Takeoff!

by Randall Garrett

  Sam lifted his nobly-sculptured head and gazed enthralled at the towers that rose, rank upon serried rank, as far as the eye could see. Their smooth, regular sides of artificial stone literally blazed with hundreds of illuminated windows. Their lofty tops seemed to touch the very sky itself—for which reason, let me remark in passing, the inhabitants called them Sky-Scrapers.

  “Ah, madam,” exclaimed Sam to a lovely young woman, who, curiously attired in the daring fashions of the age, stood near him, also gazing in awe at the spectacle, ‘“how much vaster is our great Metropolis even that storied Nineveh, or Tyre, or mighty Babylon with its famed hanging gardens, or Carthage of yore!”

  “Truly, good sir,” she responded modestly. ‘“And is it not wonderful that we are here to see it all? Ah, would not some proud Caesar or Attila of old have given all his treasures for such a privilege?”

  Before them, in multicolored grandeur, blazed hundreds of vast advertising displays, each shining with a light that dazzled the eye of the beholder. These sign-lights were ingeniously wrought tubes of glass of no greater diameter than a common lead-pencil, but many feet in length. The tubes were curved to form the various letters and symbols which made up the great illuminated signs, and were filled with various gases under low pressure. When electrical energy of tremendous voltage was applied to electrodes at the ends of the tubes, the gas within glowed brilliantly with colored light, just as the atmosphere glows when a bolt of lightning passes through it during a thunderstorm. By filling these tubes with diverse gases, all the hues of the rainbow could be duplicated.

  Sam IM4 SF+ turned his admiring gaze from the breathtaking displays and started to cross the street. By a clever contrivance of flashing signal-lamps, the flow of mechanical traffic was periodically halted, to thus allow unmounted citizens to pass from one side to the other in complete safety. Sam strode across the street as the traffic halted in strict obedience to the signal-lamps. Once on the other side, he started off through the byways of the city. On either side stretched mercantile establishments of divers sorts, selling luxuries and commodities undreamed of by earlier peoples. He strode past a theater of the age which, instead of living actors, displayed amazing dramas recorded on strips of celluloid and projected by beams of light on tremendous white surfaces within the darkened theater. Ingeniously recorded voices and sounds, cleverly synchronized to the movement of the figures on the screen, made them seem lifelike.

  “Ah, the wonders of modern science!” Sam marveled anew.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Threat of the Mind Masters

  Not even the varied panorama of the Metropolis could keep Sam IM4 SF+ from thinking of his mission to the city. He had constantly kept a sharp look-out, watching those who might betray too much interest in his person, being careful that no one was following him.

  For Sam IM4 SF+ knew that danger was afoot in New-York; a secret group known as the Mind Masters was plotting to take over the Government, using super-scientific devices, about which Sam could only conjecture. There was no proof, unfortunately, with which our hello could have gone to the rulers of this enlightened country and denounced the scoundrels for the criminals they were. Only Sam IM4 SF + knew of the existence of this evil band—Sam, and a few loyal cohorts that he had gathered to combat the menace.

  For Sam, like few others across the world, had a Sixth Sense, which enabled him to detect certain emotional responses which were, to others, non-existent.

  Thus, Sam proceeded carefully to his destination, for he knew full well that if he were discovered, death would be his reward.

  Little did he know that. in a secret room, many miles away, the Mind Masters were, at that very moment, plotting his destruction. Twelve men in black hoods were seated about a table. Eleven of them were listening to the twelfth speak.

  “Even now,” he said, in a voice that reeked with evil, “our agents are following IM4 SF+, clad in invisibility suits. Fear not, my friends, we shall destroy that prying Sixth Sense of his. When our agents close in at last, they will use the hyper-decerebralizer ray. The fool has no chance!”

  To Be Continued

  WILL THE CABAL DESTROY SAM’S WONDER SENSE?

  WHAT OF COUNTESS TAMARA AND THE HIDDEN LEGION?

  WILL DR. DOOM PERFECT HIS ROCKETSHIP IN TIME TO ESCAPE?

  CAN DALE ARDENT SURVIVE THE MIND-FREEZING MACHINE?

  READ THE SECOND PART OF THIS AMAZING SERIAL AND SEE!

  Both Lin and I apologize for the fact that these questions have no answers. However, dear reader, if you come up with answers of your own, rest assured that we would be glad to see them. Those questions have been bothering us, too.

  MUSTANG

  By Randall Garrett

  I believe the term “horse opera” is, like “soap opera,” somewhat older than “space opera,” which is logical. Ned Buntline {Edward Zane Carroll Judson) was writing at the same time as Jules Verne, but in those days, as today, more people understood horses than understood space. But which is more important? If all the horses were to vanish suddenly tonight, the human race would muddle through somehow, but if space were to vanish, where would we be?

  Personally I like horses, and I like Zane Grey. Now if you just add a touch of the strange and come up with the Old Switcheroo—

  Beautiful? Hell yes, she was beautiful!

  You ever see one of them golden palominos? Beautiful, right? Well, this mustang was that golden color all over—almost a blonde, you might say.

  Whadda y’ mean?

  The Kid? Well, hell yes. There’s a dozen men and more on the Turkey Track Bar who’ll swear to it. He was still wet behind the ears, but we all saw him do what none o’ the rest of us could do.

  All right. You think the Kid is a sissy. All right, go ahead—we thought so, too, on the Turkey Track Bar. But let me tell you, that don’t prove nothin” Not one way or another.

  Naw; I’ll buy. Hey, Sam! Just leave the bottle here; I reckon me and Morty can pour our own. Thanks.

  Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yeah.

  It was the Kid who spotted the mustang in the first place. Now, I been Tad Jenkins’ foreman at the Turkey Track Bar for twelve years, and I got no complaints. He pays a good wage and lets me do my job without always ridin’ herd on me, like some bosses do. Tad’s a tough old buzzard, and the only weak spot he’s got is the way he spoils that kid of his. So when the Kid comes ridin’ in after an all-day jaunt, all het up about this golden mustang he seen runnin’ with the herd, I could see we were gonna have us a time of it.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I like Tad Junior, and so do most of the boys, but he just ain’t what you’d call a man’s man, if you see what I mean. Spends most of his time readin’ books, and don’t give a damn for the ranchin’ business.

  Hell, when I was seventeen, I’d been workin’ on my own for two years, and I joined the Marine Corps before I was eighteen, back in ‘42. But that don’t make no never-mind.

  Anyhow, the Kid comes back, all het up, as I said, about this here horse he seen. He come ridin’ like there was a twister chasin’ him, which is doin’ pretty good on that horse his old man gave him. She’s an old bay; gentle as mother’s kiss, and damn near as old as the Kid is, seems like. The Kid likes ‘em gentle—he ain’t exactly what you’d call a bronco buster.

  He scoots up to the ranch house, hops offn that bay, and runs inside, a-yellin’ for his dad. I’d’ve figured there’d been an accident or something, except that the Kid’s got a big happy grin on his face, so I didn’t pay no more attention.

  Fifteen, twenty minutes later, the Old Man comes moseyin’ out toward the corral, where I was oiling some bridles.

  “Frank,” he says, “you been payin’ any attention to them mustangs lately?”

  “I got an eye on ‘em,” I says. “I know pretty well where they are.”

  He nods, easy-like. He just keeps that mustang herd because his own daddy kept horses. Once in a while, we cut out a few of ‘em for the rodeo business, and when we thin out the
herd, we shoot the old ones and sell the carcasses to the dogfood packers, but horseflesh ain’t what it was worth twenty, thirty years ago, so it don’t pay to keep any real close watch on ‘em.

  The Old Man says, “You didn’t happen to notice a big palomino stallion runnin’ with ‘em, did you, Frank?”

  I thought for a minute and had to allow that I hadn’t. “Mostly browns, greys, and bays,” I told him. “Course,” I went on, “I ain’t seen ‘em all. I figure, long as I know about where they are and about how many we got, why, if we need any more information, we know where to get it.”

  “Sure, that’s right, Frank,” he says. “But young Tad was ridin’ up near Smoky Bend, and he saw this mustang. Now, that herd ain’t bred a palomino for as long as I can remember, so I figure that maybe someone’s horse run away and joined up with my herd.”

  “A stallion?” I said, sort of questionin’ like.

  “Well, young Tad seemed to think so,” the Old Man says. “But he didn’t get too close. Likely he couldn’t be too sure.” Then he sort of looks off up at the sky as if he was figurin’ the weather, which he wasn’t. “Tad’s got another idea, though. He thinks, what with all the bomb-testin’ and stuff they’ve been doin’ in these parts, he thinks maybe we got a mutation on our hands.”

  What? Well, Mort, the way I understand it, a mutation is an animal that don’t turn out exactly like his folks—sort of a freak, you might say, This here radiation from the atom bombs is supposed to cause it.

  Anyway, the Old Man says, “Tad says this mustang looks different, somehow.” And he sort of looks off towards the hills. “Why don’t you round up some of the boys, Frank, and we’ll go have us a look.”

  That’s when I got the whole picture. The Kid had taken a notion that he wanted that horse, and the Old Man was going to give it to him. Well, it wasn’t any of my business—I don’t mind cuttin’ out a horse for the Kid any more than I mind cuttin’ one out of the herd for a rodeo. In fact, I sort of cherished the idea of watchin’ the Kid try to ride a wild mustang. Might be worthwhile watchin”

  Well, me and some of the boys saddled up and rode out with the Old Man and the Kid to find this here golden horse.

  Morty, let me tell you that we had the dangdest time catchin’ that ornry animal. He was skittish as a new bride and a damn sight faster on his feet.

  We spotted the herd out near Smokey Bend and reined up a quarter of a mile away to look ‘em over. We were on that little rise just north of the river and we could look down on the mustangs and see most of ‘em.

  Naturally, we spotted the palomino right off. You couldn’t of missed him. The Old Man got his field glasses out and took a good, long look, and passed ‘em to me.

  Well, sir, I never seen a horse like that’n before. I could see what the Kid meant when he said it was different. It was a golden blonde all over, except for a white spot on its forehead and the dark hooves. And it wasn’t just the color, either—the neck and head were just a shade too long to look natural on a horse, and his chest was as broad as a Percheron’s. And there was one other thing queer about him that I didn’t notice until I’d looked for a while.

  Now, you mightn’t believe this, Mort, but that mustang’s eyes were as blue as sapphires! Yes, sir, just as pretty a blue as you’d ever want to see.

  Oh, you’d heard, eh?

  Well, anyway, I handed the glasses back to the Old Man and said, “Pretty eyes.”

  “Mighty pretty,” he says, looking at me peculiar. “Mighty pretty.”

  We both knew right then that this wasn’t no horse that had strayed off from nobody’s ranch and gone wild. If anybody had ever had a blue-eyed blonde for a horse, we’d of heard about it, and if anybody’d lost such an animal, there’d of been a reward out, you can sure bet.

  The Old Man looks for a mite longer, then he says, “Okay, boys, let’s corral that beauty. And watch yourselves. Anybody causes that animal to break a leg, I’ll shoot him instead of the horse.”

  So we started down the slope gentle-like, so’s not to spook the herd. The Kid stayed back on the rise to watch.

  Well, sir, I tell you that horse didn’t no more want to be caught than a bar of soap in a bathtub. We tried to box her up by goin’ in easy, but she was the first one to notice what we was up to, and she spooked the rest of ‘em. She—

  What?

  Well, sure I said, “she.” The Kid thought she was a stallion, and so did the rest of us until we got close up and down level with her. But she wasn’t—she was the biggest, toughest-looking mare you ever seen.

  And run! We couldn’t even get close to her if she didn’t want us to. Every time we got up near, that horse would take off like a stray piece of lightning, left our nags so far behind that we knew we’d just have to find a better way.

  The trouble was, that horse was smart. She knew that we didn’t intend to hurt her, so we couldn’t scare her any. She’d just as soon come at us as run away, and she was slick as buttered glass. And the damn critter didn’t really try to run very far. She’d only circle around, stayin’ just out of range.

  Pretty soon, the rest of the herd was so spooky that they took off down toward Barton’s Creek, but that mare didn’t go with ‘em. She just stuck around to laugh at us poor fools tryin’ to catch her.

  Well, finally, we circled around her and started closin’ in. We figured we had her this time, but she just waited until we were really close—just stood there, chompin’ grass until we were almost on top of her—and then she took a flyin’ leap between me and the Old Man and tore up the rise toward the Kid.

  Well, clanged if that Kid didn’t have his rope out. That mare is comin’ at him at a full gallop, and he just sits there, waitin’, with his lasso ready.

  The Old Man bellows at him “Tad! Don’t you rope that horse. She’ll break a leg at that speed!”

  But the stupid young sprite don’t even hear—all he sees is that horse.

  And when she gets close enough, he throws the loop over her neck.

  Now, you know as well as I do that that would have killed any ordinary horse. But not this baby. She comes down on all fours and skids herself to a stop as if she’d had air brakes. Didn’t even tighten the loop much. Then she just stands there, meek and peaceful as you please, while we ride up.

  The Old Man tries to chew the Kid out for usin’ a rope, but there ain’t much he can really say. That horse had made fools out of the rest of us, and the Kid had caught her slicker’n a whistle, so the Old Man had to pretty much let it go.

  Well, we led that mare back to the ranch and put her in the corral, and the Old Man gave orders to break her to saddle.

  Three days later, there wasn’t a man on the ranch that didn’t have bruises allover him. Jake Moffat had a busted arm, Ed Lowey had a dislocated shoulder, and I had a sprained ankle. There wasn’t a man in the outfit that had stayed on that mare more than thirty seconds.

  The Kid wanted to try—he was the only one who could get close enough to her to put a saddle on her. But the Old Man said No, and he said it loud and hard.

  And then, one mornin’, we hear a ruckus at the corral. I limp over on my game leg as fast as I can, and the rest of the boys come, too’ as best their bruises will let ‘em.

  And there’s the Kid, sit tin’ on that golden horse, holdin’ on for dear life, while she cavorts around the place. But he sticks with her, and finally she gentles down and trots around as nice as you please. Some of the boys said she wasn’t buckin’ as hard by a long shot as she had when they were on her, but I figure that’s just a mite of jealousy creepin’ in.

  Well, of course, when the Old Man hears about it, he gives the Kid all kinds of hell for disobeyin’ orders, but, again, there ain’t much he can really say. Actually, he’s pretty proud of the Kid, and he can’t help showin’ it.

  That evenin’, a bunch of the boys decide they’re gonna take the Kid in to town and show him a real good time. They figure it’s worth a little celebration.

  Oh, yo
u saw it, Morty? Yeah, they had him in here, all right. Sam knows the Kid ain’t old enough to drink, but he let on that he didn’t.

  The Kid said something about losin’ a few bucks at Blackjack. Said it wasn’t his lucky night.

  Where’d they go from here, Mort? Oh? Well, I guess that bunch really painted the town red, eh? Bet Mabel and the girls were glad to see ‘em, huh?

  Yeah, I know he did a lot of braggin’ about his gold horse. That’s why he decided to ride her into town the next day—just to show off that horse.

  What happened? Well, that night in town hadn’t done him much good, I guess, ‘cause he climbed on, that filly took one leap into the air, and the Kid hit the ground. Knocked colder than an Amarillo blizzard—busted his collar bone and his left arm and had a concussion for a week.

  The horse cleared that corral fence like she was flyin’ and took off. We ain’t seen her since.

  Was she a mutation? Well, she must’ve been. The Kid said that that spot on her forehead was the nub of a horn, and who in the Hell ever heard of a horse with a horn?

  ...NO CONNECTIONS

  By Randall Garrett

  Isaac Asimov is, I think I dare say , more widely known to the general public than any other science fiction writer [His only rivals are Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke. A. B. C. ?], but not, I fear, for his science fiction. For the past two decades his straight science articles and other works, ranging from Biblical commentary to learned discussions of Shakespeare, have outgrossed his science fiction wordage by a ratio of—at a guesstimate—something like a hundred to one.

  Twenty years ago, he was merely one of the top science fiction writers in the world. For my money, he still is.

  The basic gimmick of this story actually was given to me by John Pomeroy, whose “Progress Report” belongs in a collection like this one. I think the gimmick came from Dr. Albert Einstein’s remark, “If I had it to do allover again, I’d have become a plumber.”