20 Million Miles to Earth

by Henry Slesar

  20 Million Miles To Earth

  By HENRY SLESAR

  * * *

  Based on Columbia Pictures' Shock-Thriller

  * * *

  Copyright © 1957 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

  All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental

  Published by arrangement with Columbia Pictures Corporation

  (All Rights Reserved)

  WILLIAM B. ZIFF (1898-1953) FOUNDER

  Editorial and Executive Offices 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.

  The clouds of yellow dust rolled and swirled and whistled in agonized motion, and their sound obscured the needle-thin cries of men in anguish. The pain had come upon them suddenly, pain that gripped their chests like the giant talons of some rapacious bird, pain that sent them scurrying, reeling, stumbling towards the silvery object that stood half-buried in the volatile sands. Some were to make the ship in time; others were to die later. One was to live to see the horror of the dust-shrouded planet transplanted to the world of his birth, twenty million miles away.

  CHAPTER I Chaos Over Gerra

  THE sea loved the fishing village of Gerra. It nestled close to it, lapping its white tongues lovingly on the shore; sometimes it touched the little houses of the villagers themselves. In all Sicily, no boasts were made of bigger, fatter tunny than those which wriggled in the nets of the Gerra fishermen, and this proximity was given as the reason.

  “It is because we live so close to the sea,” Verrico, the strongest man in the village would laugh. “The fish, they come into the house and ask for wine.”

  But this was brave talk, reserved for happy, carefree hours around red bottles of Marsala and the music of the concertina. When day broke over the Mediterranean, Verrico and all the rest fought hard for their daily catch in their longboats and skiffs, fought with the big nets and the long-hooked poles, and the tuna fought back with all the vigor of their breed.

  It was a day no sunnier than all other days, when the fish battled no better or worse than at other times. Verrico, his thick, muscle-banded arms glittering in the sunlight, pulled on the great net, urging his partner Mondello to greater efforts. Mondello, older and shorter, and unwilling to admit to less strength in his arms than Verrico, grunted and wheezed and struggled with the heavy-leaden net. There was a third helper in the boat, too, but he was being of little service.

  “Pepe!” Mondello scowled at the boy who was twisting a small rope idly in his hands, his eyes far from the scene. “Is it your desire that the fish, they swim away? Pull upon the net, little one!”

  Pepe looked disgusted, in the way that only a bored eleven-year-old can. He tossed his black hair back from his forehead, and said:

  “Fishnets! Many big ropes to catch a little fish!” He sighed, and his voice was jaded by too many years of monotony. “Now in Taixas— that is where one little rope, he catches big cow!”

  “Taixas?” Mondello grumbled. “Taixas? And what is that?”

  Pepe smirked. “Ah, Mondello, you know not of Taixas? She is a big country across the sea, near America. She is where the cowboys they—”

  “Silencio!”

  The command came from Verrico, whose ears had been listening with amusement, and whose ears now seemed to have caught some strange signal from the depth of the sea itself.

  “What is it?” Mondello said. Then he, too, stopped.

  The men in the longboat ceased their efforts with the net, and looked out to the horizon where the blue sky met the water.

  It was a sound.

  It was a distant roar, and each moment grew less distant. A roar not of the sea, and unknown to the peaceful sky of Gerra. A sound reminiscent of terrible days under the fascisti, but somehow different. A roar that caught the ears and attention of all the fishermen of Gerra, who let the tunny escape their nets while they turned their eyes to find the source.

  “Look!” Pepe shouted.

  The puffy white clouds were bursting overhead, and spitting forth a silvery object so awesome that a gasp rose in unison from the men in the boats. There were flames spewing out of its tail, and its nose pointed sharply like a silver finger at the waves. Down, down it came, in a steep screaming dive, eager to meet the sea.

  Then, painfully, the nose seemed to lift slightly, as if trying to avoid a head-on collision with the hard water. But whatever force guided its movement couldn’t sustain the momentary lift, and the object skipped across the smooth surface of the sea like a pebble across a pond, ricocheted, struggled for altitude once more, and then careened into the depths.

  In Verrico’s boat, the two men and the boy watched in trembling silence, their hands moving unconsciously to cross themselves. Each was muttering brief, hurried prayers, warding off whatever devil had come tumbling from the placid sky.

  Now a vast cloud of steam was rising from the fallen silver object, obscuring its view from the fishermen. For a moment, their fascinated eyes were so tightly held that they failed to see the new danger to their lives. Small tidal waves were rolling out from beneath the hissing cloud, stretching out towards the tiny fishing boats.

  “Look out!” Verrico shouted, and his cry was echoed from boat to boat of the fleet. The nets were dropped, and the crews scrambled for the oars.

  Verrico leaped for the tiller as a wall of churning water headed straight at their backs. Not far behind him, another fisherman slammed his tiller hard over, turning the bow into the sea. But his action came too late; the angry wave broke, and lifted the craft easily into the air, spilling its passenger into the tumultuous sea. The same action lifted Verrico’s craft high, and then lowered it unharmed. He turned and looked back at the men floundering in the water, and saw another of the longboats pulling rapidly to the rescue.

  Then the waters were still. And again, the fishermen turned to look at the awesome silvery thing that had fallen from the skies.

  Slowly, the hissing steam was subsiding, and they saw the tail of the object projecting steeply from the water.

  “It’s some kind of ship,” Verrico muttered. “It is an aircraft.”

  “Look,” Mondello pointed. “A hole in the side. She cannot stay afloat long.”

  “Yes. I think we should—”

  Mondello didn’t wait to hear his next words. He was as strong and as brave as Verrico, and he was willing to declaim that fact to all Sicily, but he feared that his partner had wild and foolish thoughts in his head. He bent busily over the oars, calling to Pepe to help him. They began stroking the boat to shore, away from the scene of the disaster. The other craft in the fishing fleet were doing the same. There was no dishonor in the action; it was only common sense.

  But Verrico, still looking at the aircraft, appeared to be dissatisfied.

  “We stop!” he said.

  The man and boy lifted their oars.

  “We go back,” Verrico told them. “It is a possibility that in the aircraft there may be people.”

  “But, Verrico!” Mondello was through play-acting; he allowed his horror to show plainly on his face. “That is no usual aircraft. That is nothing like we have known before. There are no people in it!”

  Verrico’s reply was sarcastic. “Ah, but Mondello, you know this thing you say? You have been perhaps inside it?” He expanded his chest. “What are we—men of the sea, or children?”

  Mondello didn’t answer.

  “We go back,” Verrico said.

  They turned to the oars once more. Mondello pulled hard, and tried to keep his frightened eyes off the odd vessel in the sea ahead.

  They came closer, and closer still.

  “Closer,” Pepe encouraged. “Closer, Mondello.”

/>   “Quiet, little one!” Mondello spoke angrily. “We will get there soon enough!”

  They were almost upon the thing now, close to the gaping hole in its side, the longboat bumping gently against the floating debris from the wreck. Even Verrico, whose brave features hadn’t , altered during the slow journey to the stricken airship, seemed no longer certain of what they were doing. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.

  “Pepe—the boat hook.”

  His eyes wide, the boy swallowed hard and lifted the hook. Cautiously, he reached out and hooked it over the edge of the ragged hole torn into the metal of the aircraft, anchoring the boat to the crippled vessel. Verrico stepped to the gunwale, and quickly grasped the topside of the opening with his strong hands.

  “You, Mondello,” he whispered. “Come with me. It may be I will need your help.”

  “Why, Verrico? Why me?”

  “Do you not boast that you are the bravest man in Sicily?”

  Mondello looked miserable. Then he took a deep breath, and followed Verrico through the hole and into the darkness of the aircraft.

  The floor inside was slanted by the angle of the ship. It rolled beneath their feet, and they were tipped against the metal bulkheads of the object. It was black as night in the interior of the vessel, but the reflected sunlight from the sea showed them to be in some narrow chamber, whose sides were cluttered with wires, coils, and tubing; things electronic and mysterious and frightening. Every corner of the chamber seemed to be utilized for the storage of scientific equipment or sleeping bunks. Clamped to the far wall, they could see metal cylinders of varied sizes.

  One of the clamps was empty.

  Verrico moved forward slowly, and Mondello’s progress behind him was even slower.

  Then—

  “Verrico!”

  “What is it?”

  Mondello pointed.

  There was a hand, dangling limply from behind a tangle of shattered equipment. Verrico hastened towards it, and what he saw of the man’s face and body caused him to stop and curse aloud. Then, as if the curse was blasphemous even in this unholy atmosphere, the two men crossed themselves and muttered an Ave.

  The aircraft shuddered.

  “Verrico!”

  “Steady,” the younger man said hoarsely. The shuddering ceased. He stepped carefully away from the body of the man, and made his way towards a circular hatch with a wheel in its center. He reached over and turned it. There was the sound of air sucking its way into the chamber, and then a click. The hatch opened.

  “Come on,” Verrico said. “There may be others.”

  Reluctantly, Mondello followed.

  There were tanks in this chamber, containing strange-smelling fuel. A dangling chain on the roof swung some metal debris back and forth. The two fishermen avoided its menace, and made their way forward.

  The next chamber was the last, and its scientific paraphernalia was even more overwhelming and bewildering than the first. Dials, controls, gauges, instruments, wires, tubing—Verrico’s head reeled at the sight of it.

  But his head cleared when he saw the man in the control chair, hunched over, his arm severely gashed, and still flowing with fresh blood.

  Verrico bent over him. At first, the man’s face startled him, until he realized that the ugly contours weren’t his, but the face of an oxygen mask. He took off the mask, and put his ears to the man’s lips.

  “This man—he still lives!”

  Together, they dragged the unconscious pilot of the strange aircraft back towards the open hatch. Then Verrico saw still another occupant, strapped to one of the bunks, his mask billowing noisily in erratic tempo.

  “Take him out—quickly!” Verrico hurried over to the man on the bunk as the ship’s frame shuddered a second time. He drew away the oxygen mask. The thin face revealed beneath it had a wasted, shriveled look that made Verrico mutter. He lifted the slight body from the bunk and carried him out behind his partner.

  With Verrico’s help, Mondello managed to get the injured pilot into the longboat, and then jump into the boat himself. But just as Verrico was about to leave the yawning hole in the aircraft, a third shudder took hold of the ship. This time, it threw the fisherman and his human burden against the bulkheads. Water began to slosh inside the chamber, and Pepe was shouting:

  “Jump, Verrico! The aircraft sinks! Jump!”

  But Verrico was determined. He tugged at the unconscious body until he was able to pass it out of the hole to Mondello’s eager hand.

  “Jump!” Pepe screamed, as the crippled ship trembled once more. The boat-hook slipped from the boy’s grasp, and Verrico knew it was now or never. He leaped, but his foot missed the drifting longboat and he plunged into the water. He swam swiftly after it, and the aircraft began vibrating mightily, its girders creaking and protesting.

  They hauled him aboard, just as the silver ship emitted a final, grinding groan, and slowly disappeared beneath the surface of the sea.

  When they rowed beyond the suction of the churning waters, they put up their oars and looked.

  “There must have been more than two men in there,” Pepe said brokenly.

  “Almost certainly,” Verrico answered. “But we could not reach them. May they rest in peace . . .”

  He crossed himself. Overhead, a gull called shrilly, and all was silent and serene again on the wide, blue waters of Sicily.

  CHAPTER II The Best-Laid Plans

  Major general A. D. McIntosh had known disappointments before. They had risen in his path like boulders on a highway, and he had learned to face them with the aggressiveness—and sometimes the tactlessness—of a bulldozer.

  He had begun his military career at a time when the flying machines were amusing toys, fit only for the war games of men who dreamed a foolish dream of conquest in the air. When the world put Billy Mitchell on trial, he had sat on the side of the prosecution. Then he had learned to dream the same dream, but almost too late. He had served with the Air Force in World War II, when he was already too old for combat flying. He had served in Korea, yet never entered a jet except for transport purposes. Then his appointment to the Global Air Force came, and he thrilled again to the challenge it raised.

  And now . . .

  He stood at the window of the Pentagon Building, a bullnecked, heavy-set man, his hands locked behind his back. There was emotion on the General’s face, but he was reluctant to let the others see it exposed.

  Dr. Judson Uhl respected the General’s feelings, and waited quietly until the mood passed. He was a civilian scientist, and perceptive enough to know that even a General’s uniform can cover a troubled soul.

  Strangely enough, General A. D. McIntosh had been one of the last of the key men informed of the project that was known cryptically as Project XY.

  It had begun as a civilian dream, born in the great white shells of astronomical observatories, nurtured in the antiseptic laboratories of industry and government, blue-printed by civilian scientists and engineers. A vast dream indeed.

  He had learned of the project on the day when an official visitor from Washington arrived at the General’s headquarters, a visitor carrying sealed letters signed by the President himself.

  General McIntosh frowned when he saw the man. He was the antithesis of everything military: a slumpish, weak-eyed, balding man with nervous hands and an apologetic manner. His name had been Judson Uhl, and he had the title of Doctor.

  “To tell you the truth,” Dr. Uhl had grinned shyly, “I hardly know why I’ve been chosen as emissary in this matter. I’m a lot more comfortable in a laboratory, General McIntosh.”

  McIntosh grunted in silent agreement.

  “Well, get to the point, Dr. Uhl. What’s your business?”

  “Rockets,” the man said pleasantly.

  “I see. Well, I know a little about rockets myself, Doctor.”

  “Not this kind perhaps, General. I’m speaking of a man-carrying rocket. One equipped to hold a crew of fifteen to twenty men, able to be
launched into outer space for a trip of several months duration.”

  McIntosh stared at him.

  “I’ve heard that pipe dream before, Doctor. Maybe fifty years from now, a hundred, all right. But now—”

  “Yes, General,” Dr. Uhl said cheerfully. “Now.”

  “Am I supposed to take you seriously?”

  “I think so. Because the fact of the matter is this, General. Whatever talk you’ve heard of man-carrying rocket ships, and proposed space investigations — well, they didn’t tell you the whole story. The truth is that such a vessel can be completed now, within a year.”

  “And that is the proposed plan?”

  “That is the accepted plan, General.”

  McIntosh’s pulse was racing. But he composed his features and said:

  “A moon trip, Doctor? Or another space satellite?”

  “Neither. Certain recent events have caused us to abandon our ‘one-step-at-a-time’ policy, General. Not only do we have the means to make an interplanetary journey—we now have the reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “You may have heard of the recent findings released by the Palomar Observatory. The complete details are still classified, but I can say this much. The planet Venus has revealed to our spectroscopic equipment the presence of a group of valuable minerals— essential minerals to the full development of atomic power.”

  The General grunted. “And these means you talk about. You really think we know enough to launch a ship to Venus? To bypass the idea of an orbital satellite? Or an exploratory moon trip?”

  “We know enough,” Dr. Uhl said blandly. “It’s been my pleasure, for the last eighteen months, to head up a scientific commission called Project XY. That commission now has the completed blueprint for the first spaceship, General. I. trust it’s the first.”

  The General looked at him sharply. “Russia?”

  “We doubt it very much.”

  “And where does the Global Air Force fit into this scheme of yours?”