by Don Wilcox
“So I’m an outcast on my own ship!”
“That’s putting it mildly. You are a menace and a troublemaker—an ogre! It’s in their minds as tight as the bones in their skulls.”
The most I could do was secure some promises from him before I went back to the ice. He promised to keep the ship on its course, to do his utmost to fasten the obligation upon those who took over the helm.
“Straight relentless navigation!” We drank a toast to it. He didn’t pretend to appreciate the purpose or the mission of the Flashaway, but he took my word for it that it would come to some good.
“To Robinello in 2666!” Another toast. Then he conducted me back, in utmost secrecy, to my refrigerator room.
I awoke to the year of 2566, keenly aware that I was not Gregory Grimstone, the respected Keeper of the Traditions. If I was anyone at all, I was the Traddy Man—the ogre.
But perhaps by this time—and I took hope with the thought—I had been completely forgotten.
I tried to get through the length of the ship without being seen. I had watched through the oneway glass for several hours for a favorable opportunity, but the ship seemed to be in a continual state of daylight, and shabby-looking people roamed about as aimlessly as sheep in a meadow.
The few persons who saw me as I darted toward the captain’s quarters shrieked as if they had been knifed. In their world there was no such thing as a strange person. I was the impossible, the unbelievable. My name, obviously, had been forgotten.
I found three men in the control room. After minutes of tension, during which they adjusted themselves to the shock of my coming, I succeeded in establishing speaking terms. Two of the men were Sperry s.
But at the very moment I should have been concerned with solidifying my friendship, I broke the calm with an excited outburst. My eye caught the position of the instruments and I leaped from my seat.
“How long have you been going that way?”
“Eight years!”
“Eight—” I glanced at the huge automatic chart overhead. It showed the long straight line of our centuries of flight with a tiny shepherd’s crook at the end. Eight years ago we had turned back sharply.
“That’s sixteen years lost, gentlemen!”
I tried to regain my poise. The three men before me were perfectly calm, to my astonishment. The two Sperry brothers glanced at each other. The third man, who had introduced himself as Smith, glared at me darkly.
“It’s all right,” I said. “We won’t lose another minute. I know how to operate—”
“No, you don’t!” Smith’s voice was harsh and cold. I had started to reach for the controls. I hesitated. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on me.
“We know where we’re going,” one of the Sperrys said stubbornly. “We’ve got our own destination.”
“This ship is bound for Robineilo!” I snapped. “We’ve got to colonize. The Robineilo planets are ours—America’s. It’s our job to clinch the claim and establish the initial settlement—”
“Who said so?”
“America!”
“When?” Smith’s cold eyes tightened.
“Five hundred years ago.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing. Those people are all dead.”
“I’m one of those people!” I growled. “And I’m not dead by a damned sight!”
“Then you’re out on a limb.”
“Limb or no limb, the plan goes through!” I clutched my gun. “We haven’t come five hundred years in a straight line for nothing!”
“The plan is dead,” one of the Sperrys snarled. “We’ve killed it.”
His brother chimed in, “This is our ship and we’re running it. We’ve studied the heavens and we’re out on our own. We’re through with this straight-line stuff. We’re going to see the universe.”
“You can’t! You’re bound for Robineilo!”
Smith stepped toward me, and his big teeth showed savagely.
“We had no part in that agreement. We’re taking orders from no one. I’ve heard about you. You’re the Traddy Man. Go back in your hole—and stay there!”
I brought my gun up slowly. “You’ve heard of me? Have you heard of my gun? Do you know that this weapon shoots men dead?”
Three pairs of eyes caught on the gleaming weapon. But three men stood their ground staunchly.
“I’ve heard about guns,” Smith hissed. “Enough to know that you don’t dare shoot in the control room—”
“I don’t dare miss!”
I didn’t want to kill the men. But I saw no other way out. Was there any other way? Three lives weren’t going to stand between the Flashaway and her destination.
Seconds passed, with the four of us breathing hard. Eternity was about to descend on someone. Any of the three might have been splendid pioneers if they had been confronted with the job of building a colony. But in this moment, their lack of vision was as deadly as any deliberate sabotage. I focused my attack on the most troublesome man.
“Smith, I’m giving you an order. Turn back before I count to ten or I’ll kill you. One . . . two . . . three . . .”
Not the slightest move from anyone.
“Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .”
Smith leaped at me—and fell dead at my feet.
The two Sperrys looked at the faint wisp of smoke from the weapon. I barked another sharp command, and one of the Sperrys marched to the controls and turned the ship back toward Robinello.
CHAPTER VII
Time Marches On
For a year I was with the Sperry brothers constantly, doing my utmost to bring them around to my way of thinking. At first I watched them like hawks. But they were not treacherous. Neither did they show any inclination to avenge Smith’s death. Probably this was due to a suppressed hatred they had held toward him.
The Sperrys were the sort of men, being true children of space, who bided their time. That’s what they were doing now. That was why I couldn’t leave them and go back to my ice.
As sure as the Flashaway could cut through the heavens, those two men were counting the hours until I returned to my nest. The minute I was gone, they would turn back toward their own goal.
And so I continued to stay with them for a full year. If they contemplated killing me, they gave no indication. I presume I would have killed them with little hesitation, had I had no pilots whatsoever that I could entrust with the job of carrying on.
There were no other pilots, nor were there any youngsters old enough to break into service.
Night after night I fought the matter over in my mind. There was a full century to go. Perhaps one hundred and fifteen or twenty years. And no one except the two Sperrys and I had any serious conception of a destination!
These two pilots and I—and one other, whom I had never for a minute forgotten. If the Flash away was to go through, it was up to me and that one other—
I marched back to the refrigerator room, people fleeing my path in terror. Inside the retreat I touched the switches that operated the auxiliary merry-go-round freezer. After a space of time the operation was complete.
Someone very beautiful stood smiling before me, looking not a minute older than when I had packed her away for safe keeping two centuries before.
“Gregory,” she breathed ecstatically. “Are my three centuries up already?”
“Only two of them, Lora-Louise.” I took her in my arms. She looked up at me sharply and must have read the trouble in my eyes.
“They’ve all played out on us.” I said quietly. “It’s up to us now.”
I discussed my plan with her and she approved.
One at a time we forced the Sperry brothers into the icy retreat, with repeated promises that they would emerge within a century. By that time Lora-Louise and I would have gone—but it was our expectation that our children and grandchildren would carry on.
And so the two of us, plus firearms, plus Lora-Louise’s sense of humor, took over the running of the Flashaway for its final century.<
br />
As the years passed the native population grew to be less afraid of us. Little by little a foggy glimmer of our vision filtered into their number minds.
The year is now 2600. Thirty-three years have passed since Lora-Louise and I took over. I am sixty-two, she is fifty-six. Or if you prefer, I am 562, she is 256. Our four children have grown up and married.
We have realized down through these long years that we would not live to see the journey completed. The Robinello planets have been visible for some time; but at our speed they are still sixty or eighty years away.
But something strange happened nine or ten months ago. It has changed the outlook for all of us—even me, the crusty old Keeper of the Traditions.
A message reached us through our radio receiver!
It was a human voice speaking in our own language. It had a fresh vibrant hum to it and a clear-cut enunciation. It shocked me to realize how sluggish our own brand of the King’s English had become in the past five-and-a-half centuries.
“Calling the S.S. Flashaway!” it said. “Calling the S.S. Flashaway! We are trying to locate you, S.S. Flashaway. Our instruments indicate that you are approaching. If you can hear us, will you give us your exact location?”
I snapped on the transmitter. “This is the Flashaway. Can you hear us?”
“Dimly. Where are you?”
“On our course. Who’s calling?”
“This is the American colony on Robinello,” came the answer. “American colony, Robinello, established in 2550—fifty years ago. We’re waiting for you, Flashaway.”
“How the devil did you get there?” I may have sounded a bit crusty but I was too excited to know what I was saying.
“Modern space ships,” came the answer. “We’ve cut the time from the earth to Robinello down to six years. Give us your location. We’ll send a fast ship out to pick you up.”
I gave them our location. That, as I said, was several months ago. Today we are receiving a radio call every five minutes as their ship approaches.
One of my sons, supervising the preparations, has just reported that all persons aboard are ready to transfer—including the Sperry brothers who have emerged successfully from the ice. The eight-five Flashaway natives are scared half to death and at the same time as eager as children going to a circus.
Lora-Louise has finished packing our boxes, bless her heart. That teasing smile she just gave me was because she noticed the “Who’s Who Aboard the Flashaway” tucked snugly under my arm.
[*] Professor Grimstone is obviously astounded that his charges, with all the necessities of life on board their space ship, should have degenerated so completely. It must be remembered, however, that no other outside influence ever entered the Flashaway in all its long voyage through space. In the space of centuries, the colonists progressed not one whit.
On a very much reduced scale, the Flashaway colonists are a more or less accurate mirror of a nation in transition. Sad but true it is that nations, like human beings, are born, wax into bright maturity, grow into comfortable middle age and ofttimes linger on until old age has impaired their usefulness.
In the relatively short time that man has been a thinking, building animal, many great empires—many great nations—have sprung from humble beginnings to grow powerful and then wane into oblivion, sometimes slowly, sometimes with tragic suddenness.
Grimstone, however, has failed to take the lessons of history into account through the mistaken conception that because the colonists’ physical wants were taken care of, that was all they required to keep them healthy and contented.
THE INVISIBLE WHEEL OF DEATH
First published in Amazing Stories, January 1941
What was the weird death that circled over the valley of the Draz-Kangs? Theban Hyko thought he knew and dared the spin of its awful wheel.
CHAPTER I
Theban Hyko’s white space ship zoomed down out of a blustery gray sky.
The lame old marshal of Frigio Port poked his head out of the top of his fur overcoat and hobbled across the snowy field to deliver a respectful salute.
Theban Hyko returned the salute, unmindful that the old marshal worshipped the very snow that he stepped out upon. Nor did he notice the glow of admiration in the faces of the mechanics who came out to take the ship over. In recent weeks every mechanic in the five planets—every ordinary citizen, for that matter—had heard of this bold gray-eyed young officer.
“It’s great work you purgiers are doing,” the old marshal beamed as they trudged through the snow. “You here on official business, maybe? Figure to find some Draz-Kang rats lurking ‘round Frigio?”
Theban smiled absently. “The Draz-Kangs stick to the planet Bronze, thank goodness. They won’t spread to Frigio if we can prevent it.”
“If I was a purgier like you,” the old marshal grunted, stepping ahead to open the snow-locked gate to the street, “I s’pose I’d want ’em all cornered, just the way you’ve got ’em. But if you was a marshal on a wintry outpost, like me, you’d wish some of ’em was hiding ’round here just so there’d be some action. Nothing ever happens here.”
“Nothing?” Theban’s thoughts were elsewhere. In spite of his recent successes the drive on the rebellious Draz-Kangs had had a serious setback—a setback that spelled tragedy for the officers devoted to the search—perhaps tragedy for the whole White Comet Union.
“Nothing,” the old marshal repeated. “Nothing but training for the guardsmen. Of course, the space liners come through every punto. Now and then we git a tourist from one of the other four planets. Now and then a girl drops in to visit one of the guardsmen—like that black-haired one, for instance, that came in this very punto—with the hard-boiled hell-raising eyes—”
“The boys need some sociability,” Theban commented absently. “It’s a tough training period they let themselves in for when they enlist under the White Comet.”
The two men paused in the shelter of a lunch-room doorway. Theban Hyko cast his eyes over the wintry village toward the barracks, spotted the row of small cottages where the guardsmen lived.
“Come to see Ilando Ken, did ya?” the marshal asked. “Better drop in here and have some lunch with me first.”
“No, thanks. I’ll go right over and make a surprise call. I never warn my friends, because my time off is too uncertain. Ilando’ll probably have some stew and coffee on, and all he’ll have to do is add some water. By the way, how’s he getting along?”
“Well, he’s still sticking,” the old marshal grunted. “That’s about all you can say of any of the young guardsmen. Not to change the subject, sir, but I heard a rumor—”
“About Ilando Ken?” Theban spoke with a sharpness that betrayed a sensitive nerve.
“No, sir. About you purgiers.”
“Well?”
“And I wondered—that is, I want you to tell me there’s nothing to it—but I heard a whisper from a space pilot—”
Theban’s lean sensitive face changed from an expression of defensiveness to one of deep pain, as if from a hidden wound.
“What did you hear?” he asked quietly.
“I heard that a space ship full of your fellow purgiers fell to the Draz-Kangs.”
“It’s true,” Theban answered in a low voice, and for a moment he closed his eyes. “Some of the best comrades I ever hope to have went down in that ill-fated ship. You knew some of them yourself.”
The old marshal’s face grew white as Theban went over the names. His very world seemed to rock, for he had always thought of the purgiers as being invincible if not immune to the furies of the rebel Draz-Kangs.
“The low devilish rats!” the old patriot seethed. “They ought to be blown to hell, every last one of them! And they will be before you git through with ’em.”
Theban drew a deep breath. The snow seemed to glance off his tightly set face.
“We may reach our limit,” he said. “When you make a drive on rats you can’t always get the very last rat. A few
of them stick to their hideouts.”
“And breed,” the old marshal added wisely.
“The Draz-Kangs have got something—something we don’t understand.” Then changing the subject abruptly as he started off, Theban said, “So I’ll find Ilando Ken okay?”
“He’s sticking,” and the marshal gave a final salute.
Sticking, was he? Well, he’d better stick. The White Comet Union took quick action on any enlisted man who didn’t. For an instant Theban recalled the picture of seven deserters lined up against a wall—deserters he had run down.
The marshal’s answer had gone to the heart of his innermost question. Purgier Theban Hyko knew that his young friend, whom he had persuaded to enlist as a guardsman, was being put to the hardest test of a lifetime. It’s no easy job for a man—even a young man—to anchor himself down to solid loyalty after he’s had a first whirl of playing traitor.
Theban’s heavy boots plowed through the snow toward the guardsmen’s cottages. It was a lucky punto for Ilando Ken when Theban rescued him from the clutches of that damned beautiful Draz-Kang girl and talked him into enlisting. Already Ilando had served a kilo punto of his training period. A bit of reward might be in order . . .
The dark-haired girl with the hell-raising eyes whom the old marshal had seen alight from a space liner, stood before the small mirror that hung in the combined living-room, bedroom, and dining room of Guardsman Ilando Ken’s cottage.
With orange-tinted makeup she deepened the color of her cheeks and lips. She swung about angrily as Ilando came near and tried to take her by the arms.
“Keep your hands off me, can’t you?”
Ilando Ken stared at her coldly beautiful face and the puzzlement in his own boyish countenance deepened.
“I don’t understand you, Vida. You say you came here because you still love me—”
“Have you dyed your uniforms yet?” Vida asked icily, putting her makeup away with precise movements of her thin sensitive fingers. “Well, have you?”
