Lunar Vengeance: A Collection of Science Fiction Stories

by Fearn, John Russell

  There was a queer sound aboard, the sound of footfalls coming from the sleeping quarters of the vessel. The sounds were interrupted suddenly by the precipitate arrival of the girl. For the first time she looked really scared and wild-eyed.

  “I—I think it’s—it’s ‘Rays’ Walford!” she gulped, and looked for a moment as if she were going to faint.

  Blackie got up, caught her arm, and steadied her, then he began to back from the table, facing the door leading to the sleeping quarters. Pen did likewise. ‘Knife’ remained where he was, his paralysed gaze fixed on the opening.

  Thud—pause. Thud—pause. Like feet lifted by strings and dropped again. Icy tension settled on the control chamber—then from the shadows of the inter-doorway ‘Rays’ Walford appeared! He remained motionless for a moment or two, arms hanging slackly at his sides. The red stain was still upon his heart; his eyes stared with glassy hate. Suddenly his blue eyes began to move.

  “‘Knife’ Halligan, you killed me! You killed me!”

  ‘Knife’ simply stared, hands gripping the opposite edges of the table, perspiration pouring down his face.

  “My God!” Blackie whispered, still clutching the girl. “It is Walford! How in the devil’s name did he—”

  The girl had nothing to say. She was shivering with fear. As for Pen Anderson, his eyes were nearly popping out of his head.

  “You’re a ghost!” ‘Knife’ chattered suddenly. “But you can’t do nothin’! The dead can’t touch the living! There’s a gap—a big gap—between life an’ death. You can’t touch me!”

  Just the same, he got up and in a blind rush snatched down the heavy rapid-fire ray-gun from the wall. Pressing the button he directed a withering sheet of fire at Walford—and the effect was terrible. Clothing and flesh scorched and blackened, but Walford did not flinch. Instead he came forward, without a trace of expression on his face. Stunned, ‘Knife’ dropped the gun, backed into a corner, and came up sharp against the wall.

  “You can’t do nothing!” he insisted hoarsely.

  The answer was immediate. Walford’s hands flashed up, closing round ‘Knife’s’ throat in a steel grip that all his struggles could not dislodge. Gurgling, choking, grunting, he slid to the floor.

  Blackie’s jaws quivered. The girl hid her face on his shoulder. At last there was a thud and Walford dropped his length, motionless. In the corner beside him ‘Knife’ lay with protruding tongue and staring eyes—strangled.

  Blackie helped the girl into a chair and then went over to the two bodies. Utter perplexity settled upon him. ‘Knife’ was dead all right—but so was ‘Rays’ Walford! As dead as when he had been stabbed.

  “I don’t get it!” Blackie’s voice was bewildered as he stared into Pen Anderson’s dazed eyes. “I don’t get it! Space can’t revive anybody from dead, unless we’ve never encountered it before. And anyway he was locked up in the ’frig. Somebody must have opened it. The locks are on this side.”

  “But nobody went that way—” Pen stopped and then added softly, “That is, nobody but the girl.”

  “You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?” she nearly shrieked, looking up. “You don’t suppose I was putting on an act and trying to play scared? Not me! I heard him coming and then I ran for it— Oh, my God, I’ve got to get off this ship! Anything! I’d sooner throw myself headfirst into space than endure—”

  “Hold it!” Blackie snapped, striding over and shaking her. “Get yourself in hand! You can’t get off this ship any more than any of us can— There’s an explanation for this! There has to be! Dead men don’t walk about without a reason.” He stopped and thought; then asked, “Just what happened when you went to rest again?”

  “Why, I— went to sleep.”

  “So soon?”

  “Must have done. Then ‘Rays’s’ footfalls awakened me. I caught a glimpse of him coming and made a dash for it.”

  “She’s lying,” Pen growled. “She’s been back of everything that’s gone wrong so far, so why not this? We got trapped here; she was mixed up with ‘Rays’s’ murder; now she’s mixed up with his coming back.”

  “I’m not!” the girl shouted desperately. “I’m not!”

  “Did you, or did you not, take those mineral rocks from Walford?” Blackie asked deliberately.

  The girl hesitated, her gaze averted; then she slowly nodded.

  “Yes, I did. I heard him scream. I rushed in and saw ‘Knife’ just about to rob his belt. He dashed out, thinking I hadn’t recognised him in the dim light. I examined Walford’s belt to see what ‘Knife’ had been looking for, found the minerals, and realised their value. I took them, hid them in my bunk after you’d finished questioning me. Right then I was determined the minerals should be handed in to the Earth authorities and not left to the mercy of no-account crooks. That was why ‘Knife’ tried to kill me, in case I knew he had committed the murder— But this—I know nothing about it.”

  Blackie nodded slowly. “I believe you. Heaven knows why, but I do. Maybe because I think you’re not so tough as you make out.”

  He turned as Conroy aroused himself, yawned, and then went on with his work.

  “Hey, Conroy, what do you know about this?”

  But Conroy, turning in surprise, had to have all the details since he had slept through the astounding episode. At the finish he gave a shrug.

  “So that’s what happened! I’ve heard of such things happening before, Blackie—out in space. Of men coming back to life. The radiations out of space do it for a brief time. Particularly if the body is well preserved—as it was in the ’frig.”

  “How come the bolts were opened on this side?”

  “I don’t know. A man from the dead can have powers that we haven’t got. Will power maybe—”

  “Bunk!” Pen Anderson growled. “The only explanation is that he wasn’t really dead, and came back to life long enough to make us think he was a corpse revived.”

  “And yet a heavy ray-gun made no impression on him,” the girl pointed out.

  Pen Anderson moistened his dry lips. “A jinx,” he whispered. “Maybe ‘Knife’ wasn’t far wrong after all!”

  “Jinx,” Blackie repeated slowly, starting. He had suddenly remembered the note he had found. “Maybe you’ve got something there. First, let’s get these two corpses outside. Fire ’em through the safety lock: that oughta stop any chance of them coming back to life.”

  Between them, he and Pen dragged the bodies to the apparatus and slammed the percussion cap. Instantly the bodies were ejected into space outside. Bloated, greyish remains floated near the ship. Blackie watched them for a while, then a frown slowly gathered on his face.

  “Say, that’s queer! Those corpses are moving away from us! There’s a stronger gravity somewhere— If it doesn’t hold them in focus in this four-point hole, then it can’t hold us either!”

  He spun round. “Conroy, what’s the big idea? We can get free, and this proves it!”

  “I don’t know how they come to be—”

  Blackie elbowed Conroy roughly out of the way, seated himself at the controls, then snatched at the notes Conroy had been making. He glanced at them, then his expression became fixed. From his pocket he took the note he had found in the provision chamber. The writing matched exactly!

  But Conroy had written under the imminent expectation of death. He had been almost as good as dead when—

  “What,” Blackie asked ominously, “is the meaning of all this, Conroy? Blast you, spill it!” he finished with a roar.

  Conroy looked at the warning message, and then at his own notes. His lips compressed, but his face was still dull and expressionless. Before he could speak, Pen Anderson gave a little gasp.

  “Look!” His trembling hand pointed to a tremendous gash on the back of Conroy’s head, the blood long since congealed. Up to now he had kept himself turned from revealing it. It seemed incredible that a man could move about, even live at all, with a wound like that. Even live—?

&n
bsp; “He’s dead!” Pen shrieked, his nerve snapping. “Dead! That’s the meaning of the note. He did die, and all this time he’s been alive again, holding us in this trap for reasons of his own— Blackie, I can’t stand it!”

  He wheeled, raced for the safety lock, and climbed inside it. The moment he slammed the percussion cap upon himself the thing worked, hurling him as a dead grey corpse into the deeps outside.

  Conroy’s dead face seemed to come to life slowly as he gazed at the grim-faced Blackie and frightened girl.

  “All right, what’s it all about?” Blackie whispered. “You can’t scare me with this back-to-life act. Nor Dot here.” He flashed a glance at her. “You deliberately anchored us with that phony four-point sink hole angle. But it isn’t true. We can get out.”

  “Yes,” Conroy admitted slowly, “you can escape—but first there is a proposition for you to consider. I can give you power, my friend—great power. I need an Earthling like you, one without scruples. To put it bluntly, a criminal. And, for that matter, an Earth woman like this with no pretensions to sentiment would be an advantage.”

  Blackie and the girl glanced at each other blankly. The girl, indeed, was looking indignant. Then Blackie snapped:

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but get on with it! I’ll tell you if I like it.”

  “Conroy,” ‘Conroy’ stated impartially, “has been dead for some time. He moves about not through his own will, but mine. I am a mind-projection! Originally I came from Ildiban—a planet from outside your solar system. The engines of our spaceship sustained damage, and we were forced to crash land on an asteroid in your system.

  “My comrades and I are a long-lived race and have been marooned here in the asteroid belt for many years. However, we cannot complete the repairs to our ship without certain minerals and materials only obtainable on your Earth. But we do not wish our presence in your system to be known to your governments, because we are interested in the vast plunder which is obtainable on your planet. I anchored the ship at this point because it represents the limit to which my mind-projection can reach. You see, we need ambassadors. Through television and radio we learned your language and it was by that same medium we learned of this intended prison break. It was decided I should take over the ship’s pilot—Conroy. I did, killing him by shock. He fell and struck his head. Thereafter I used his body, as I am doing now. But before he died he must have written that note, of which I knew nothing.”

  “Then you were back of ‘Rays’ Walford’s revenge?” Blackie demanded.

  “Certainly. I deserted this body of Conroy’s for a time: you will recall when he apparently went to sleep? First, I hypnotised this woman here to open the refrigerator: she imagined she had been asleep. Then I took over Walford’s murdered body. I knew from the girl’s mind all about who had killed ‘Rays,’ about the minerals—everything. I had a dual motive in what I did. One was to exact vengeance upon an unscrupulous criminal; and the other was to put the courage of the rest of you to the supreme test. Then I became Conroy again.”

  “I get it,” Blackie said, after a long silence. “What you are trying to say is that you need a criminal to steal for you on Earth and turn the proceeds over to you?”

  “I thought you would understand,” Conroy’s master said. “Your world indulges in such things. It is rich in treasures. You were sent to the penitentiary for trying to obtain some of that treasure. Here is your chance for supreme revenge! Become a master under our dictates. Have this woman as your aide. In time you might even rule the Earth!”

  Blackie rubbed his jaw and at length grinned. He turned to the girl.

  “Can you beat that, Dot? A mental monster from Ildiban wants to become a big-time crook like me! You can even find gangsters on Ildiban, it seems. No, damn you!” he blazed suddenly. “You’re dead wrong! I escaped from that blasted prison so I could start to go straight. Well, nearly straight. Certainly to be my own master. I don’t work for you or anybody from another planet, see?”

  “I should not like to think that all my work has been for nothing,” Conroy said softly. “I eliminated the small-time cowards, leaving you two. I can perhaps force you, even as I forced this girl, to do my bidding.”

  “Nobody can force me,” Blackie retorted, and with that Conroy stared fixedly.

  To Blackie’s vision it looked as though the dull eyes came life for a while and he felt the full appalling onslaught of battering mental commands. He even reeled under them. Then the muscles of his face bunched into knots of iron determination. He clenched his fists and stared back. And all a sudden the strain relaxed.

  “Quite a pity,” Conroy sighed. “You are too strong for me to break down. I was afraid of that. Maybe one of the others would have been better after all. No, no, not enough courage. This girl I could use, only— No, not enough experience. You were the one, Blackie Melrose. You are sure you won’t accept my offer?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?”

  “Then I shall have to find others.”

  Conroy stopped speaking. His knees gave way and he thudded to the floor. Blackie stooped and turned him over; then he raised an astounded face to the girl.

  “That—that mental gangster, or whatever he was, has withdrawn his influence,” he muttered. “Deserted him!”

  He digested the incredible fact for a moment and then shook himself.

  “Give me anything but this!” he panted. “I always knew that space crawled with queer things, but mental body-stealers— No thank you!” He got up and suddenly whirled the girl to him. “Look, Dot, you an’ me are going back to Earth. Maybe when we’ve taken care of Walford’s family there’ll be something left over from those rocks. How about it? Interested?”

  “Uh-huh,” the girl assented, nodding. “Besides, I could feel a whole lot safer with a gorilla like you to look after me.”

  Blackie grinned widely, then he turned and slammed in the jet switches, listening to the mounting whine which presently began to drive the becalmed vessel forward.

  MARCH OF THE ROBOTS

  The inhabitants of Earth lay prostrate, a scant few survivors in every land. The calendar was rewritten, already being dubbed as the Post-Atomic Period. War had come—and gone. It had left a hell on Earth—pestilence, destruction, a planet pitted with titanic craters, vast areas still out of bounds because of dangerously radio-active materials. Civilisation, as such, had ceased—but such is the eternal adaptability of homo sapiens there were signs of leaders appearing here and there among the masses…In time everything could be rebuilt, and even the power of atomic hell might be controlled. Might! It depended upon the sanity of those who had lived through the Atomic War; upon the guiding genius of those who would now take up the struggle for rehabilitation.

  Of the scientists left from the struggle, Dr. Boyd Atkinson was one of the most outstanding. During the war his scientific genius had always succeeded in devising a weapon for the protection of those in whom he believed. Now that was all over, but he did not turn his attention to assisting with the rebuilding of civilisation. He was instead absorbed in some experiment concerned with cosmic radiation and the propagation of cellular life.

  General Harrison, a soldier of distinction who had conducted many successful campaigns during the war, came upon Atkinson one morning within the remains of a broken down residence. It seemed strange to the military man to behold the famous scientist oblivious to a sagging roof and drunken walls—through which the summer sunlight streamed. All his attention was concentrated on electrical instruments in the only safe corner of the once palatial house. Somewhere, hidden, a generator hummed steadily.

  “Mind if I come in, Atkinson?” Harrison called, from the one-hinged doorway.

  “Come in by all means—if you can get in.” Atkinson looked up briefly, then back to his work. “You’ll find a chair somewhere.”

  The General entered, picking his way amongst debris and broken brick. He found the chair Atkinson had mentioned—a backless atrocity with on
ly three legs—but he managed to perch on it with fair equilibrium.

  “Beats me how you can work in this damned confusion,” Harrison commented.

  Atkinson’s knobbly fingers twirled the bare end of a length of copper wire as he fixed it to a contact.

  “Got to,” he answered shortly. “Matter of making do, my friend. This was my home before the blasts got at it, and it’s still my home. Had no time to get around to repairing it. Just as long as I can eat and grab a bit of sleep when necessary I’m satisfied. Urgency, Harrison. That’s the driving force.”

  “Urgency?” The soldier’s brows knitted. “No urgency now the war’s over, is there?”

  Atkinson finished the contact he was making on the massive electrical instrument, then he turned. He was a fiftyish man, lined in the face with years of hard concentration, stoop-backed from the ardour of slogging at a bench. Physically indeed he was a frail specimen: mentally, he was a giant.

  “The urgency,” he said, “is born of the fact that I have had a visit from the Controller of Statistics. He tells me that because of the war we’ve lost three quarters of the population, and the quarter which is left is not in very good shape for producing a new generation. For that there has to be an answer.”

  “And being the man you are you’ve found it?” Harrison suggested, with a tired smile

  “Yes. Synthesis…” Atkinson leaned back rather wearily against the bench and sighed. “Synthesis, my friend. Fortunately I foresaw the necessity for trying to create life even before the atom war burst upon us, so all I’ve had to do is bring preconceived notions up to date.”

  The General nodded but he did not say anything. His eyes moved over the confusion of the once splendid house, then back to the incomprehensible litter of scientific apparatus amidst which Atkinson was working. It spoke clearly of the complete detachment of the scientific mind from the mundane.

  “I can create life,” Atkinson said, quite simply. “That is not a theory: it’s a fact. Life started on this planet through the free action of cosmic radiation upon a given aggregate of cells. The excitation produced in the cells caused that reflex energy which later came to be interpreted as ‘life.’ And from the lowly animalcule, the first form of life, there grew the thinking, destructive, ruthless biped of today! You see, Harrison, there is nothing Nature can do which Man cannot also do, providing he tries hard and long enough.”