by Jerry
Almost at once the terrific biting tension which had seized Fenlake, vanished and gradually a euphorious world of utter ease overwhelmed the engineer. Before the harmless drug took hold, Fenlake thought: Hypno-mechanics are wonderful! I’ll feel like a million in the morning. How could people live before Hoffberger’s discovery? Think I’ll try danger next time . . .”
Gradually the silken threads of hypno-consciousness replaced the iron bonds of normal awarement. Fenlake Three was at his ease. Contentment washed over him like a wave. Work was a day away but it would never overtake him—he was too comfortable . . .
Condemned!
Cal Webb
IN THE glowing fluorescent room of stelloy, the nine black-robed jurors sat. The scene conveyed the gravity of the trial and the dignity of the justices was accented by the solemnity of the proceedings.
A tall gray-haired justice arose, his robe sweeping around him. He looked calmly and gravely at the squat powerful man standing below him. The man’s hands were gripped by metal cuffs and two guards stood beside him.
The judge opened his mouth and an instant hush fell over the crowded courtroom.
“This tribunal has found you guilty of murder in the first degree,” the judge said simply. “Under ordinary circumstances, your brutal murder of three persons for personal gain would be regarded as a psychological maladjustment and you would be judged criminally insane. But this court has consulted with your psychiatric investigators, had observed your courtroom behavior and has listened to your testimony. This evidence clearly demonstrates that you are a cold-blooded and mercilessly cruel man in full possession of your faculties. It is determined that no treatment will benefit you and that you even now, feel no remorse, but simple anger with your failure.
“Therefore it is the duty of this court to see that you are destroyed as a hopeless degenerate atavism. To that end, therefore this court sentences you to death by the merciful agent of radioactive injection. Take the prisoner away!”
Five minutes later, the condemned murderer was led into the lavishly equipped medical offices of the Legal Commission. He was permitted to smoke a cigarette.
The defiant fearless smile of contempt for the court remained on his face. The judges came in moments later as witness.
When the prisoner had finished his cigarette, he was fastened to a simple chair with a couple of plastic straps. The executioner, a doctor, stepped up to him with a hypodermic needle.
In one deft motion he plunged the instrument into the prisoner’s neck, gently but firmly and squeezed the plunger. Before the plunger went home completely the man was dead, so swiftly does the radioactive agent act on the brain tissues.
“I pronounce the prisoner dead,” the doctor said undramatically as he stepped back.
All the men in the room breathed freely now that the tension was gone. Execution in the Twenty-third century, even to its practitioners seems barbaric and unnecessary, but for this man there was no other end. Conscious incorrigibility can only be defeated by death.
The judges filed from the room . . .
The Telepathic Murder
Dan Corliss
THE DATE, twenty-eight twenty-four, is now as familiar to everyone, as their own name. It should be. For it was the year in which commercial telepathy became practical. For that matter, though it isn’t as well known, that is also the year in which Zed Thane invented the telepathic amplifier—and ironically enough it is also the year in which Zed Thane died.
If you dig through the microfilm files of the Legal Enforcement Organization, if you’re willing to spend a little time going through the records, it is possible to find an almost exact reconstruction of what happened in Thane’s little workshop which he called his laboratory.
The light-flecked film has a grim tale to tell. And it includes much of the background of Thane without which it is impossible to understand what happened.
Zed Thane was one of those rare individuals who is capable of fine theoretical research and superb laboratory work. A glance at the Patent Office files discloses numerous inventions in Thane’s name—including the famed telepathic amplifier.
As far as his work goes, Thane’s life was ideal. The same for his ability. A chain of circumstances led directly to what happened.
When Zed Thane finished his schooling, he wanted nothing so much as to study privately for five or ten years. He knew then that he had to have leisure but—Zed Thane was poor. So it surprised no one, when he met, “wooed” and won Beatrice Mattox, the widow of an extremely wealthy manufacturer. How much of his wooing was avarice and how much love we do not know; regardless, Thane bound himself in this web which proffered all the material things he needed, and after a short time his love—if it was that—turned to hate.
He did nothing however. He maintained this pretence of loving his wife. Actually his hate for her was almost physical as we now know. He detested her utterly, yet he breathed no slight suggestion of his attitude. His friends knew his state. His wife’s did not, or if they did, they did not tell her, and she was not a brilliant or astute woman. Hence she retained the illusion. What a tragedy that this ill-matched couple underwent!
The record shows very clearly how and why Beatrice Thane murdered her husband. Her simple testimony describes the affair perfectly.
“. . . I walked into the laboratory where Zed was working. He had asked me over the interphone to come there. He told me that he had just achieved his life’s ambition, the invention of an electronic device for amplifying human thought, making it strong enough to be detected by another. He was enthusiastic. He said that he’d tried it on Martin (his lab assistant) and it worked.
“My husband then reached down to the table top and picked up the amplifier which he set on his head. At once I was stunned for within my mind I heard or felt distinctly, his thoughts. The first thought was one of joy and glee. In fact, that was what my husband was really thinking about. Then he looked at me.
“I never received such a shock in my life, for it seemed as if I were peering into his soul. I felt such a searing blast of dislike and hatred that I almost fainted. It came through very clearly above the conscious thoughts of joy and pride in invention.
“The thought impact was almost physical. Something happened within me. All I remember is walking calmly over to the laboratory desk, reaching into the drawer and taking out the gun. My husband must have divined my intention. He shouted ‘no! no, Beatrice, don’t!’. But his hatred came through even the fear-thought. I shot him four times.
The Thane Telepathic Amplifier is now commonplace. The tragic history of its origin is not. It is interesting to note that Thane’s wife was acquitted on a plea of temporary insanity. For despite his hatred for her, it is clear that she loved him.
Lunar Coffin
Lee Owen
JOHN STANTON lay comfortably ensconced within the anti-acceleration cushions of the rocket. His eye watched the chronometer on the instrument panel and his finger poised over the firing key. Hundreds of yards from him a crowd shouted itself hoarse with adulation. People breathlessly awaited the escape of Man from the planet. Stanton would circle the Moon and return. The world of the Twenty-First century could ask no more. That was the Alpha and the Omega.
Inside the slim steel hull, Stanton was unaware of the plaudits. His carefully trained and exquisitely briefed mind was focussed on one function—the rocket must go perfectly.
The needle of the dial crossed the zero point and Stanton touched the stud. Instantaneously a monstrous forceful hand seized him and forced him against the padding. Even as he lost consciousness, Stanton smiled.
An hour later lie came to his senses and as his eyes opened they scanned every instrument and every meter. And everything was right. Exultantly Stanton smiled. He was the first man in space! Here in this frail shell Man was asserting his birthright and Stanton was the medium! Through the port Stanton saw the magnificent breath-taking vista of a blackened sky glittering with a myriad of exquisite jewels. The starligh
t intoxicated him. He inhaled deeply of the artificial atmosphere and it smelled as sweet as new-mown hay.
And then the enormity of the experience clutched at him. Stanton felt an icy hand around his heart. He was far from anything and anyone and anywhere. He was alone; he was as alone as it is possible for anyone to be. No he thought, until now, no one has ever been as alone as I am. I am the One—the only one in all the infinite reaches of space.
A little bubble of terror seeped through the lowermost cells of his cortex, and Stanton felt an all-conquering fear. It was not fear in the ordinary sense of the word. It was an overwhelming knowingness. He, Stanton, could not bear this. He could not! Then the raving maniac within the steel shell babbled and mouthed senseless phrase while the spittle ran down his chin. And as his sane consciousness recoiled, retreated, then absorbed into the all-embracing anodyne of madness, Stanton screamed.
The first rocket to the Moon glided magnificently on, bearing within it, a twisted madman. And nothing stopped the Lunar Coffin. Man had reached into space . . .
Maniacal Mentanical
Lee Owen
MALONE touched the stud alongside the chair and the reading lamp increased its output of light. He settled back more comfortably and picked up his book. It was an historical survey of Twentieth Century science culminating in a description of the Biological Wars of 1988—94. He reached for his drink. Real socko, he thought as the fiery brew slid down. He went on with his reading.
Gradually he became aware of a funny feeling. A strange sensation overtook him. He had the uncapniest idea that someone was staring at him. He looked around the room. There was no one there.
He went into the chromium-glass service kitchen. And there it was.
The instant Malone spotted the Z-24, he knew something was wrong. The mentanical stood perfectly still about ten feet behind and facing the door, as if to stare right through it. Its gleaming metallic body stood rigid, its tentacles hung at its side, but its lens-eyes glistened emotionally. Malone faced it. He sensed that any mismove on his part might start a tragedy—with him the victim.
“Z-24,” he said softly as if he were soothing an animal, “what is wrong?”
The mentanicars voice box made no sound. It continued to stare impassively.
Malone’s heart began to pound and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He knew he was in a spot. The wrong move, and—blooey! Frantically he searched the kitchen for a weapon—foolish thought though it was. The five hundred pound mentatical would dissect him as easily as a butterfly.
This is it, Malone thought. I can’t make the outer door. He’d be on me too quick. I can’t fight him. There’s only one thing left to do. Malone stepped forward.
He reached for a light switch. “Look,” he said quietly, “look, Z-24—see the colors change. See how they go on and off. Watch them. Aren’t they nice?” He felt like a fool talking like this. But he knew he did the right thing. The mentanical lifted its grotesque simulation of a head and watched the flickering light. On and off. On and off.
Still manipulating the light switch, Malone slid his body out the door and reached the intercom-mike, “Apartment 311,” he gasped, “please send a robot technician and the Legals. There’s a nutty mentanical in with me, Hurry! Hurry!”
Twenty minutes later Malone watched the technician dismantling the mentanical. The man glanced up at him: “Rough, eh?” he asked sympathetically.
Malone wiggled his aching arm; “And how,” he agreed. Then he laughed. “Sometimes it takes a gadget to catch a gadget.”
Callisto Beam
Lee Owen
THOSE UNSUNG men who man the astro-stations and keep the light of civilization flickering throughout the Solar System, are giants indeed. Marooned and isolated in their little dwellings of ferroconcrete, they tend the atomic generators which supply the power for the radio pulses sent into space to give the ships of the System a “fix” an anchor point in the limitless reaches of the void.
Some will dispute this, but no worse Astro-station exists than the one on Callisto. So far, this point on the lonely moon of Jupiter, is the outermost of the stations though rumor has it that since the discovery of uranium on Pluto, a station will be built there also.
Regardless of that, the Callisto radiopulse beam is housed under as weird conditions as one may imagine. Half buried in an “ice” of solidified ammonia and methane, the station has huge generators to supply the power to keep the antennae free of this matter so that the beam may project itself into space strong and clear. The constant watchfulness, the continual attention that must be payed to instruments, all coupled with the omnipresent danger of attack from grotesque and impossible life-forms, makes the operator’s work, living hell.
No one has ever catalogued the incredibly different numbers of ammonia-breathers, but their diversity is legion.
Officer Crandall recently received a citation for his efforts in keeping the beam clear while under attack from the “Gassys”. It was a critical occasion because a freighter was attempting to dock into a Jovian settlement at the time. Crandall did his job well.
He was aware of the attack when the instruments showed the antennae not rotating. Without hesitation and with magnificent courage, he took two hand guns, suited himself, and left the astro-station, single-handedly beating back, with his heat guns, an overwhelming force of the amorphous and ever-changing “Gassys”. These five cubic foot clouds of gas manifest themselves by a solidification into psuedo-arms and legs capable of wrenching a space helmet right from its suit. In spite of this risk, Crandall scattered a host of more than forty with blasts of his heat weapons. It was a matter of seven hours before he had broken the back of the offense. The Gassys finally broke off and did not return. All the while the beam played clear and strong.
It is hard to find men who will devote themselves to this duty and provisions are now afoot to enlarge the stations considerably so that reliance need not be placed on a single man. But until such intentions become deed, men like Cranston will guard the vital spaceways . . .
’Copter—Police
Lee Owen
MARK CLANE Settled his body more comfortably against the foam-cushioned seat of the ’coptor. Gently his fingertips toyed with the controls and the little ship slithered quietly through the air at two hundred miles an hour. There was little noise and less vibration. This is the life, Mark thought. These new models are really smooth. I’m glad I bought a Jensen 2331 model. Maybe it did cost a little more but so what? I’m making enough. Business is good.
Mark glanced down at the slim concrete ribbons beneath him. It was hard for him to imagine that once those “roads” had been used by vehicles. In most places the roads were disappearing as Nature spread a protective blanket of vegetation over them. Mark shuddered at the thought of a bouncing ride in a primitive road-car.
The cigarette tasted good. Mark inhaled deeply. He glanced at his watch. Oh-oh—eighteen-hundred. Jorine expects me for dinner in fifteen minutes. I’ll have to step it up.
He touched the hand-throttle. With a burst of acceleration, the ’coptor leaped forward. Two twenty-five, two fifty, two seventy-five. The hiss of the overhead blades grew a little louder. The jets made a bit more noise. I’ll hit Suburbia in ten minutes Mark thought to himself and grinned in anticipation. Jorine would be waiting.
Suddenly the red light on the instrument panel flashed ominously and at the same instant Mark’s eye caught sight of the hovering monitor-dome! The air-lane was automatically patrolled! The loudspeaker burst into raucous activity.
“ ’Coptor 871W,” it bawled, “cut your jets. You are under arrest for violation of speed law 43. Identify yourself at once!”
Mark shrugged. I should have known better, he thought. He spoke into the mike: “Mark Clane, registration number 8376241. Visiting friend in Suburbia. Exceeding speed regulation. No excuse.”
The speaker answered:
“Turn your controls to automatic. We will land you in Station Sixteen. This violat
ion calls for two hundred credit fine.” Mark obeyed and flipped the controls to automatic pilot. He knew a radio beam would operate from here on in. He grinned wryly—to be caught by a robo-dome! It was humiliating. Well, he’d just have to pay the fine.
A few minutes later the ’coptor slid softly toward the roof of a low flat building, half concealed by trees. When it landed Mark stepped out. The procedure was very clear.
He walked down the ramp. Of course no one was in sight. Traffic offices were completely automatic. Mark went over to a desk and selected an appropriate blank. He filled in the details, noted his bank and credit numbers and signed his name. He shoved the blank into a machine which stood against the wall.
There was a whirling of mechanisms. A speaker rattled:
“Credit satisfactory—fine payed,” it said. “Please do not repeat violation. Record shows second offense. Third violation means withdrawal of operators’ license. You may leave.”
Mark walked rapidly back to the ’coptor. He didn’t mind the speeding or getting caught or paying the fine—but it was kind of disturbing to be scolded by a machine!
Finality . . .
Lee Owen
TAR-THEEN tapped the glassite helmet which encased his spongy head set upon a rubbery body. His heavily-lidded eyes blinked in the strong sunlight and through the insulation of his space suit he could feel the unaccustomed warmth.
His hissing sibilants reached through the helmet phone to his companion. “Pan-theen,” he said slowly, gazing around him, “what do you make of it?”
The other Martian, clad identically, flung wide a tentacle in a sweeping gesture. “It is impossible,” he said, “it is completely impossible. We are dreaming. Such creatures never lived.” The sweep of the tentacle included in its orbit the vast panorama of the gigantic Earth-city in which they and their rocket now rested.
