by Jerry
But who?—who among that weary battered crowd was a traitor?
“Tenente.” Pablo, the Mexican scout interrupted his reverie. “The Asians—” Pablo spat “—are sending a convoy through Carana Pass tonight. It would be perfect for—” he ran a finger lightly across his throat.
“Good,” Dean answered, “we’ll give them a run, Pablo—but this time we can’t stand another blow like last night’s.”
“I know,” Pablo said sympathetically. “Someone talked.”
In a short while Dean laid out the. plan of the hypothetical attack to his. weary men. Weapons were checked, ammunition loaded and stored. aboard the few trucks they possessed, and then the men relaxed until zero hour.
Meanwhile Dean pondered his problem. It was obvious that the traitor of. the group was using some radio equipments Unfortunately Dean’s unit had none at all. If he had it would have been a simple matter to track the betrayer down. Their last set had been lost in a truck the night before.
Yet Dean knew he had to find his-man by radio.
“Pablo,” Dean said after a while, “you can still move in the towns. I must have a receive—even a home receiver will do if it has battery power and short wave—can you steal one?”
The Mexican grinned: “Tenente—give me three hours.”
Dean glanced at his watch. There were eight hours left before they’d supposedly start to roll. “Just hurry, Pablo. Only luck—and a radio will let me get this rat.”
Only a short while later the Mexican scout came back carrying an inconspicuous package. Dean took it from him in the little canvassed-off area he used as an office in the capacious cave. The set proved to be a small battery-powered portable with a short wave band. Hiding the package under his tunic, Dean left the cave. It. was dark outside and it was a simple matter to operate the device from behind a cluster of bushes.
Dean swung the dial across the shortwave band. Patiently he monitored it hoping that, he’d hear some communication. After an hour he was about to give up in despair and disgust when he caught the clicking code: “Q-5—contact H—Q-5—contact H . . .”
He jumped with delight. This was it! He waited.
Back came the answer: “Q-5—ready—come in—come in—safe . . .”
Somebody outside the cave was ready to contact the Asians! Dean swung the simple loop of the antenna and found the maximum intensity. The discussion he heard was of no consequence. His traitor was giving the complete details of the attack.
Dean started to walk the imaginary line the receiver indicated. Through underbrush and rutted trail Dean stumbled along with Pablo at his heels. The latter’s rifle was ready—arid Dean’s right hand never strayed far from his pistol.
Then abruptly they came on a small clearing. It was Post No. 3. Dean knew Striker, Lanning and Phillips as well as his own name. But there was no mistaking what the three were doing. Two were crouched over some apparatus, while the third kept a look-out.
“O.K. Pablo,” Dean said softly.
The Mexican’s rifle blasted rapid-fire, but at the same instant Dean tripped and his body nudged the Mexican for a moment. The shattering blast went wide. Instantly Striker’s own weapon let loose and Dean felt an angry sting in his side. But the surprise was enough. Two of the traitors were down, bullet riddled.
Dean closed with Lanning. Fired by fury and hatred his arms moved like, pistons smashing through the surprised traitor’s guard. The traitor went down and before Dean could stop him Pablo put a bullet through the man’s head.
Dean studied the portable transceiver. This would come in handy. And there’d be some changes made. The guerrilla attack wasn’t going to be so nicely tabbed anymore. Happily he thought of tonight’s carnage. The Asians wouldn’t be able to take much more of this hammering. . . .
Shanghaied into Space!
Lee Owen
I HAVE to laugh when I hear you talking about how tough a spaceman’s life is. You lads don’t know what toughness is. Man and boy, for fifty years I’ve rocketed through the system and I can tell you some tales that’ll make your blood run cold. Fifty years ago when I first went into deep-space as a lad fresh out of engineering school, there was no atomic rive. Chemical rockets—flimsy tin-cans, we called ‘em—shot us through the System. Accidents and deaths were so frequent that you couldn’t get men with engineering qualifications to ship aboard them—and you had to have technical men. And when piracy and gangsterism were rife with the opening of the Martian uranium mines, you had to shanghai a crew. I remember because I was shanghaied and that was an experience I’ll never forget.
I can still see the old bar on Crawford Street. It was a dingy hole, only a few blocks from White Sands Field and Goddard Place. A half dozen of us had graduated that day and had decided to make the rounds for a roaring time before the ceremonies the next day. Naturally we had too much to drink—we were loaded to the ears. I was sitting at a table in the comer, I remember talking with a fascinating blonde witch. She was drinking with me—and seemingly keeping up. A half dozen men in a group came into the bar. They were black uniformed and husky.
I mumbled something about “looking like policemen.” The blonde gave me a knowing wink. “Don’t worry about ‘em, honey,” she said in liquid tones, “they won’t bother us.”
We had another drink and everything began to get hazy. At the moment I thought I’d lust had too much to drink and was passing out normally. I was even happy about it. I had a foolish vacuous grin on my face and I even patted the pocket where I’d stuck my certificate showing my degree. Then everything went black. I’d blanked out.
When I came to, it was in a small metallic room. There was a steady roaring, hissing sound, and over the dullness in my mind and the bad taste in my mouth, I knew almost instantly where I was. I came alert in a hurry. I’d been shanghaied aboard a rocket!
I pounded with futile rage against the cubicle’s door. I shouted and yelled. The door suddenly opened and a black bearded face met mine.
“Shut up,” the face growled, “or I’ll smash your head in, sonny.” The black clad figure of the spaceman brandished a wooden club in my face. I shut up. I was tired, hung-over, weak,—and scared.
They let me in the room for what seemed to be an eternity. By that time I’d come to my senses. I wanted out—but I knew there was nothing I could do. The same man who’d quieted me so effectively appeared again.
“O.K. punk,” he said. “Come along with me. The captain wants to see you.”
He followed me through the small metal corridors—almost tubes they were—in the cramped interior of the space craft. When we reached the navigation room, I saw two other young men. Like me they looked beaten.
The captain was instantly recognizable.
He looked us up and down with no trace of amusement at our bedraggled appearance.
“You men should know you’re aboard the Ceres 77,” he said calmly. “You’re signed as navigator—” he pointed a finger at one, “and you’re engine gang—and you’re—” this was me, “—assistant to Scotty on the engines.”
Simultaneously we opened our mouths to protest.
“Shut up,” he said jabbing a finger at us. “Use your heads. You’ve been pressed aboard, I’ll admit. There’s nothing you can do about it. If you raise hell and refuse to cooperate and learn. I’ll dump you at the first Jovian port where you’ll rot. They sympathize with spacemen—in apace ports away, from Terra. If you do, on the other hand, play it sensibly and cooperate with me, you’ll learn a hell of a lot, and when you return to Terra you’ll have full-fledged engineering and rocket tickets. Now which way’s it going to be?”
I had to admire the man’s directness. And I realized my own position. I’d planned to go into Rocket Chemicals Ltd. on graduation. Instead I was in deep space. I shrugged.
“We’re trapped, Captain,” I said, “but I’ll go along. The others nodded, agreed too. We had to. What else could we do.
When we got together later we talked about how we’d
raise hell with the consul at that Jovian port—but gradually we came to accept our lot. The work was so interesting, that we made the adjustment with no trouble at all.
And that was the beginning. Ever since, I’ve spent most of my time as rocket officer aboard a space-can. I’ve been through the system a hundred times and you can’t name the planet, satellite, asteroid or what have you that I haven’t seen. I’ve been pirated, shanghaied (as I’ve told) wrecked on Mercury, beaten-up in half a dozen ports, fought in a dozen bitter battles, lost in a space suit off Phobos—you name it, I’ve done.
You youngsters with your atomic drive will never know the excitement and thrills of we old-timers—you lucky dogs . . .!
Vengeance
E. Bruce Yaches
HE LAY ON his belly and was sick.
The nausea gripped and his pain-wracked body quivered convulsively. With a supreme effort of will he calmed himself and momentarily conquered the omnipresent impulse to disgorge. Radiationsickness was like that.
Far to the east he could see clearly the smoke hovering in a pall over the stricken city. The bombs had fired everything. And now this village twenty miles away was completely deserted. It looked untouched but there was no sound. Even the dogs and cats had fled. The answer was clear. The flasher on the Geiger counter was winking rapidly.
Dust clouds had carried this far, he knew. And he knew he was going to die. The lethal radiations were already converting his body into a miniature atomic furnace. How he’d made it this far he didn’t know.
He rose wearily fighting pain and nausea. He picked up his bag of grenades and the sub-machine gun and started to move toward the street.
Suddenly he flung himself to the Earth almost fainting as the revulsion of an outraged system hit him again. He fought it bitterly and again suppressed the retching. With his ear pressed against the ground and his body buried in the deep grass of the lot he listened. There was the unmistakable rumble of something heavy—treads of some kind. Must be a farmer with a tractor he thought. Nevertheless he remained hidden and waited.
The rumbling increased. That was no tractor. Around the corner it appeared abruptly. He watched it with leaden, hopeless eyes as it ground forward. Then suddenly hope kindled in his eyes. It was stopping. With a cough its engine ceased grinding and the ponderous machine came to a halt.
He recognized it. They’d had enough warning. It was similar to the conventional tanks, the large one-hundred tonners, but it was even more massive, coated with the radiation-resistants. From the ponderous turret protruded the long lean barrel of a huge one millimeter gun, from the sides lesser weapons jutted.
The top was studded with an array of slim rods and whips which he knew to be radio and radar antennae. Painted on the side were numbers and the omnipresent bright red star. Hatred welled up inside him like bile and he felt an impulse to run toward the stationary thing and kick its sides in.
The radiation tank remained still for a few minutes. No one emerged. Evidently they were surveying the ground. They didn’t really appreciate how grievously they’d hit the country. By now their transports must be landing practically unhindered, here in the East, at least.
Finally the cover of the turret swung up and the helmeted head of a soldier appeared.
He could have knocked that head off at this range of less than twenty yards but he refrained knowing the futility of knocking out one man.
Gradually, assuring themselves it was safe, other members of the crew came out, laughing and chattering in the Slavic accents, unaware they were being watched. Obviously they were cooling off. They stood in a small group of eight and he was tempted to cut them down at once but he didn’t know whether or not any more were in the radiation tank.
A spasm of retching again wracked his body. He’d have to act fast. He couldn’t wait much longer. Soon he’d be too weak to lift his weapon.
He debated for a moment whether to use the grenades or the gun. He decided to try both.
And just as he decided the eight broke up, some starting toward the houses, the others squatting down in the street near the sides of the tank.
Half rising, he flung three grenades toward those near the tank as fast as he could throw them. At the same time he brought up the vicious snout of his submachine gun and sprayed the soldiers walking toward the house. The Sovs crumpled into a heap where the grenades blew up with a tremendous ear-crashing roar.
Sweeping his sub-machine gun back and forth like a hose, until the magazine was empty, he cut down the remaining Sovs.
Then he saw he’d been a little too soon. But his misjudgment didn’t matter.
The minor turret was swinging rapidly in his direction, even as he rose to meet it, slapping a fresh magazine into place. But it was useless. Something in front of him chattered, a strange line going from the tank’s gun to him. Suddenly he felt lightheaded, and then he was on his belly again with strange lights before his eyes. But he felt happy. There were lots more of him—more like him who didn’t worry about living—who would be glad to take Sovs with them . . .
Always Kiss an Amazon
Charles Recour
JERRY LANNING finished checking the instruments. He straightened up, wiped the sweat from his brow and started to walk across the compound. Overhead the huge Jovian-disc was beginning to sink in the sky, and outside the electrically charged fence that surrounded the compound, the night noises were commencing. But Jerry’d been On Station—a radio pulse job for astrogational aid. for three weeks now arid he was beginning to get used to the oddities of the sweltering Ionian days and nights.
He glanced outside the fenced compound before he stepped into the aluminum hut that housed the transmitter, receiver, and his humble, simple, efficient, housekeeping facilities. Yes, she was still there. Outside the fence, glaring contemptuously through it, the Amazon, nude save for a couple of wisps of animal-hide, leaned on her longbow. For a week at. a time, the Amazons would station the same girl to the duty. Jerry’s feeble attempts to converse had been squelched at once by a menacing raising of the long, barbed arrows held, in a quiver at the girls’ sides.
Jerry shook his head. “G’night,” he called, in the lingua franca that served for official communication. The Amazon said nothing, but Jerry felt an uncomfortable feeling as he stared at her statuesque beauty so remote and untouchable—yet so near.
In the hut, his eye fell on the large lettering of the chart. “Oh hell,” he muttered, “why?”
“Under, no circumstances.” the chart read in bold black letters, “are operators of this station to attempt communication of any sort with Amazonia or the Amazons. Remember you are dealing with an absolute matriarchy which destroys its males at birth save for those used for breeding purposes!”
Jerry was familiar. with the hard-won concessions of just permitting the existence of the Astrogator Radio Station, obtained after long negotiation by the System Patrol.
But he also knew that in the eighteen months the Station had been in existence, the ravishingly beautiful Amazons—they’d been automatically dubbed that by Lenton, the explorer who’d established the Station—had never once communicated with the Earthmen. One or two hardy souls who’d left the compound had been found with yard-long shafts through their bodies.
Jerry sighed at the thought of all that waste of beauty, and the disturbing image of the girl outside the compound crossed his eyes. She was a prize. His one overture to friendliness had been rejected in no uncertain terms when she loosed a shaft two inches from his head the other day when he’d opened his mouth to talk, at the same time extending a piece of candy in his hand. Momentarily, his hand had touched his blaster—but he came to his senses.
Outside, the roaring and growling of the night-beasts began. Jerry thought of the girl outside the electrified fence and wondered how she stood it. The Amazons used poisoned arrows he knew, and they could bring down any of the reptilian-animal, monster who infested the surrounding jungle, but—Jerry shuddered. Jerry, knew also that if a girl
was killed as had happened, the Amazons simply put another one there.
Jerry stiffened. Outside came a piercing scream. He ran out the hut door and stared into a circle of light from the compound lighting system.
The Amazon stood there, her back to the fence and only three feet away. Facing her and grimly stalking her was the reptilian-headed parody of a tiger, its catlike body studded with arrow shafts, its snake-like head whipping to and fro. Slowly it advanced on the girl. As quickly as she could draw her arrows she was sending them into the beast but instead of crumpling to the ground, the animal, evidently impervious to the poison, came on. As she loosed her last arrow, the beast sprang. The girl shrieked wildly and at the same instant Jerry’s blaster jumped into his hand and he sent a point-blank bolt into the animal’s head.
The head vanished in a flare of flame just as the beast sprawled across the girl’s body. She went down beneath it, struggling wildly. Jerry opened the compound wire gate through the insulated handle and dragged the girl’s body from beneath the animal. A long ugly red-line, bleeding profusely, ran down her side where the raking talons of the animal had done their work.
Jerry lifted the Amazon’s limp body into his arms and entered the compound. He put her on his bed and went to work with the first aid kit. As he cleaned the blood away he saw the wound was less serious than it appeared’, but certainly she’d be quiet for a moment. He continued to bathe her with the antiseptic solution, as she stirred slowly to consciousness.
She came to abruptly. She glanced around momentarily saw her surroundings, saw the man bending over her! Horrified,” more afraid than when the beast had attacked her, she sat erect, her hand plunging into her skumpy garment for her knife. She whipped it up just as Jerry closed within her. Impulsively he drew her hard against him and savagely brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss jarred her to the core. Completely startled she dropped the knife and made a spontaneous effort to disengage herself, and then stopped! This kiss was new—and interesting.
