by Eando Binder
Jon surmised he had bet against the Earth team, for Earth was now ahead on points, with Mars trailing. “If I could only trap that chiseler,” Jon sighed to himself. But he dismissed the thought, for One Shot Morgan had always been too cunning to let the police pin anything on him.
An intermission was called, and the crowd turned to buying the Warmies and Sniffs sold through the stands by hawkers. Ganymede was a chilly world, and the Warmies did exactly as their name implied. They were a form of peppery food that shot waves of heat through the body. Also the Sniffs—a sniff out of an oxygen-bottle—did wonders in pepping you up. Ganymede has a thin atmosphere, and the extra oxygen was almost necessary.
During the intermission, Jon decided to try to see his old schoolmate, Ron Ralston of the Earth team. Jon threaded his way below the stands and to the athletes’ barracks. The guard stopped him, but then seeing his Space Patrol uniform, let him through. Quite like the 20th century, a police uniform in 2261 A.D. was a magic talisman in such things.
Jon looked over the athletes getting rubdowns, but Ralston was not there.
“He got a message to meet someone outside,” informed the trainer. “I hope he gets back soon for his rubdown. He’s our star runner, ya know. If he wins the 100-yard dash, we got the Mars team outpointed, and we win.”
Jon nodded and went out to look for his friend. A track custodian pointed him to the left, and when Jon headed that way, he noticed a few dim figures under the shadows of the overhead stands. As Jon approached, unnoticed, voices came to him, and he recognized the grating tones of One Shot Morgan, the gambler. What was going on?
“Listen,” Morgan was saying to Ralston, a tall blond athlete. “This is your last chance, Ralston. Take this money and lose the race. Then the Mars team wins, and I collect big money.”
Ralston had evidently been fighting for control of his temper all this while, without speaking. Now his voice shot out. “You filthy scoundrel! Is that what you called me out here for? The answer is no. And I’m going to report you for attempted bribery.”
“You are?” grinned Morgan. But his grin was deadly, and his two strong-arm men stiffened. “Get to work on him, boys. Muss him up good. He won’t run the final race unless he wants to limp through it.”
The two hoodlums obeyed and fell upon Ralston. He fought back, but it was a sure thing that—win or lose—he would be in no condition to run a race.
It was at this moment that Jon Jarl stepped from behind a pillar. He made a long leap forward, almost as long as the Broad Jump record, and fell in beside Ralston.
“Back, Ron,” he ordered. “Let me handle this. You’ve got a race to run.”
“As I live and breathe,” grinned Ralston. “My old school chum, Jon Jarl. Now I feel sorry for One Shot Morgan and his two pals!”
The two hoodlums made the mistake of trying to jump Jon Jarl together. Jon let the weight press him down till his knees were doubled, then flexed upward like a shot. One man’s head hit the stands overhead, and that was the last he knew. The other man recovered his balance and swung viciously for Jon’s face—only it wasn’t there. The return blow from Jon was like a meteor striking.
One Shot Morgan had watched in a sort of fascinated horror, as his two men went down. Now his hand plunged into his coat for a ray-gun—but he stopped with a groan, for Jon’s gun already aimed straight for him.
“Huh,” said Morgan, recovering his aplomb. “You ain’t got anything on me, copper. Try and prove anything of what you might have overheard. It’s your word against mine in court.”
Jon held up a small electrical device, hardly bigger than his palm. “Every word you said before is recorded by this Midget Dictaphone. This is one time you go behind bars, Morgan.”
* * * *
Jon was back in his seat in time to watch the final event. Ralston ran the 100-yard dash in five and one-eighth seconds, beating the Mars runner. Earth had won the Space Olympics for 2261.
“Thanks to Jon Jarl,” Ralston told his teammates as they pounded him on the back. “You know, that guy used to beat me in every race back at varsity. Too bad he became a space cop instead of an athlete!”
REVENGE OF THE SPACE HERMIT
Jon Jarl looked back as his one-man rocketship sped through space. The sun was only a bright star behind him, hardly distinguishable from all the other stars. In fact, the whole solar system and all the nine planets were far behind him, for he had gone past the orbit of Pluto. Before him stretched only the vast empty deeps between stars. The nearest star, Alpha Centauri, was some twenty trillion miles away.
But there was something nearer than Alpha Centauri. There was a strange little wayward world, discovered in telescopes, which drifted outside the solar system. It was only five billion miles out. The wayward world had no connection with the solar system, but was drifting through space parallel to it. For a week Jon Jarl had been driving toward this outer planet on a mission for the Space Patrol.
The terse message from headquarters had said, a week before—“Brute Blasko, wanted man, not found on nine planets. Possible he went to Outer World. Investigate.”
And thus Jon Jarl had refitted at the Pluto station with extra fuel tanks and supplies. Then he had arrowed out into the unknown at top speed. Now at last the Outer World loomed out of the void. Jon could see it was a bleak world, unwarmed by any sun, but strangely enough vegetation grew everywhere. Jon was puzzled until he noticed the faint glow around its dark side. Then he understood. It was a world with a high percentage of radium in its soil. Radium could heat a planet quite as well as a sun.
Landing and stepping from his ship, Jon felt a thrill. Not even explorers had as yet come out to this remote outpost. Very likely he was the first human being to set foot here. That is, unless Brute Blasko had come here to escape the dragnet of the law. Jon almost hoped he hadn’t, so that he could go back and have the distinction of being the first man to visit Outer World.
After a cursory glance around, Jon took the ship up again and began skimming low over the small planet, eyes alert for signs of the criminal. Weary hours later, he had covered most of the planet’s surface and was almost convinced that he was alone on the deserted world. But then something caught the corner of his eye, drawing his attention.
He banked his small craft and slanted it down. Just below was a rude stone cabin among the vegetation. A cabin on Outer World! Was it the secret hiding-place of Blasko?
Jon landed cautiously a mile away and crept close. Ray-gun in hand, he approached the cabin, darting from tree to tree, tensed and ready for any gunfire if it came.
When something did come from the cabin’s window, Jon Jarl forgot to dodge and stood rooted in amazement. It was an arrow—an ancient weapon he had never seen before except in museums. The arrow thudded into a tree alongside Jon. Had Brute Blasko run out of ray-gun charges, and resorted to ancient weapons?
But the figure that stepped from the cabin a moment later was not that of a desperate criminal. It was a man in clothing as out-of-place in Jon’s scientific age as was the arrow. The man wore a crude buckskin costume. He had wild hair and a long unkempt beard. A word flashed instantly into Jon’s mind—hermit!
“You—you live here on Outer World?” stammered Jon, still shocked at the strange apparition. “You’re a—a hermit?”
“Yes,” he rasped. “I like—live alone. I hate people—civilization. You go—now—go—go!”
“Wait a minute,” said Jon. “Not so fast. I happen to be Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol, on official business. I’m not going till I’m sure Brute Blasko isn’t here. Have you seen anybody else lately?”
The hermit shook his shaggy head. “Nobody lives on this world except me.” His words came easier now. “When I got disgusted with civilization, I picked this world because it’s the furthest I could get away. That was—um—thirty years ago. Since then nobody’s been on Outer World—nobody except you. Now you get!”
“Friendly sort, aren’t you?” said Jon with a grin. “But look,
I’ve been cruising for a week on space rations. Can’t you spare a bit of fresh meat or whatever you eat? I’d appreciate it.”
For answer, the hermit growled again and brought up his bow menacingly, with an arrow ready to fly.
Jon acted quickly. He batted the bow aside and crunched the fallen arrow under his heel. The hermit spat out a curse and swung angrily with his fists. Jon sidestepped, coolly caught the hermit’s wrist, and turned. In a smooth, flowing motion, he jerked the hermit off his feet, spun him over his shoulder, and landed him among bushes.
As the hermit got to his feet, quite crestfallen, Jon smiled.
“Let’s be friends, mister. Just give me a bite of something fresh, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“All right,” the hermit returned, suddenly friendly. “Come in and I’ll give you some fresh fruit.”
* * * *
Inside the shack, Jon took the fruit offered, a peculiar crook-shaped sort, with a tantalizing odor. As Jon ate, the hermit became a little more affable. “Living is pretty easy for me here. Warm climate, good air. Lots of small game I can shoot with my arrows. Lots of fruit too. The rest of the time I sit here and think what fools you all are back in civilization.”
“A philosopher as well as a hermit,” mused Jon. “Well, you may be right, who knows? But I’ll be getting along now.”
Jon rose—or attempted to rise. His muscles felt stiff. Swiftly, a numbness spread through him. He now saw a triumphant gleam in the hermit’s eyes. Through his lips, before they too refused to move, Jon hissed out an accusation.
“That fruit—poisoned!”
The hermit cackled. “No, not poisoned. It just paralyzes the muscles for a time. Throw me over your shoulder, would you? Nobody can do that to me and get away with it!”
The hermit now picked up Jon’s stiff form and carried it out. Jon was fully conscious, but utterly paralyzed. As he carried Jon through the vegetation, the hermit spoke.
“I’m not going to do you any harm. I’m just going to put you back in your ship. I saw where it came down.”
Soon they reached the ship, and the hermit thrust Jon into the airlock, closing the door with a few final words. “You’ll recover in an hour. When you do, get off my planet.”
* * * *
An hour later, Jon’s muscles gradually unlocked. For an hour, he had been telling himself what he’d do to the hermit. But now, grinning, he put his hands to the controls.
“Oh well, I’ll let him go. It’s his privilege to be alone if he chooses. I’ll take my hated presence away and leave him in peace.”
But at that moment Jon paused, for across the horizon flashed another rocketship. It landed somewhere beyond the cabin. Could Brute Blasko have finally arrived on Outer World? Jon once more crept back to the shack. He arrived in time to hear a sound from within—the sound of kicking.
“Shoot arrows at me, will ya?” came in harsh tones from the window. “I’ll kick ya black and blue, ya old goat.”
Jon recognized the voice, for the Space Patrolmen were not only shown pictures of the men they sought, but they also heard recordings of the criminals’ voices. It was Brute Blasko. As Jon crept cautiously toward the window, he heard more.
“Now get up, ya old fool, and get me something to eat. I’m not gonna kill ya. I need a hideout. This cabin of yours will do, and you’re gonna be my servant, see?”
No answer came from the hermit. When Jon peered in the window, he saw Blasko sitting at ease, munching, while the hermit worked at the crook’s muddy boots, cleaning them. Blasko held his ray gun in silent threat.
It was not in the code of the Space Patrol to shoot without warning, and besides, a shot now might hit the hermit. So Jon Jarl slid back behind a tree, gun in hand, and yelled out “Hello—Brute Blasko! Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol outside. Toss your gun out. Or come out shooting. Take your choice.” There was startled silence from the cabin. Then a minute later, the door inched open. The snout of the ray-gun poked out, and a ray-beam hissed, hitting the tree behind which Jon stood. Jon’s return shot gnawed splinters off the door.
But Jon had underestimated his opponent. A second shot hissed high over his head. Too late, Jon saw what it did. A tree branch cracked off and fell on Jon, knocking his gun from his hand. Blasko rushed out of the door before Jon could make a move to pick up his weapon.
“Hold it!” Blasko yelled. “Stand straight and reach for ozone!”
Jon complied with a sinking heart. He was trapped. Leering, Blasko approached within a few feet and leveled his gun.
Jon waited for the killing blast. Time seemed to stretch into eternity. Would the shot never come? This waiting was agony. But the shot did not come.
Blasko stood rigid, leering, gun extended. Not a muscle moved. He was frozen in that position—paralyzed on his feet.
The hermit came up, a faint smile on his lips. “When he asked for something to eat,” he said, “I gave him the same fruit you tried before. That’ll teach him not to kick me.”
“Thanks,” was all Jon could think of saying, as he started to drag the stiffened form away.
All Jon heard from the hermit was a final mutter. “Now leave me in peace. Civilization—bah!”
VENUS, 23RD CENTURY
Venus gleamed like a bright jewel among the stars, as Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol rocketed toward it. Venus—the sister world of Earth. But as the one-man rocketship approached, Jon Jarl saw it was quite unlike Earth.
Venus was surrounded by a thick blanket of clouds, through which the sun rarely shone. Under the cloud layers quivered an endless storm-tossed sea. Venus was almost all ocean. There were no continents such as on Earth, only scattered islands from pole to pole. It rained nine-tenths of the time on Venus, and the rest of the time it drizzled. The average temperature was 105. It had once gone as low as 94. Venus was 24 million miles closer to the sun than Earth was.
All these things Jon Jarl knew from previous visits. But even he was caught unawares as the mighty winds gripped his ship and tossed it like a cork. Ramming power into the rockets, Jon regained control and bored into the teeth of the wind. Venus was a hot, wet, stormy world, much like Earth had been millions of years before.
Finally, through the cloudy haze, Jon saw the looming shape of the so-called “Plastic Island.” It was an artificial island, man-made, and essentially it consisted of an enduring plastic platform, upheld by a series of giant pontoons. Metal could not be used, as metals corroded swiftly in the wet Venusian air. On the platform, which was a mile square, rested the buildings of an Earth colony. Population—perhaps a thousand, and all hardy souls. And it was here that the Space Patrol had set up one of its stations.
Jon set his ship down neatly on the landing strip. The moment he stepped out of his cooled ship, a hot, humid blast of air hit him. Perspiration broke from his face and trickled off his chin. But as he walked along, he admired the firm underfooting of the artificial island. It was quite dry, whereas all natural islands on Venus were regularly washed over by tidal waves. That was why Earth people could not live on the islands. They had to set up living quarters on such man-made “islands” as this.
Jon went into the Space Patrol station, where thankfully it was again air-conditioned to somewhat below a steaming hot day in the jungles of equatorial Earth. He saluted the uniformed officer, a captain.
“Lt. Jon Jarl reporting, sir. I got your radio call in space.”
“Hullo, Lieutenant,” returned the other, smiling crookedly as he went on. “Welcome to the soft breezes and balmy skies of Venus. Sorry to drag you down to this delightful spot, but I’m short-handed. Got to send you right out on a job.”
The officer pointed to a Venusian map, with dottings of islands over the universal sea. He put a finger near one island. “This is Island K-9826. Near it is anchored a plastic island, like this one, but quite small. A group of scientists have been using it, studying local flora and fauna.” His face went grim. “But 48 hours ago, their daily radio reports suddenly sto
pped.”
“And I’m to find out why,” said Jon.
The captain nodded. “Dr. Woodward is in charge there. Find out if they’re in any trouble. If so, report by radio.”
* * * *
Within an hour, after refueling and checking the rockets, Jon took off again. He skimmed high over the giant waves and set a radar-course for Island K-9826. Trying to fly visually on Venus was like trying to fly through pea-soup.
When he sighted the right island, carefully comparing it with the maps, he went beyond to where the plastic-island was anchored. Then Jon stared—it wasn’t there. Had it broken loose of its anchors? Drifted away? Been swamped by a tidal wave?
Jon set his rocketship in wide circles, gradually spiraling out. He was about to give up when he spied something on the horizon—by radar rather than visually. He homed in on the blip. Yes, there it was, a small plastic-platform upheld by pontoons. It was just big enough to hold a group of small but comfortable plastic huts, which composed the headquarters of the scientists. But why was it way out here?
Jon surveyed the artificial island carefully before landing. No sign of life. No sign of danger, either. He saw two other rocketships on the landing strip, unmolested. What could it add up to?
Jon landed and stepped out. “Hallo!” he called. “Anybody here?”
He was about to approach one of the huts when a form came hurtling onto the platform. It was a native Venusian. He had ridden the crest of a huge wave and flipped himself on deck. The Venusian was a short pudgy creature, standing erect on two webbed feet. His arms were more flippers than hands, and he now clapped them together like a trained seal, grinning. “Canny?” he begged. “Canny?”
