The Vortex Blaster

by Edward E Smith

  “Could be,” Cloud assented, moodily. His act had been a flop. If Graves knew anything—and he’d be damned if he could see any grounds for such a suspicion—he hadn’t given away a thing.

  Nevertheless, Cloud went to the Patrol office, which was of course completely and permanently shielded. There he borrowed the detector and asked the lieutenant in charge to get a special report from the Patrol upon the alleged gems and what it knew about either the cruiser or the pirates. To justify his request he had to explain his suspicions.

  After the messages had been sent the young officer drummed thoughtfully upon his desk. “I wish I could do something, Dr. Cloud, but I don’t see how I can,” he decided finally. “Without a shred of evidence, I can’t act.”

  “I know. I’m not accusing anybody, yet. It may be anybody between here and Andromeda. Just call me, please, as soon as you get that report.”

  The report came, and the Patrolman was round-eyed as he imparted the information that, as far as Prime Base could discover, there had been no Lonabarian gems and the rescuing vessel had not been a Patrol ship at all. Cloud was not surprised.

  “I thought so,” he said, flatly. “This is a hell of a thing to say, but it now becomes a virtual certainty—six sigmas out on the probability curve—that this whole fantastic procedure was designed solely to keep me from analyzing and blowing out that new vortex. As to where the vortex fits in, I haven’t got even the dimmest possible idea, but one thing is clear, Graves represents TPI—on this planet he is TPI. Now what kind of monkey business would TPI—or, more likely, somebody working under cover in TPI, because undoubtedly the head office doesn’t know anything about it—be doing? I ask you.”

  Dope, you mean? Cocaine—heroin—that kind of stuff?”

  “Exactly; and here’s what I’m going to do about it.” Bending over the desk, even in that ultra-shielded office, Cloud whispered busily for minutes. “Pass this along to Prime Base immediately, have them alert Narcotics, and have your men ready in case I strike something hot.”

  “But listen, man!” the Patrolman protested. “Wait—let a Lensman do it. They’ll almost certainly catch you at it, and if they’re clean nothing can keep you from doing ninety days in the clink.”

  “But if we wait, the chances are it’ll be too late; they’ll have had time to cover up. What I’m asking you is, will you back my play if I catch them with the goods?”

  “Yes. We’ll be here, armored and ready. But I still think you’re nuts.”

  “Maybe so, but even if my mathematics is wrong, it’s still a fact that my arm will grow back on just as fast in the clink as anywhere else. Clear ether, lieutenant—until tonight!”

  Cloud made an engagement with Graves for luncheon. Arriving a few minutes early, he was of course shown into the private office. Since the manager was busily signing papers, Cloud strolled to the side window and seemed to gaze appreciatively at the masses of gorgeous blooms just outside. What he really saw, however, was the detector upon his wrist.

  Nobody knew that he had in his sleeve a couple of small, but highly efficient, tools. Nobody knew that he was left-handed. Nobody saw what he did, nor was any signal given that he did anything at all.

  That night, however, that window opened alarmlessly to his deft touch. He climbed in, noiselessly. He might be walking straight into trouble, but he had to take that chance. One thing was in his favor; no matter how crooked they were, they couldn’t keep armored troops on duty as night-watchmen, and the Patrolmen could get there as fast as their thugs could.

  He had brought no weapons. If he was wrong, he would not need any and being armed would only aggravate his offense. If right, there would be plenty of weapons available. There were. A whole drawer full of DeLameters—fully charged—belts and everything. He leaped across the room to Graves’ desk; turned on a spy-ray. The sub-basement—“private laboratories,” Graves had said—was blocked. He threw switch after switch—no soap. Communicators—ah, he was getting somewhere now—a steel-lined room, a girl and a boy.

  “Eureka! Good evening, folks.”

  “Eureka? I hope you rot in hell, Graves…”

  “This isn’t Graves. Cloud. Storm Cloud, the Vortex Blaster, investigating…”

  “Oh, Bob. the Patrol!” the girl screamed.

  “Quiet! This is a zwilnik outfit, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say it is!” Ryder gasped in relief. “Thionite…”

  “Thionite! How could it be? How could they bring it in here?”

  “They don’t. They’re growing broadleaf and making the stuff. That’s why they’re going to kill us.”

  “Just a minute.” Cloud threw in another switch. “Lieutenant? Worse than I thought. Thionite! Get over here fast with everything you got. Armor and semi-portables. Blast down the Mayner Street door. Stairway to right, two floors down, corridor to left, half-way along left side. Room B-Twelve. Snap it up, but keep your eyes peeled?”

  “But wait, Cloud!” the lieutenant protested. “Wait ’til we get there—you can’t do anything alone!”

  “Can’t wait—got to get these kids out—evidence!” Cloud broke the circuit and, as rapidly as he could, one-handed, buckled on gun-belts. Grave would have to kill these two youngsters, if he possibly could.

  “For God’s sake save Jackie, anyway!” Ryder prayed. He knew just how high the stakes were. “And watch out for gas, radiation, and traps—you must have sprung a dozen alarms already.”

  “What kind of traps?” Cloud demanded.

  “Beams, deadfalls, sliding doors—I don’t know what they haven’t got. Graves said he could kill us in here with rays or gas or…”

  “Take Grave’s private elevator, Dr. Cloud,” the girl broke in.

  “Where is it—which one?”

  “It’s in the blank wall—the yellow button on his desk opens it. Down as far as it will go.”

  Cloud jumped up listening with half an ear to the babblings from below as he searched for air-helmets. Radiations, in that metal-lined room, were out—except possibly for a few beam-projectors, which he could deal with easily enough. Gas, though, would be bad; but every drug-house had air-helmets. Ah! Here they were!

  He put one on, made shift to hang two more around his neck—he had to keep his one hand free. He punched the yellow button; rode the elevator down until it stopped of itself. He ran along the corridor and drove the narrowest, hottest possible beam of a DeLameter into the lock of B-12. It took time to cut even that small semi-circle in that refractory and conductive alloy—altogether too much time—but the kids would know who it was. Zwilniks would open the cell with a key, not a torch.

  They knew. When Cloud kicked the door open they fell upon him eagerly.

  “A helmet and a DeLameter apiece. Get them on quick! Now help me buckle this. Thanks. Jackie, you stay back there, out of the way of our feet. Bob, you lie down here in the doorway. Keep your gun outside and stick your head out just far enough so you can see. No farther. I’ll join you after I see what they’ve got in the line of radiation.”

  A spot of light appeared in a semi-concealed port, then another. Cloud’s weapon flamed briefly.

  “Projectors like those aren’t much good when the prisoners have DeLameters,” he commented, “but I imagine our air right now is pretty foul. It won’t be long now. Do you hear anything?”

  “Somebody’s coming, but suppose it’s the Patrol?”

  “If so, a few blasts won’t hurt ’em—they’ll be in G P armor.” Cloud did not add that Graves would probably rush his nearest thugs in just as they were; to kill the two witnesses before help could arrive.

  The first detachment to round the corner was in fact unarmored. Cloud’s weapon flamed white, followed quickly by Ryder’s, and those zwilniks died. Against the next to arrive, however, the DeLameters raved in vain. But only for a second.

  “Back!” Cloud ordered, and swung the heavy door shut as the attackers’ beams swept past. It could not be locked, but it could be, and was, welded to the ja
mb with dispatch, if not with neatness. “We’ll cut that trap-door off, and stick it onto the door, too—and any more loose metal we can find.”

  “I hope they come in time,” the girl’s low voice carried a prayer. Was this brief flare of hope false? Would not only she and her Bob, but also their would-be rescuer, die? “Oh! That noise—s’pose it’s the Patrol?”

  It was not really a noise—the cell was sound-proof—it was an occasional jarring of the whole immense structure.

  “I wouldn’t wonder. Heavy stuff—probably semi-portables. You might grab that bucket, Bob, and throw some of that water that’s trickling in. Every little bit helps.”

  The heavy metal of the door was glowing bright-to-dull red over half its area and that area was spreading rapidly. The air of the room grew hot and hotter. Bursts of live steam billowed out and, condensing, fogged the helmets.

  The glowing metal dulled, brightened, dulled. The prisoners could only guess at the intensity of the battle being waged. They could follow its progress only by the ever-shifting temperature of the barrier which the zwilniks were so suicidally determined to burn down. For hours, it seemed, the conflict raged. The thuddings and jarrings grew worse. The water, which had been a trickle, was now a stream and scalding hot.

  Then a blast of bitterly cold air roared from the ventilator, clearing away the gas and steam, and the speaker came to life.

  “Good work, Cloud and you other two,” it said, chattily. “Glad to see you’re all on deck. Get into this corner over here, so the Zwilniks won’t hit you when they hole through. They won’t have time to locate you—we’ve got a semi right at the corner now.”

  The door grew hotter, flamed fiercely white. A narrow pencil sizzled through, burning steel sparkling away in all directions—but only for a second. It expired. Through the hole there flared the reflection of a beam brilliant enough to pale the noon-day sun. The portal cooled; heavy streams of water hissed and steamed. Hot water began to spurt into the cell. An atomic-hydrogen cutting torch sliced away the upper two-thirds of the fused and battered door. The grotesquely-armored lieutenant peered in.

  ”They tell me all three of you are QX. Check?”

  “Check.”

  “Good. We’ll have to carry you out. Step up here where we can get hold of you.”

  “I’ll walk and I’ll carry Jackie myself,” Ryder protested, while two of the armored warriors were draping Cloud tastefully around the helmet of a third.

  “You’d get boiled to the hips—this water is deep and hot. Come on!”

  The slowly rising water was steaming; the walls and ceiling of the corridor gave mute but eloquent testimony of the appalling forces that had been unleashed. Tile, concrete, plastic, metal—nothing was as it had been. Cavities yawned. Plates and pilasters were warped, crumbled, fused into hellish stalactites; bare girders hung awry. In places complete collapse had necessitated the blasting out of detours.

  Through the wreckage of what had been a magnificent building the cavalcade made its way, but when the open air was reached the three rescued ones were not released. Instead, they were escorted by a full platoon of soldiery to an armored car, which was in turn escorted to the Patrol station.

  “I’m afraid to take chances with you until we find out who’s who and what’s what around here,” the young commander explained. “The Lensmen will be here in the morning, with half an army, so I think you’d better spend the rest of the night here, don’t you?”

  “Protective custody, eh?” Cloud grinned. “I’ve never been arrested in such a polite way before, but it’s QX with me. You, too, I take it?”

  “Us, too, decidedly,” Ryder assented. “This is a very nice jail-house, especially in comparison with where we’ve…”

  “I’ll say so!” Jackie broke in, giggling almost hysterically. “I never thought I’d be tickled to death at getting arrested, but I am!”

  Lensmen came, and companies of Patrolmen equipped in various fashions, but it was several weeks before the situation was completely clarified. Then Ellington—Councillor Ellington, the Unattached Lensman in charge of all Narcotics—called the three into the office.

  “How about Graves and Fairchild?” Cloud demanded before the councillor could speak.

  “Both dead,” Ellington said. “Graves was shot down just as he took off, but he blasted Fairchild first, just as he intimated he would. There wasn’t enough of Fairchild left for positive identification, but it couldn’t very well have been anyone else. Nobody left alive seems to know much of anything of the real scope of the thing, so we can release you three now. Thanks, from me as well as the Patrol. There is some talk that you two youngsters have been contemplating a honeymoon out Chickladoria way?”

  “Oh, no, sir—that is…” Both spoke at once. “That was just talk, sir.”

  “I realize that the report may have been exaggerated, or premature, or both. However, not as a reward, but simply in appreciation, the Patrol would be very glad to have you as its guests throughout such a trip—all expense—if you like.”

  They liked.

  “Thank you. Lieutenant, please take Miss Cochran and Mr. Ryder to the disbursing office. Dr. Cloud, the Patrol will take cognizance of what you have done. In the meantime, however, I would like to say that in uncovering this thing you have been of immense assistance to us.”

  “Nothing much, sir, I’m afraid. I shudder to think of what’s coming. If zwilniks can grow Trenconian broadleaf anywhere…”

  “Not at all, not at all,” Ellington interrupted. “If such an entirely unsuspected firm as Tellurian Pharmaceuticals, with all their elaborate preparations and precautions, could not do much more than start, it is highly improbable that any other attempt will be a success. You have given us a very potent weapon against zwilnik operations—not only thionite, but heroin, ladolian, nitrolabe, and the rest.”

  “What weapon?” Cloud was puzzled.

  “Statistical analysis and correlation of apparently unrelated indices.”

  “But they’ve been used for years!”

  “Not the way you used them, my friend. Thus, while we cannot count upon any more such extraordinary help as you gave us, we should not need any. Can I give you a lift back to Tellus?”

  “I don’t think so, thanks. My stuff is en route now. I’ll have to blow out this vortex anyway. Not that I think there’s anything unusual about it—those were undoubtedly murders, not vortex casualties at all—but for the record. Also, since I can’t do any more extinguishing until my arm finishes itself up, I may as well stay here and keep on practising.”

  “Practising? Practising what?”

  “Gun-slinging—the lightning draw. I intend to get at least a lunch while the next pirate who pulls a DeLameter on me is getting a square meal.”

  * * * * *

  And Councillor Ellington conferred with another Gray Lensman; one who was not even vaguely humanoid.

  “Did you take him apart?”

  “Practically cell by cell.”

  “What do you think the chances are of finding or developing another like him?”

  “With a quarter of a million Lensmen working on it now, and the number doubling every day, and with a hundred thousand million planets, with almost that many different cultures, it is my considered opinion that it is merely a matter of time.”

  Chapter V

  THE BONEHEADS

  SINCE BECOMING the Vortex Blaster, Neal Cloud lived alone. Whenever he decently could, he traveled alone and worked alone. He was alone now, hurtling through a barren region of space toward Rift Seventy One and the vortex next upon his list. In the interests of solitude, convenience, and efficiency he was now driving a scout-class ship which had been converted to one-man and automatic operation. In one hold was his vortex-blasting flitter; in the others his duodec bombs and other supplies.

  During such periods of inaction as this, he was wont to think flagellantly of Jo and the three kids; especially of Jo. Now, however, and much to his surprise and chagrin, the
pictures which had been so vividly clear were beginning to fade. Unless he concentrated consciously, his thoughts strayed elsewhere: to the last meeting of the Society; to the new speculations as to the why and how of super-novae; to food; to bowling—maybe he’d better start that again, to see if he couldn’t make his hook roll smoothly into the one-two pocket instead of getting so many seven-ten splits. Back to food—for the first time in the Vortex Blaster’s career he was really hungry.

  Which buttons would he push for supper? Steak and Venerian mushrooms would be mighty good. So would fried ham and eggs, or high-pressured gameliope…

  An alarm bell jangled, rupturing the silence; a warm-blooded oxygen-breather’s distress call, pitifully weak, was coming in. It would have to be weak, Cloud reflected, as he tuned it in as sharply as be could; he was a good eighty five parsecs—at least an hour at maximum blast—away from the nearest charted traffic lane. It was getting stronger. It hadn’t just started, then; he had just gotten into its range. He acknowledged, swung his little ship’s needle nose into the line and slammed on full drive. He had not gone far on the new course, however, when a tiny but brilliant flash of light showed on his plate and the distress-call stopped. Whatever had occurred was history.

  Cloud had to investigate, of course. Both written and unwritten laws are adamant that every such call must be heeded by any warm-blooded oxygen-breather receiving it, of whatever race or class or tonnage or upon whatever mission bound. He broadcast call after call of his own. No reply. He was probably the only being in space who had been within range.

  Still driving at max, he went to the rack and pulled down a chart. He had never been in on a space emergency before, but he knew the routine. No use to investigate the wreckage; the brilliance of the flare was evidence enough that the vessel and everything near it had ceased to exist. It was lifeboats he was after. They were supposed to stick around to be rescued, but out here they wouldn’t. They’d have to head for the nearest planet, to be sure of air. Air was far more important than either food or water; and lifeboats, by the very nature of things, could not carry enough air.