by Don Wilcox
“Keep up your calls,” Sasho muttered.
On the headquarters wavelength the agitated demand continued.
“Come in, Fleet Ship Number One. Come in, Number One! Where are you, Fleet Ship Number One? Do you hear? You should be within an hour of port, Fleet Ship Number One . . .”
Sasho’s irritation grew into ill-suppressed rage. Troubles always seared his pride. A slip-up! And this was the supreme event of his life.
The audience began to get restless. It clamored for more demonstrations.
“Call the hinterland guards,” Sasho ordered one of his three aides. “Have them pick up some more green-faced rebels and send them in by plane, pronto!”
The aide flashed a dubious eyebrow.
“Well?” Sasho roared, inflamed by his assistant’s hesitation.
“There’s been some border trouble in the last few minutes,” said the aide. “Three guard stations have been attacked—”
“Attacked! By Rebels?”
“And the guards have been routed. I’ve already ordered reinforcements, several motorized reserves—”
“Rebels! Rebels! How the devil—” Sasho was enraged. This was beyond understanding. He squirmed about, wanting to strike someone with his quirt. But the mirror in front of him caught his eye, reminded him to smile. He forced a halfhearted grimace and quickly turned away.
“Why the hell wasn’t I informed?” he snarled.
“You’ve been very busy,” said the aide, “referring to the fleet.
The reminder shot pain through Sasho. He turned to another aide. Any messages yet from returning ships? The aide had none. He’d continued to keep in communication with headquarters, which continued to call.
The third aide delicately hinted that the crowd was sensing a delay.
Sasho bestowed a prolonged smile upon his empire, at the same time rasping from the corner of his mouth,
“For God’s sake, think of something!”
“A speech might be in order, your Majesty,” the third aide suggested timidly. “Perhaps a review of the empire’s history—the story of your own spectacular career—”
For an instant Sasho was sorely tempted. If he refused a chance to tell the story of his rise, beginning at the age of ten, it would be the first time. But his disturbance over the delayed fleet was too deep. Something had gone wrong. He was sure of it. He should have gone along and supervised the attack himself. Perhaps that idle rumor about Mercury wasn’t so idle—
“Another report from the hinterlands, your Majesty,” said the second aide.
“Hinterlands, the devil! What now?”
“The rebels have formed a front, your Majesty. They’re advancing from the mountains.”
“Advancing! The rats are mad! They haven’t got anything. I’ll turn the Cutthroats loose on them—”
“Your Majesty, the Cutthroats went with the motorized reserves. They’re already in the thick of it—”
“Thick of it!” Sasho blasted. “You talk as if there’s some real fighting.”
“Half the Cutthroats are reported slaughtered—”
“Hpfff!” The Emperor blew up like a steam boiler. He swung his quirt and cut a mark across the second aide’s mouth. He drew back for a second blow when he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
“A ship!” the first aide blurted. “A ship’s just radioed in from a half hour out.”
Sasho turned to the mirror and mustered his most gracious smile.
“Go on,” he muttered savagely. “What have the damned tardy louts got to say for themselves?”
“It’s the lost ship,” said the aide, “the S-37.”
“Gimmie that phone! Headquarters! Put me on that ship! Hello, S-37! S-37! Siccolo! Well, I’ll be a fried corpse! What the hell brings you home?”
All that the crowds throughout the Sasho Empire could see for the next few minutes was the televised shoulders and back of their Emperor, but every jerk of his sleeves and epaulets seemed to shake the warp and woof of their social structure.
Fresh rumors spread through the crowds. The fleet that had gone to destroy the earth must have met with unforeseen troubles. Perhaps the ferocious millions of Mercury had materialized! Perhaps—terrible thought—they would invade Venus!
If so, would they stop at nothing? Or would they only assassinate the higher Sasho officials?
On top of these wildfire speculations, another rumor raced in. The green-faces—the original Venusians—were coming down from the hills in mad hordes. They were advancing like wild men. They were killing and butchering every man who wore a silver-and-orange uniform. They had brand-new, brilliant red weapons—
What was happening to the Sasho Empire?
Many a stony green-faced countenance that had been expressionless for years suddenly lighted with a gleam of hope. If these things went on, that long-dreamed-of time was near at hand—the time to throw off the tyrant’s yoke!
“Speak up, Siccolo!” Sasho roared into the phone. “I want the facts! Mechanical difficulties, huh? Working perfectly now, you say. What about the Mercury ambassador? Still with you! No signs of any Mercury ships?
Well, by God, there’s a hitch somewhere! The fleet’s hours behind schedule. Ships ought to be pouring in, and not a one’s showed up . . .”
Siccolo replied that the fleet was doing fine but was behind schedule, owing to circumstances which he would explain in more detail later.
“Doing fine, is it?” Sasho cursed a bit more softly. If the plan was going through, he could breathe easy. All this petty trouble with rebels and restless subjects wouldn’t amount to anything. A victory over the earth would put everything back on an even keel—
“What’s that, Siccolo? You brought me a present? A girl?”
Sasho’s eyes roved past his aides, busy at their troublesome telephones, to the swarming multitudes—vermin, hungry for excitement! Waiting for the return of victorious ships—ships that would be hours late . . .
Humph! A girl, huh? A present from the earth . . . Mmmm!
Sasho was suddenly bored by his surroundings. He wished the Victory Festival were in the opposite corner of the universe. Why not walk out on it? He was Emperor, wasn’t he? What the hell’s the good of being Emperor if you can’t do as you damned please!
Sasho barked back at Siccolo, “Girl? Put her on!”
A moment of waiting, then, “Hello, Mr. Sasho!”
“Say that again!”
“Hel-l-l-o-o-o, Mr. Sasho!”
Damn, what a voice! What a voice!
“Coming to see me, are you?” Sasho wished he’d equipped these ships with television.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Sasho!” the voice cooed.
“Hmmm. Don’t you believe none of those stories. Ha-ha! I can tell you worse ones myself. Ha-ha-ha!”
“I thought maybe you’d like to ride down to the earth. It’s awfully exciting, with all those fires and so much fighting—”
“Fighting!” Sasho growled. “What fighting?”
“You know—your fleet men, grabbing parts of the earth for themselves, and your officers—”
“WHAAA!” Sasho nearly blew the phone out of his hand. “Put Siccolo back on!”
“Is that ride a date, Mr. Sasho?”
“Put Siccolo back on! . . . Siccolo! What she said—is it true? . . . A regular dog fight; The hell you say! . . . Officers, too? . . . You lie, Siccolo! Why, the low scummy devils!”
Siccolo’s words continued with such precision that he might have been reading them.
“Would you like to see for yourself? Perhaps you could stem the tide—”
“Chase yourself down here the quickest way! Refuel first, if you need to. I’m in the stadium, and I’m ready as quick as you can get here! Rush it!” Sasho snarled.
To the consternation of his three aides and his corps of guards, Sasho slammed down the telephone, bounded for the enclosed stairway, chased himself up and down it for the next several minutes, hissing,
“Revolt! Revolt! Revolt! I’ll hang ‘em! I’ll fry ’em! The dirty lice—”
A wild cheering rang then through the stadium. The majestic S-37 rolled into the grounds and up to the silver tower.
Without a word to his breathless Empire, Sasho marched straight for the airlocks, entered. His three aides were directly behind him. A corps of guards tried to follow—
The guards didn’t make it. The airlocks swished shut, the S-37 zoomed off. Out into the skies, out of sight!
Clamorous uproar shook the stadium. Pandemonium seized the scores of stadiums throughout the Empire as a report of this unaccountable action came over the air.
“More trouble on Earth!” a frightened official boomed out over the Empire’s system of speakers. “Sasho’s been called on an emergency. Earth trouble. There’ll be a slight delay—”
Hooting voices drowned the speaker. Earth trouble! Yes, and Venus trouble! The fires of discontent that had cropped out today would not be put out tomorrow—nor the next day—nor the next!
CHAPTER XI
The Final Stroke
Several hours earlier the earth’s most spectacular sky show had begun with a bang! And what a bang! The hard claps of thunder reverberated through city buildings like a minor Earth tremor.
But the bangs were not placed where the Sasho flamer ships meant to place them. Every bang went off prematurely—miles up in the air.
The North American continent watched, held its breath, wondered whether these two marvelous little red battering rams from Mercury could keep it up.
Every twenty minutes another terrific explosion occurred. Gradually the scene shifted, east to west, across the broad continent.
Every twenty-minutes the shortwave radios picked up the routine messages of the approaching attackers.
“Ship Number Seven calling Ship Number Eight.
“Okay. What’s the report, Number Seven?”
“Ship Number Six reported twenty minutes ago. It descended on schedule. Its flame-attack was visible soon afterward over area Number Six.
“Okay, Number Seven.”
“We’re cutting into air over Area Number Seven. Our flame should be visible shortly.”
“Do your worst, Number Seven. We’re twenty minutes behind you, descending on Area Number Eight on schedule.”
It had been terrifying business the first time, especially for Mary Smitt and the Redmans. But Smitt had been thoroughly nerved up to it. He had missed Ship Number One on his first two trials; but the third time he had sped by it, he had caught onto the system.
He had shot ahead, looped back through a full cloverleaf turn, and his electric-eye detector had taken care of the rest. They had smashed squarely through the nose of Ship Number One. It had fallen apart as if it had been so much tissue paper.
A quick glimpse, and the story was all over. They could look back and see the vast gas flames leaping out in all directions like an exploding star, as the disintegrating Sasho ship blew up.
Reports from the earth observers were that a few splinters of metal and bits of uniformed bodies hailed down after every explosion. Mary winced, but her companions reminded her that these were the fleet ships that had been ordered to fry the earth to a cinder, blast any interfering Mercury ships to atoms!
Blast Mercury ships to atoms! What a laugh Smitt had out of that. Ship Number One had bounced three shells off the hull of his fighter and he had hardly felt the jar.
In the other battering ram, Laughlin and his wife and Bob and Betty Wakefield followed the scene of action close to the surface. They kept in touch with Smitt by radio, but their offers to take over the ramming job were refused.
“Not a chance,” Smitt would retort. “I’ve got my system. You might miss one learning. Keep up your search for Allison. He’s got to be on the earth somewhere.”
“But you’ll wear out if these attacks keep coming—”
“Wear out, hell! This is recreation! I haven’t had so much fun since that Fourth of July when my Uncle George forgot to lock, up his dynamite. S’long. It’s time for another ship!”
Once during the siege, the two battering rams arranged for a trade, and Smitt took off in the fresh boat. His original fighter had begun to feel the crashes. But after the shift of passengers, Smitt flew back into action. The crashes went on with the very superb clockwork that Sasho had so carefully planned the other way around.
“I’ll bring down everything that comes down out of the sky!” was Smitt’s last communication before his radio went dead.
It was just one of those many jolts of busting through the nose of a Sasho ship that queered the radio. And no one had time to fix it. But that made no difference, for Smitt and his party had learned that they could spot the approaching enemy miles above the stratosphere.
“We’re doing a thousand percent,” Smitt grinned fiercely, “and we’re gonna keep that batting average pure!”
He shot along past a ship emblazoned S-44—the ship bearing Sasho’s principal staff officers! A few seconds later the S-44 was nothing but a memory and flying splinters!
There was a long wait before another ship came, but eventually one did come, and Smitt’s party sighted it speeding down toward the stratosphere.
Sasho’s eyes screwed up, his jaw jutted, he laughed through his yellow teeth. It was the laugh of a demon. He strode forward, brushing past the two aides who had entered the ship with him, and who now held guns on Lester Allison and June O’Neil. The third aide had taken over the controls.
“Out with it, you lousy Earth worms! How were you going to kill me?” Sasho snarled.
Allison pressed his lips tightly. Things hadn’t gone so well the last few minutes. As long as he and June had been locked in the control room, they had been all right. They had kept the ship rocketing for the earth at top speed. Dressed in their space togs, their backs turned to the cabin beyond the transparent partition, their identity had been concealed.
But as soon as Sasho and his aides had pranced through the ship from end to end, finding no one, not even Siccolo—whom Allison had dropped off safely on Venus—the storm had broken.
The transparent partition had not been immune to bullets. Allison and June had come out when they were ordered to do so. That was as they had planned it. They would have to come even if the aides hadn’t crashed two shots through the partition.
They had advanced with their hands up, the aides had relaxed a trifle; then Allison, his hands still reaching, had caught a gun from over the control-room door.
That was as he had planned it. But he had not planned for the gun to jam. At the moment he would have taken the situation over with gunfire, a sterile click! let him down!
“Don’t tell me you’d have let me off with shooting!” the irate Sasho roared. He snapped his quirt against his silvered boot.
How Allison would have killed Sasho, had the best of luck been with him, had been the least of Allison’s worries. Probably he would have dispatched him the quickest way. Certainly he would never have turned the man loose upon the world, even as a prisoner, once he had him.
“Don’t tell me you’d have done me up in a hurry!” Sasho taunted. “I’m not gonna do you up in a hurry! I’m gonna have a fancy bit of sport with you—both of you.”
The flash of Sasho’s eyes at June was chilling to the blood. Allison breathed hard.
He remembered suddenly that he had once slid a few black Mercury axes beneath a bench in this middle compartment. He wondered if the aides would get careless with those guns in time, if he played the game right.
June’s arm trembled slightly against his own. Sasho paced the floor. And Allison stood like a statue.
It was far more than two lives that hung in the balance—June’s and his own. It was the fate of three planets. From what Allison had gathered of the Venus situation, he surmised that Sasho’s triumph or failure would make or break the Empire. That realization had given Allison his strategy. If only he could throw a monkey-wrench squarely into the machiner
y of Sasho’s horrible scheme—
“Come out of it, you skulking rat,” Sasho seethed. “If you’ve got any last words for your dictator, out with them! I’m gonna go down and pay him a visit before long—him and his metals.”
“Tell him,” said Allison in a cool defiant tone, “that it was my last wish those metals be used for a solar defense machine for peaceful nations—a defense machine that would crush men like you to dust!”
Snap!
Sasho’s quirt cut a thin line from the top of Allison’s forehead down toward his left eye. It must have struck a burning blow that partially cauterized, for the cut hardly bled.
June’s breast rose and fell deeply. She clung as if by her fingertips to a faint wisp of blind unreasoned hope that they might live through this hour. If they did—and if that line across Lester’s forehead should remain a permanent scar, June knew she would always be proud of it.
Again Sasho paced the floor. He had never been in a more dangerous mood than this. Though he was thoroughly jubilant over having exploded the revolt bubble, he was thoroughly enraged over having been taken in by Allison’s scheme. But above all, he was hotly disturbed about his fleet.
After all, the only trouble he had scotched was a fake one—that of traitorious ships and officers. But where were those ships? Why couldn’t the radio get in touch with them?
A few hours later he came down from the observatory with an easier jog and a surly, secretive smile. He had seen a few explosions, so he thought, through the telescope. One of them he had been certain of. Probably that had been the S-44 delivering the final blow. He regretted that the S-37 had no flame-gas aboard.
An inspiration came to him on the matter of taking care of Allison and June.
“I’ve missed out on all the big explosions,” he grunted, “but there’ll still be fires, plenty of them. And I’ve got a notion I’d have more personal interest in these fires,” here he stopped and glared at the two prisoners, who sat across the room from their guards, “if I just knew some of the folks that were in on them!”
With that plan of action in mind, Sasho smiled cynically enough to forget his bigger worries. He checked over the space suits and parachutes that June and Allison wore.
