“Too bad,” I said.
The admiral didn’t bother to look at me.
“Oh, we found ’em again, by sheer chance, a week later. Near the Asteroid Belt it was. Our ship was fast; they didn’t have a chance. Surrendered without firing a shot. That made us pretty mad; we knew what the Zintara gang had done to the boats they’d captured, and I suppose we wanted a chance to rough ’em up a bit. But they ran up the white rocket and came aboard without a murmur. Only they didn’t have the radium with them.
“The Old Man, Larson his name was, talked to Zintara. He talked convincingly. Zintara went green and said he’d cached the radium on a little asteroid somewhere in the Belt. Yeah, he’d take us there.
“And he did. The prisoners were locked in the brig and we headed for the Belt. It took us about twenty hours to reach the asteroid, a very smooth ball hanging there in space, entirely covered with a coating of what looked like pale-blue ice. The atmosphere was good, though thin, and there was fresh water. So the Old Man ran staggered shifts and all of us had a chance to get out of the ship. But the prisoners stayed in the brig, except for Zintara, who led us to his cache. We got the radium all right.
“A while later we were in space, heading for the prison base on Pluto. Approximately ten hours later we went blind.
“It was that damned blue ice that coated the asteroid. It didn’t hurt the Martians; their vision’s different, and they have those glassy covers to their eyes. But we got it, all right. Even the men who had stayed in the ship at first suffered—they’d caught the trouble through the ports. Like snow blindness, you know. And merely temporary. But within a few hours we were groping around the ship, completely blind, listening to the medic tell us that we’d be able to see again in a day or so. Larson, the Old Man, cursed Zintara, Mars, and every other planet in the System. But he wouldn’t send out an S O S. We agreed with him; we’d have lost face badly. At that, all would have gone well if the Martians hadn’t broken out of the brig.
“Somehow, Zintara had smuggled a ray gun in with him, and at the crucial moment—he’d timed it exactly, of course—that bloodthirsty gang came boiling out of their prison, yelling hell fire and damnation, picking up weapons out of their racks, and ready to tear us apart bit by bit. They liked that sort of fighting. Slaughtering blind men. We were completely blind—and that’s a handicap.
“I was at the controls when word came through. Danton, the mate, gave us warning through the communicator. But, blind as we were, we guessed what had happened when we heard the Martians screaming through the ship—screams that came to us out of a dead, awful blackness. We couldn’t fight ’em. They could see and we couldn’t. But we tried to put up a scrap. The Martians wouldn’t come to close quarters. They ran away from us, fired at us from a distance, chopped at our necks from behind. Oh, well.” The admiral sighed, lost in introspection.
Finally I asked the obvious question.
“Eh? How did we—why, I thought you’d figure that out for yourself. Use your head, man. Zintara’s gang could see and we couldn’t. The trick was to get them on equal terms with us. I just jammed on all the power the ship had in her gravitors. Even though I was blind, I knew those controls. We started to go fast. It didn’t take long to pass the speed we needed. Then, of course, there was a blackout, and the Martians were blind, too. We gave ’em hell.”
“Blackout?” I said feebly.
The admiral looked at me wearily. “We were traveling faster than light, after I’d shoved on full power for a minute or so. We were moving at such a clip that the light waves that came out of the fluorescents were a thousand miles behind us before we could see them.
So?” He spread out his hands. “That’s perfectly clear, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Uh . . . oh, yes. Perfectly!”
SOLDIERS OF SPACE
Tiny, insignificant, yet somehow sublime, the outcasts of Earth fought their last and greatest fight—to save a planet that no longer needed them!
CHAPTER ONE
Return of a Veteran
THE Wyoming plateau had altered very little since the prehistoric glacial ice retreated, leaving it to the baking heat of summer and the windy, white silences of winter.
In a few months now it would be the twenty-first century, but that did not matter to the great, barren lands threaded with the unused ribbons of antiquated surface highways. Only the gleaming nitrosteel tracks of monorailers hinted at the tremendous cities linked by man-made thunderbolts that fled across the continent. And in the night sky the lights of planes moved sometimes, though not often, for the fast air route was farther south.
I wondered if I’d freeze to death before morning.
Once a faint flash, lingering on the western horizon, told of a spaceship leaving Earth. It was a long time before the deep rolling kettledrum sound of its passage came. When it did, Gregory Lash, squatting by the fire in the hobo jungle, lifted a haggard, unshaved face and looked up at the blazing stars that roof Wyoming by night.
That was me—Greg Lash. Ex-pilot, veteran of the Earth-Mars war, hard-drinking, tough Greg Lash, cooking Mulligan in a tin can and huddling into a tattered, sleazy blanket. Uh-huh. It had been different six years ago—out there.
Out there, six years ago, had been fury and battle and high, roaring adventure, when the space fleets of two worlds met in raging war. I remembered. No veteran of those days ever forgot the sudden thrust of the rocket drive, the looming of a cigar-shaped target on the cross-hairs, the incredible tension and excitement of dogfighting in space, while the tracer torps left bright-etched, meteoric trails against the blackness. Six years!
Old soldiers never die . . . they only fade away . . .
I rolled a cigarette and stirred the Mulligan. After all, I was used to short rations. Unfortunately I wasn’t a good enough cook to get a restaurant job, and dishwashing, these days, was done by machines. The world had become technological, highly specialized. And I was pretty much of a square peg. There had been lots of square holes during the Martian-Terrene scrap, but after the war ended an untrained man wasn’t wanted, if seemed.
The new pilots flew by instruments, not by the seat of their pants, gauging their course by rocket-thrust reaction. Which meant that Greg Lash had been gathering no moss for some years now.
That was the way the dice had fallen.
An hour ago I’d been kicked off a freight out of Salt Lake. Luckily, I’d had the makings in my blanket-roll, and a half-filled can of Thermo-hot I’d found in a dump—quite a prize. It gave warmth, for a time, and cooked the watery Mulligan, but it couldn’t quite keep out the freezing wind that crawled in beneath my shabby coat. And the blanket wasn’t much help.
Know what it is to be alone—and not to give a damn about anything? I was hating a lot of things just then. Damn Earth, I thought. Earth, that had used me when it needed space pilots, and then tossed me in the junk heap. Next time I’d know better. Only there wouldn’t be any next time, for me.
I stirred the stew and looked thoughtfully at the monorail tracks. Even if another train came past, it wouldn’t stop or slow down here. I should keep going—
To where?
I shrugged and lifted the stew can with calloused fingers. Let ’em eat cake!
Across the sky a trail of red fire fountained.
I went rigid. A spaceship—a small one, to judge by the blasts—and apparently in trouble! I recognized the timing and characteristics of those jets; an MZ fighter, archaic now, replaced by faster, better, safer ships. But I’d piloted Mazies too often during the war not to know their tricks by heart. What the devil was a Mazie doing here? They’d all been scrapped—or else were in use by asteroid miners who could afford nothing better.
“Keep her nose down,” I heard myself whispering, all my muscles tight. “That’s it. Mind those port jets, fella. They’re haywire. Come in easy—”
The pilot up there knew his business, but was badly handicapped by the cranky, misfiring port tubes. The ship swung around in a l
oop, missed the monorails by a hair and braked with bow jets.
The crash made me curse.
Then I was running toward the crack-up, searching for a betraying flicker of fire. Atmospheric friction heats a hull dangerously. If the fuel tanks are sprung, that means a roaring holocaust within a moment or two. Since no flames leaped up, I grunted with relief. So far, so good.
I raced down a slope toward the ship—a little MZ, as I had thought, a fat ovoid, window shields open, hull freckled with the little dots of the tubes. Through the ports I could see a man in the pilot’s seat, sprawled forward over the instrument panel. And—the man wore the black leathered uniform of the Eclipse Patrol, the boys who had held the moon during the war with Mars!
Time had turned back six years. I went cold inside.
THE controls of the valve door felt familiar to my hands. I swung it open, entered the ship, and first of all checked the instruments. One switch I closed—the pilot had missed that one when he’d shut off the power at the moment of landing. After that, I bent to examine the injured man.
He was in his twenties—perhaps ten years younger than I was. He had a wry, sardonic, lantern-jawed face, with fair hair escaping from under the crash helmet. There was a bruise on his forehead, and a good deal of blood. Concussion, perhaps. I couldn’t be sure—but I put him in the braced hammock.
There was a microphone, but it was dead. Strange! The ship had no papers, no charts—nothing but a cryptic photostatted sheet tacked to the panel, filled with what seemed to be random lines and figures. It was marked, in one corner, Helsing Co-op Productions—Paul Corson.
So that was it. Movie stuff. I remembered Helsing’s name. In the old days, he’d been one of the top-flight directors. I’d even seen some of his ancient films in nickel flea-joints, where one could get warmth and sleep for a night. Those tridimensional, colored epics of space had been plenty effective, too. But I hadn’t heard Helsing’s name for a long time now.
I looked at the unconscious Corson. The guy ought to be in a hospital. Well—The radio was damaged, but perhaps not too badly. I worked on it. Presently a clipped voice came into the cabin.
“—report. Calling Corson. Report to Denver location. Corson, report—”
I decided not to waste time trying to repair the sending circuit. Denver was fairly close; I could find it from the air. But those port tubes were in bad shape. I checked. Yeah!
Atmospheric friction had fused some of the jets nearly closed. Corson must have been stunting fast. I mean—fast! And that’s damned dangerous, even in space.
I found a drill in a locker and opened up the sealed tubes. Then I took off. Anyhow, the cabin was warmer than the wind-swept Wyoming plateau. I ran my fingertips lightly over the control studs; the feel of them made me tingle, somehow. I’d never done a better take-off.
THE MZ blasted up with a roar; an unfamiliar sound to me, for I’d done most of my fighting in space. I sent the little craft circling around toward the south.
Stars gave me my general direction. The silver snakes of the monorails helped, too. I’d ridden the rods so often I knew practically every line in the country. I nursed the rickety Mazie, keeping high in case of trouble, and it didn’t seem long before the lights of Denver swung into view ahead.
Because my landing was unscheduled, I blasted to a halt in the emergency area. A streamlined Speeder came bumping out to meet me. From then on, matters were taken out of my hands—and moved fast.
They treated me well, I’ll say that for them. But of course they had their own reasons. I was doing them a favor—a big one. Just the same, I was surprised at the hail-fellow-well-met atmosphere in which I found myself.
When they discovered that I’d flown in the war, and knew ships, they cross-questioned me about the state of the jets on the Mazie. I didn’t see any reason for not telling them what I’d found.
So there I was, in the spaceport director’s office, answering questions between mouthfuls of the steak dinner they’d ordered sent up when I deftly hinted that I had left Wyoming in the middle of a meal. We were all buddies—me, the director, and a guy named Garrett from the government space administration office.
Garrett didn’t like Helsing.
“He’s been in our hair for quite awhile now,” he told me. “His outfit has been making a picture and we’ve been waiting and hoping the blasted fool wouldn’t blow up half a city with his crates before we could legally kick him off the Earth. This does it. Those port jets were fused, you say?”
I nodded. “Right. Which means the ship was going too fast in an atmosphere.”
“All we needed for proof,” Garrett said with satisfaction.
“Not quite,” I told him. “Sometimes a pilot has to go plenty fast—to pull out of a spin, for example. You haven’t proved that that Mazie’s pilot was breaking a law. And you won’t get me to say so, either.”
“He was stunting,” the government man said. “We never should have let Helsing make his picture on Earth, but he wangled permission before we knew he was using spaceships. Antiquated models, too. Dangerous. If they crash in a city—”
I had to agree, though I did so silently. Mazies won’t stand up in atmosphere.
“I got a shock when I saw that pilot’s uniform. The old Eclipse Patrol—”
“The picture’s about the Earth-Mars war, I think,” the director put in. “Helsing and his outfit figured this was a good time to make a film on a topical subject.” He chuckled.
“Topical?”
“Seen the newstapes lately? Diplomatic trouble with the Martians. Nothing important, though. The-planet’s been well patrolled ever since the war. And space-radio stations are planted all over the place. The real trouble’s with Venus, eh, Garrett?”
GARRETT hesitated; then shrugged. “Well—it’s no secret. Rebellion on Venus, as usual. But this time the greenskins are armed. Somebody smuggled blasters in to them. Which means we’ve had to send the major part of the Earth fleet sunward. Mostly a gesture, but we can’t have Venusian piracy breaking out again. However, that’s beside the point.”
“Cigarette, Mr. Lash?” The director offered me an open platinum case. I said thanks and took one.
“We’re grateful for your help,” he said, watching me light it. I didn’t quite like that.
“Forget it,” I said. “I found an accident case and brought him in. That’s regulations. So what?”
“Well—are you looking for a job?”
“I could use one,” I said. “I flew in the war, so I’m a pilot.”
“Qualified?”
After a pause I said, “No. No technospace license. I didn’t attend Star Point. I get it. Government red tape. The fact that I’m a first-class pilot doesn’t mean a damn any more. Only young punks who know logarithms can handle your transports.”
“Wait a minute,” the director interrupted. “Space flying has changed a lot since the war—”
Maybe it was ungrateful of me—I’d eaten that steak—but I couldn’t help it. I felt sick and furious.
“Forget it,” I grunted, getting to my feet. “I don’t want a job—or any favors. If you haul out your wallet, I’ll break a chair over your head. I’ve still got brains enough to get a job pushing a broom, though I haven’t sense enough to pilot a transport. Six years ago I didn’t need a technospace license. Okay—” I said, the sudden, flare of resentment subsiding, leaving me feeling a little foolish—“just forget it.”
Before either of them could answer, the door banged open. Paul Corson lurched into the office, his head bandaged, his eyes ablaze. He headed for me and gripped my arms hard.
“You!” he mouthed. “Don’t talk!
Don’t tell ’em anything! That crackup—” Garrett said, “You’re too late, Corson. We’ve got the evidence. It’s all recorded.” For a moment Corson stared, his face chalk-white. Then he snarled like an animal and drove a vicious uppercut toward my jaw. I rolled my head; the blow missed. Corson, staggering with weakness, came in with his fist
s pumping, his face twisted with hate.
Garrett jumped up and seized Corson’s shoulder. The man collapsed like an empty sack. I managed to catch him before he hit the floor.
From the doorway, somebody said, “Sorry. Guess he blew his top.”
The director glared. “Get him out of here, Vane. Tell Helsing to stop shooting. If he films another frame on Earth, it’ll be just too bad.”
I looked at the man on the threshold, my throat going dry.
“Galloping rockets,” I said softly. “Bruce Vane!”
CHAPTER TWO
Destination—Death!
I WENT back, then, six years, to the time when Bruce Vane and I had been co-pilots in a Mazie, trading blasts with Martians in the Asteroid Belt. Big, red-haired, grinning Vane. We’d fought together, drunk together, celebrated and flown together until the Black Banner of Mars, with its twin silver moons, had been struck in surrender. But I hadn’t been with Vane at the great crisis of his life . . .
Yeah. Diving head-on at an asteroid, controls jammed, watching his companions crash to flaring death, is enough to jolt a man’s nerves. It had nearly wrecked Vane’s.
Afterwards, when I picked him out of the broken ship with his head split open, only a miraculous operation had saved his life. And his sanity. In a hospital, he had raved that he was hurtling down toward Cerberus—the asteroid that had nearly finished him—and the doctors had called it spaceshock. Bruce Vane wouldn’t fly again.
But he had lived, and had flown. Under a tight, abnormal tension that aged him rapidly and put gray in his red hair. I’d kept an eye on him after that, but only once did I smell trouble. That was when a Martian dogfight had led us close to Cerberus.
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