“It’s blackmail,” Aker cried. He looked at Pete, grimaced, and threw up his hands. “All right. You get your equipment. I hope it chokes you, Mayhem.”
The professor departed hastily, leaving Mayhem chuckling quietly behind him.
“Here’s your hundred dollars, and a hundred extra for winning out. Thank you!”
Pete counted the money carefully, and then looked sideward at Dr. Mayhem.
“Uh—I was wondering about what you just said to the professor, Doc. How’d you know so much about what happened in Rome, anyway?”
Mayhem snickered. “I didn’t tell Aker all the secrets of my time machine. It can be operated automatically. After I sent you two back into the past, I joined you, just to keep an eye on things. It took me six experimental trips before I arrived in the mind of someone of importance, where I could be sure I’d hear everything that went on in Rome.”
Pete’s eyes widened. “So you were there? But who—who were you? And anyhow,” Pete chuckled reproachfully, “that wasn’t exactly fair, when you come right down to it.”
Dr. Mayhem’s face cracked into a broad grin.
“You shouldn’t say things like that, Pete; it might get you tossed to the lions! I was Messalina! And don’t forget, Messalina was Caesar’s wife. And Caesar’s wife is above reproach!”
THE TRUTH ABOUT GOLDFISH
For some time I have been wondering what the world is coming to.
More than once I have got up in the middle of the nite, padded toward the bureau, and, peering into the mirror, exclaimed, “Stinky, what is the world coming to?” The responses I have thus obtained I am. not at liberty to reveal; but I am coming to believe that either I have a most mysterious mirror or something is wrong somewhere. I am intrigued by my mirror.
It came into my possession under extraordinary and eerie circumstances, being borne into my bedroom one Midsummer’s Eve by a procession of cats dressed oddly in bright-colored sunsuits and carrying parasols. I was asleep at the time, but awoke just as the last tail whisked out the door, and immediately I sprang out of bed and cut my left big toe rather badly on the edge of the mirror. I remember that as I first looked into the fathomless, glassy depths, a curious thot came into my mind. “What,” I said to myself, “is the world coming to? And what is science-fiction coming to?”
It is quite evident that a logical and critical analysis of science-fictional trends is a desideratum today. The whole trouble, I feel, can be laid to velleity. (I have wanted to use that word for years. Unfortunately I have now forgotten exactly what it means, but one can safely attribute trouble to it. Where was I?”)
Today science-fiction is split by schisms and implied on the trylon of bad thots. The fans, I mean, not the writers. The writers have been split and impaled for years, but nothing can be done about that.
In a way, it’s a good thing. Look at Jules Verne, Victor Hugo, and, for that matter, the late unfortunate Tobias J. Koot.
I put flowers on his grave only yesterday. He lies at rest, tho his ghastly fate pursued him even to the grove. And I attribute Mr. Hoot’s fate to nothing less than the schisms of fandom. For Koot was a hard working young man, serious, earnest, with promise of becoming a first-class writer. He took life very solemnly—almost grimly.
“My job,” he told me once, “is to give people what they want,?”
“I want a drink,” I said to him. “Give me one.”
But Koot couldn’t be turned from his rash course. He began to write science-fiction. That was where the trouble started. “Is it science?” he pondered. “Or is it fiction?” Already the cleavage—the split—had begun.
It was a matter of logical progression toward ultimate division.
Koot got in the habit of typing the science into his stories with his left hand, and the fiction with his right. He began to twitch and worry. He got up nites. He was troubled, uneasy, “I have one thing left to cling to,” he muttered desperately, “Fandom, I can point to that and. says “It is real. It exists. It is dependable.”
When fandom had its schism, Koot immediately developed a split personality. It was rather horrible. His loft side—the scientific side—grew cold and hard and keen. Ho grew a Van Dyke on the soft side of his face and his loft hand was stained with acids and chemicals. But the right side of his face became dissipated and disreputable, with a leer in the eye and a scornful, sneering curve to the lip. He grew a tiny moustache on the right side, waxed it, and twirled it continually. It was rather horrid, but worse was yet to come.
One day the inevitable happened. Tobias J. Koot split in half, with a faint ripping sound and a despairing wail. He was, of course, buried in two coffins and in two graves, the wretched man’s fate pursuing him even beyond death.
Well, you can understand how I feel, what with the mirror, the cats in sunsuits and the weasel. Or haven’t I mentioned the weasel? I mean the brown one, of course, and he is, perhaps, worst of all. It isn’t what he says so much as his sneering, ironic tone. The other weasels, who live in the spare bedroom with the colt, were happy enuf till HE arrived, but now THEY are arranging a schism. As you will readily see, something must be done about it before science-fiction collapses and the standard falls trailing into the dust.
I suggest that we mobilize, and, to avoid dissension, give everybody the rank of general. Then, first of all, we can march to my house and get rid of that weasel.
The Brown One, of course. The others are welcome to stay as long as they like. I feel that they are weak rather than wicked, and need only a good excuse, or should I say example, in order to brace themselves up.
Contributions to the fund for the mobilization of science-fiction and the extermination of brown weasels may be sent to me in care of this magazine. Do not delay. Each moment you wait brings us closer to doom, and, besides, I need a new piano.
THE ENERGY EATERS
Nothing in the Solar System Daunted Gerry Carlyle—Except Hollywood on the Moon!
CHAPTER I
Storm Over Gerry
NOBODY knows exactly what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable body. Science, with a view to solving that bewhiskered problem, had been eagerly watching the feud between Nine Planets Films, Inc., and Gerry Carlyle, the Catch-’em-Alive damsel. But so far honors had been about even, though Gerry’s hot temper had become even fierier under the strain, and Von Zorn, president of the great motion picture company, had been under a doctor’s care for some time.
At the moment he was sitting behind his gleaming glass desk and twitching slightly as he glared at Anthony Quade, ace director and trouble-shooter extraordinary for Nine Planets.
“Look,” he said in a deceptively soft voice, “I don’t ask for much, Mr. Quade. Just a little cooperation from my staff. “All I want is a signature—two short words oh this contract. That’s not too much to expect from a billion dollar organization with the cream of the System’s technical and promotional brains, is it?”
Quade settled his large, big-boned body more comfortably in the chrome-and-leather chair and blinked sleepily. Von Zorn changed his tone and his voice quavered slightly as he went on.
“I’m a sick man, Tony. I can’t stand this continual worry. Somehow I don’t think I have long to live. My heart. And all I ask you to do is get a signature on this contract.”
“A great act. Chief,” Quade said approvingly. “But I’ve heard it a few dozen times before. I think I’m allergic to your heart. Every time you get angina I find myself dodging Whips[*] on Venus or shooting energy-storms on Mars. I need a vacation.”
“Afraid?” Von Zorn asked tauntingly.
“Sure,” Quade said. “I’ve fought haywire robots from Pluto; I’ve handled the worst temperaments on the Moon; I’ve even brought you pix of the Martian Inferno. But I positively won’t risk my life with that—that Roman candle in skirts.”
“Think of the box-office!”
“I know. It’s worth millions to have Gerry Carlyle tied up in a contract so she won’t go off a
nd bring back a cargo of Martian monsters for the London Zoo every time we shoot a Mars epic with robots. I don’t like it any better than you do, Chief. That dame scoops us every time—and the public won’t look at our robots when they can see the real thing. I can see myself asking Gerry Carlyle to sign that contract.” Von Zofn hesitated. “Tony, I’ll ask her myself. Only—”
“Only what?”
“She won’t sign.”
Quade nodded, frowning. “We’ve got nothing she wants. You can offer her a fortune and she’d still say no. The only—wait a minute!”
Von Zorn tensed. “Got an idea?”
“Maybe. Gerry Carlyle will sell her soul for one thing—a new monster. Something nobody’s ever captured or even seen before. Jumping Jupiter, I’ve got it! If she’ll make a flicker for us, we’ll give her the beast for her Zoo.” Von Zorn said, “And just where do we get this beast?”
“Just leave that to me. I’ve plenty of technical resources in the labs.”
“If you’re thinking of a synthetic monster—”
“What I’m thinking of will surprise you,” Quade said mysteriously. “Give me thirty days, and I’ll get you a beast that’ll make Gerry Carlyle turn green. Chief, she’ll be begging you to let her sign that contract!”
Grinning, Quade went out, leaving Von Zorn licking his lips at the prospect of a defeated and supplicant Gerry Carlyle.
* * *
IT was bedlam. Newscaster men swarmed in the office; photographers snapped their flash-bulbs continually questions and shouts filled the place with babel. Through it all the central figure posed gracefully against the massive desk, cool and unperturbed as an iceberg.
She was dressed in mirror-polished high boots, riding pants, and polo shirt open at her tanned throat; these were the badges of her profession. For this was the New York office of Gerry Carlyle, grim huntress of fierce monsters on the inhospitable planets of the solar System, serene and gracious hostess now.
But the occasion was one that tried to the utmost the steel control she placed on her fiery temper. For Gerry, according to the delighted newsmen, had been scooped—and how!
“No two ways about it, Miss Carlyle,” said one of the reporters. “This what’s-his-name has really got something—a form of life nobody’s ever seen before.”
“Seeing is believing,” said Gerry sweetly.
“Every newscast from the Moon for the last six hours has had something about these jiggers. From Mercury, the guy says.”
Gerry quirked up an eyebrow. “I’ve scoured Mercury’s twilight zone twice for life-forms. I’ve brought back the only living things ever seen by man on the surface of Mercury. I even went over the dark side once.”
“These animals come from Hotside.”
“That, to begin with, is a bare-faced lie,” Gerry smiled., “D’you know what the temperature is on the sunward side of Mercury? No matter what kind of insulation he used in his spacesuit, a man’s brains would boil in a split second.”
“Sure,” said the reporter. “But this guy has the creatures, Miss Carlyle, and nobody has ever seen anything like ’em before, and he claims they’re from Hot-side.”
“Well, you’re just wasting your time, boys, if you’ve come up here to get my statement. I’ve already told you it’s a hoax.”
“Professor Boleur looked ’em over. He says they’re the McCoy,” persisted the nervy reporter, defying the lightning.
Gerry scowled at this, and more flash-bulbs went off. Boleur’s reputation was unimpeachable, impossible to ignore.
Just then Gerry’s secretary came in, looking apprehensive.
“A telecall, Miss Carlyle. From—er—from the Moon.”
Electric tension filled the room. Gerry took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and closed it again. She said very, softly, “If it’s from Mr. Von Zorn, tell him I’m not in.”
“No, it’s a Mr. Anthony Quade.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Gerry said witheringly, and turned away. But a dozen eager voices informed her that Tony Quade was the man who had brought back the monsters from Mercury, and that he was one of the biggest figures in the film industry.
“Really!” said Gerry scornfully, and strode into the televisor room, dark eyes narrowed dangerously. The reporters trailed her.
QUADE was visible on the screen, leaning negligently forward, puffing on a blackened briar. He opened his mouth to speak, but the girl gave him no chance.
“You,” she stated, “are Quade, Von Zorn’s stooge. For months your unpleasant boss has been after me to make a picture for Nine Planets. Whatever this nonsense is about bringing back a monster from Hot-side, its purpose is to trick me into signing a contract. The answer is—no! But definitely!” The cold, incisive words made Quade blink. Obviously he had underestimated this very capable young woman.
He shrugged.
“You’re quite right, Miss Carlyle. Except that there’s no trickery involved. It’s a straight business proposition. As a rule I don’t like to do business with women because they’re apt to use their emotions instead of their brains, but—” Quade paused, eyeing Gerry blandly.
The girl’s lips tightened. For her, Catch-’em-Alive Carlyle, to be accused of feminine weaknesses, was insupportable.
“Go ahead, Mr. Quade,” she said. “I’m listening.”
Quade nodded slightly, and Von Zorn himself moved into focus. His small, simian face was twisted into a somewhat frightful smile. Between cupped hands he held what appeared, at first glance, to be a large ball of fur, perhaps a trifle larger than a porcupine. It was amorphous, settling itself constantly into new positions like a jellyfish.
Von Zorn lifted one hand and literally poured the remarkable creature from one palm to the other. As he did so, a myriad pale orange and blue sparks flickered about the tips of the animal’s furlike coat.
Gerry’s lips parted to form a round, red “O”. For a moment she stood undecided, her extreme distaste for Von Zorn battling with her natural instincts as a huntress.
Curiosity won. She moved closer to the screen.
“It’s—something new,” she admitted reluctantly. “I’ve never run across anything just like it. Where did you get it, Mr. Quade?”
“Mercury Hot-side. That’s the truth.”
“Well—how?”
Von Zorn broke in, leering slightly.
“That’s a professional secret.”
Gerry looked through the man without apparent difficulty.
“What sort of creature is it, Mr. Quade? It hasn’t any eyes, nose, ears or limbs, as far as I can see.”
“Quite right,” Quade said. “It has no visible sensory organs; Our labs are working on that angle right now, investigating. If you’d like to examine one of these closely—we have several of ’em—they’ll be in the Nine Planets exhibit room on Lunar Boulevard. I’d like to send you one for the London Zoo, but—”
Von Zorn broke in.
“I can send one to you by spacemail right now, if—” He held up a sheet of paper that was obviously a contract. “If you get what I mean!” Gerry’s rigid control snapped. She struck savagely at the televisor switch, and the screen went blank. The reporters surged around her. This was a story! Gerry Carlyle beaten fairly, forced to dicker with her most hated enemy if she wished to keep the reputation of the London Zoo as the only complete collection of the System’s life.
GERRY impaled everyone in the room with a scorching glance. “I know what you’re thinking,” she snapped. “And the answer is no! Finally and irrevocably—no!”
The reporters left with the air of men retreating from the brink of a volcano, and presently Gerry Carlyle was alone.
The volcano paced the room, seething. After a time Gerry paused, and let out a quiet whistle. She called her secretary.
“Yes, Miss Carlyle?”
“Give the London Zoo a call, will you? Tell ’em to send over Volume 7 from my private file. By stratosphere plane—I’m in a hurry.” Gerry’s notebooks, compiled into
a library of incredible fact that read like fantasy, were the result of years spent exploring the alien worlds of the System.
She remembered now that, during one of her earliest trips, she had discovered a microscopic Martian spore that in some respects resembled Von Zorn’s Mercurian importation. Unfortunately she couldn’t recall much about it, but nevertheless a vague uneasiness gnawed at the back of her mind.
She had a hunch that Von Zorn and Quade were running into trouble.
CHAPTER II
The Prometheans
MR. PHINEAS McCOLM was a small, wiry man who was appalled by his junconventional mind. Science, to him, was an ever-new and ever-delightful adventure. Often his startling theories had brought down on him the thunderbolts of his colleagues, but somehow McColm always had a way of proving his wild guesses—which, actually, weren’t guesses at all. A less capable man could never have become chief of staff for the Nine Planets Films labs.
As though to make up for his mental Bohemianism, McColm always wore the most correct garments in a neat and dignified manner, and inevitably a pince-nez dangled by a black ribbon from his lapels! He had never been known to look through them, however, since, despite his years of experiment in eye-straining laboratory work and the fantasy magazines he read for relaxation, he had the eyesight of a hawk.
Right now he was sitting in Von Zorn’s office, reading a copy of Startling Stories. He stuck the magazine in his pocket and stood up as the door opened and Von Zorn and Quade came in. Quade held one of the Mercurian creatures in his cupped hands.
“Hello, there,” he said to McColm. “Found out anything?”
“A little,” the scientist admitted. “There’s something I want to know, though. How’d you manage to get those things from Hot-side?”
“Robots and remote control,” Quade said. “Keep this under your hat, though. I took a specially-insulated space ship to Mercury and sent out some robots, using a very narrow control beam—and even then I got plenty of interference from the sun.”
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