t work,” informed Erko Kajj immediately. “Your ears can judge the direction of sound, but a mind cannot orientate telepathic impulses.”
It was true; the telepathic voice seemed to come from everywhere—and nowhere. It had no more “direction” than any thought stealing into the mind. Valler grunted.
Clothes! It was a mark of all intellectual races . . .
“Not a stitch on me,” bubbled Erko Kajj, gleefully. “When I was captured by your hunters, on my world, I was sleeping after a swim.”
“What world?” shot back Valler quickly, speaking aloud, knowing his thought would carry along.
“Clever, aren’t you? Thought I’d answer innocently, not seeing the trap. All your specimens being from different worlds, you would then know which I was. Come
, Earthling, that was childish. You are dealing with a brain equal to yours; try something else.”
Valler whipped out his gun. “Simple,” he snapped, grinning. “You forget one thing. I can’t pick you out, but if I must, I can kill all twelve animals, and that would include Mr. Erko Kajj. Laugh that off.”
“Frankly,” came back calmly, “it’s your only chance. Within an hour, I will figure out the lock-mechanism to my cage, and open it with telekinetic force. I will be free to kill you. Yes, your only chance to kill me is by slaughtering all the specimens. You’ll never pick me out, stupid.”
VALLER put back his gun, seething. That did it, the insult, the sneer in the tone. That unsufferable self-assurance. “Killing would be too easy for you,” Valler growled. “I’ll beat you the better way, in a battle of wits.”
“Perhaps I tricked you into taking that attitude, to save myself from immediate death.”
“I know you did,” spat Valler. “But that’s going to make it all the sweeter, getting you the hard way, making you eat your words. So I’m too dumb to pin you down, eh? We’ll see!”
“Yes, we will see,” agreed the unknown enemy. “Well? Which one am I, braggart? Which one?”
Which one? Which one? Which one?
It gonged in Valler’s head in the following minutes, as he brooded silently, rejecting useless ideas. Then he jumped up and ran into his cabin-workshop for biological research. Smiling crookedly, he wheeled out an instrument.
“Know what this is, my friend?” he said, addressing himself to the twelve cages and animals in general. “The fluororadarscope. Takes X-ray shots of the insides of animals, shows them on the screen, by radar-focus. All I do now is examine each of the critters for one certain internal organ.”
“The brain!” came back, and Valler laughed; for the first time, Erko Kajj’s tone was not mocking, not self-assured.
“Scared?” said Valler gloatingly. “The brain, of course, is a dead giveaway. It’s almost always more convoluted and larger in any intelligent being, in proportion to body size. Try and get out of that corner, chum.”
