by Eando Binder
Bruce was astonished. Who would have expected such rational thought from a freebooter in space?
The pirate still more surprisingly went on, as if disposed to talk. “Ten years ago I lived on Earth as an honest man, building up a nice little space trade, adding to it ship by ship. What happened? Interplanetary Routes, Inc., decided I was in their way, framed me, sued me, put me out of business. I was a broken man, penniless, in a year. That was the beginning of the Black Ace’s career. The courts of Earth took from me. I’m taking back.”
His tone, bitter, changed abruptly. “But what am I telling you this for?” he said in gruff self-consciousness. “Get going before I blast away half your jets and make you limp to port.”
Interplanetary Routes, the company Bruce had worked for, had ruined this man. Things like that happened even in the best of civilizations. Bruce felt a wave of sympathy for the man. The Black Ace was not a bloodthirsty human rat. For one thing, in his lawless career he had never been known to kill wantonly. Most of his cunning space raids had been done without loss of life.
“Black Ace,” Bruce made a shrewd guess, “you’re not a pirate at heart. You’ve probably gained back, in material terms, what you once lost. But now the war is your chance to get a pardon…if you join the Earth fleet against the enemy. The same offer was made, you recall, in the last war. And Earth needs every bit of help it can get. You have fast, armed ships…”
A queer exclamation of surprise and anger came from the radio speaker suddenly.
“Your voice, I recognize it,” cried the Black Ace. “I have a good memory for voices. Jay Bruce—of Interplanetary Routes. A year ago, we met out Venus-way. You were piloting a freighter with a uranium cargo. You gave me the slip by a maneuver, so that I lost you in the sun.” The voice went down a tone, ominously. “Pretty clever, weren’t you, Jay Bruce? A pleasure to meet you again.” Bruce felt his heart sink. What had he let himself in for, with this insane attempt to convert a pirate from a ten-year career of lawlessness? He heard Dr. Kent and Dora behind him gasp in anticipation of real trouble.
“Listen, Black Ace…”
“Listen, nothing,” roared the pirate, anger vibrating from his voice. “You’re going to eat protons, Jay Bruce—and then I’m going to drop the peppered hull of that ship of Interplanetary Routes at their Moon station as a reminder of old times.”
His voice crackled in an aside, “Man the guns, men…”
Bruce swept his eyes around, swiftly but calculatingly, noting the positions of the Earth, Moon and Sun. His hands streaked for the rocket keys. His ship darted forward an instant before a vicious proton-blast hummed at them.
And then Bruce made an amazing move—shot straight for the pirate ship.
Disconcerted, the pirate gunners sent their next dozen shots wild. Bruce braked with the nose rockets so that his ship groaned through every joint, spun through a short arc, and blasted straight away from the armed vessel. He glanced back. The black ship stood out clearly behind them, revealed like a full moon. But they, in turn, would see nothing of him, being unable to look into the blinding sun.
It was the same trick Bruce had pulled on the Black Ace a year before, losing himself in the sun.
He knew what their next maneuver would be—blasting straight sunward, overhauling him quickly with their superior 1000-jet speed, and coming at him with the tables reversed. But Bruce, timing it to a hairline, arched away from the sunline just as they roared up with belching rockets.
Two minutes of furious acceleration with the cabin darkened lost him completely in the void itself. Bruce relaxed, laughing aloud. The Black Ace’s pilots had a few things to learn about maneuvers.
Bruce glanced around. “All right back there?” he asked.
Dr. Kent and Dora had been somewhat shaken by the twisting maneuvers, hanging on tightly to the safety-grips around their bunks. They both looked reprovingly at Bruce.
“Yes I know, it was a fool thing to do,” confessed Bruce, “stopping to bandy words with a pirate about patriotism. But now we’ll be on Earth in three hours.”
* * * *
They landed at Interplanetary Routes’ docks, at the fringe of great New York, and found the stirring excitement of M-Day in the air.
Earth was already under martial measures of rule. No sooner had they stepped out than they found themselves in a line of refugees from Mars, herded by police past a staff of officers who were examining passports. There were tiresome hours of waiting.
Bruce, with Dr. Kent and Dora behind him, finally presented his passport. The military officer looked back and forth carefully from his picture to his face. Then he waved to the side aisle leading to an enclosed room.
“Step in there for a check of your fingerprints, hair, skin and vision.” He went on to explain in a routine mumble: “Precaution against Martian spies.”
“Is it absolutely necessary?” asked Dr. Kent impatiently.
The official nodded firmly.
“I guess we’ll have to go through it,” Bruce said, himself annoyed.
“Isn’t there someone you know here who could get us through quickly? The checkups might take more long hours of waiting.” Dr. Kent explained his impatience. “I want to make the last necessary tests for my new alloy, and get it to the Government as soon as possible. Every minute counts.”
After some effort and arguing, Bruce got a message to one of his company’s officials through an orderly. A portly figure emerged from a side door, docking manager of Interplanetary Routes.
“Jay Bruce!” he exclaimed, staring as if at a ghost. “But…but you were reported wrecked, killed on Jupiter’s Moon Eleven.”
“Yes, by a Martian report,” Bruce went on, explaining briefly about continuing the search with Dora for her father.
The businessman’s face darkened. “You deliberately overstayed the time limit. You…”
“I’m fired, I know,” grinned Bruce.
“What about the money? Two thousand one hundred dollars…we’ll sue…”
Bruce grinned more. “I just gave my name to the orderly, volunteering for a piloting berth with the space Navy. Go ahead…sue, and argue with the Earth Government.”
The manager made a helpless gesture. “You win. At least you brought the ship back.” He smiled then. “Good luck, my boy. Give the Martians hell when you get up there.”
“One more thing,” pursued Bruce. “Do me a last favor and get Dr. Kent and his daughter here through without any more delay. You can vouch for me.”
The manager nodded and turned to the military officer. “Let Jay Bruce through. He’s no Martian, though he’s as slick as one. Also his two friends are okay.”
Under the businessman’s recommendation, their passports were given the final stamp of approval.
Chapter 7
They passed through into the bustle of the city.
As in all previous returns from his space journeys, it was a thrill to Bruce to once again walk Earth city streets, with gravity and air he was born to. But this return, he reflected, was different from any other. He had returned from an amazing adventure, and to a world facing a fateful war. And he had met a girl this time…
He looked at Dora. She looked strangely different under Earth’s sunlight. Tired and worn from the crowded days past. She was still reserved with him, almost defensively cold.
She and her father were looking around rather bewilderedly. Bruce recalled that they hadn’t been on Earth for three months. Furthermore, they must be penniless, homeless, for they had left Earth under the stigma of the scientist’s jail sentence. Bruce noticed a quiet gleam of eagerness in the frail little man’s eyes. If he now perfected his alloy, and presented it to the Earth government in this time of crisis, it would erase the stigma, atone for that bitter experience.
“I’ve thought over some plans for the time being,”
Bruce told them. “I won’t be called to service for a few days yet, the orderly said. Skipping my usual hotel, we can take a place together som
ewhere. You can get started on your experiments, Dr. Kent. Don’t worry about money. I happen to have a few pennies in the bank.”
“John Gorson will repay you,” Dora said, unnecessarily.
“Thanks, my boy,” nodded Dr. Kent. “Let’s…”
He was interrupted by a clang that rose stentorianly over the city noises.
Everywhere people stopped, turned pale, looked up. The sound, issuing from a multitude of sources all over the city, ceased after a minute of its deafening clangor.
Then an amplified voice vibrated from every public newscast horn, rolling over the heads of the people:
“The city is under threat of attack by the Martian fleet. The protective ion-dome will be turned on in five minutes. Everyone is requested to keep cool and calm. No harm will come to you. Go about your usual business. However, all traffic in and out of the city will be stopped, until the attack is over and the dome can be lifted. Remain calm, above all.”
The message was repeated at intervals. From the ports to the east could be heard the roar of Earth war vessels rising to take up positions of defense.
Then, five minutes later, the sky suddenly darkened. Half the sunlight was cut off as a translucent, shimmering hemisphere of wave-force sprang into being. Fifty miles in diameter, produced by giant ion-projectors, it covered completely the greatest city on Earth and in the Solar System.
Earth’s hundred largest cities were thus protected from direct attack. The largest cities of Mercury, Venus and Mars were similarly protected. Otherwise, with the frightful atomic-powered weapons in use, an interplanetary war would have settled down to all cities razed, within weeks, on all the worlds.
Everyone stood frozen, looking up, awaiting the Martian attack. The newscasts resumed their normal operation, calmly explaining the presence of the Martians over Earth’s giant, key city. The public, unlike earlier ages, was told all in the progress of 25th-century war, so long as it didn’t destroy morale.
“The mighty Imperial Martian Navy, joined by the crack Mercurian Armada, last week smashed through the Earth defense Navy by sheer weight of numbers. They rapidly captured the Copernicus sector of the Moon, giving them a base of operations against Earth. Quickly throwing units in strategic positions ranging from the Moon inward, the enemy thrust a wedge through the stratosphere patrol lines.
“So far they have only made sporadic raids against ammunition factories in western North America, but accomplished nothing vital.
“The enemy’s main plan, obviously, is to hold their position over Earth and smash New York City. Ten thousand ships of the Martian Army have been reported coming up fast from Mars. While the Navy keeps the lane open, they will try to capture a land sector outside the city and drive inward with their motorized tank units.
“If they should succeed in this elaborate, amazing plan, they could isolate New York, cut off its underground food supply lines, and force surrender. The war might be over immediately.
“However, this unprecedented lightning thrust at Earth’s capital has only begun. The Earth Navy is already maneuvering for a flank attack, details not revealed. The Venus Legion is approaching to help Earth.
“So far, it has all been with the Martians. Catching Earth and Venus unprepared for sudden war, they have succeeded in every maneuver thus far. If they should happen to hold their position like a hanging sword over Earth for another week, they might…”
The voice broke off as if too much had been said and a new one resumed, smoothly:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, there is no cause for alarm. Earth’s military leaders are confident the Martian plan has flaws they will find. New York City may be temporarily besieged, but its dome of force will protect it from direct harm, and our forces will break up the Martian wedge.” But despite such reassurances, an air of worry hung over the city. Bruce suspected that the situation was graver than revealed. There had been censorship of the newscast a moment ago—a bad sign.
Suddenly the sky darkened more. A fleet of mammoth Martian dreadnaughts dropped from the stratosphere. They were queerly distorted in appearance by the ion-dome. They thundered down, rockets belching, in a tremendous swoop. At the bottom of the curve, they unloosed atomic bombs.
New York was suddenly a bedlam of sound, which the ion-dome transmitted. Atomic bombs burst with ear-shattering violence against the intangible but impregnable barrier. The Martian bombers covered every square foot of the ion-dome seeking a weak spot. None was found.
But that was a mere feeler by the enemy. They swerved away, suddenly, in perfectly ordered columns and began bombing the countryside beyond. Geysers of dirt and rock spumed a mile into the air. Railroads, bridges, highways began to go up in debris. And here and there an unlucky farmhouse and its occupants.
At this point, the Earth defenses sprang into action. Concealed gun-pits yawned. Proton-blasts bloomed volcanically into the sky. From all directions darted Earth destroyers and pursuit ships, battling it out with the Martian convoy fighters to get at the giant bombers.
Ships began to rain down from the sky now. Some broke over the dome of ion-force, debris slithering down the slope. Dogfights were the order of the moment, fast little ships, circling and weaving, peppering at each other. Higher up, in a vast ring, the Cyclopean dreadnaughts of both sides poured nuclear broadsides at one another. Concussion rocked the very city’s foundations as the titanic forces of the atom were unleashed. The Martian bombers, still protectively flanked by the convoy ships, continued their razing of the Countryside. A wilderness of smoking desolation began to surround the city.
An hour later, the Martian forces withdrew to their stratospheric position, and New York’s vicinity cleared of battle fumes. The territory was hardly recognizable—blasted, tom, upflung. A feeble cheer went up from Earth as the enemy left and the skies were patrolled by Earth ships with their green-gold star-and-circle emblem. Yet everyone knew it had been a test skirmish. The Martians had merely been looking the situation over, laying the foundation for later attacks. The few dozen ships lost meant nothing compared to their vast thousands up above.
The ion-dome suddenly flicked away.
Scout ships would warn in ample time of further attack. The city resumed something of its normal activity. But people were dazed, unhappy. The fact alone that the Martians were within striking distance placed a shroud of anxious suspense over their heads.
* * * *
An hour later Bruce and his companions emerged from a subway kiosk far out in a Long Island suburb, almost at the very edge of the dome. Dr. Kent wanted as much quiet as possible between battles, for his work. He also insisted on a top-floor apartment in a large building, with access to the roof, and promptly set to work. He had already phoned for certain apparatus, which Bruce promised to pay for. The old scientist seemed frantically eager to perfect his alloy.
Bruce was eagerly impatient about something else. When no news came through the public channels at all of the disclosure of the secret Martian base on Jupiter, he began to wonder. Had John Gorson somehow failed after all to get the information through? Unable to get a call through to Mars, via radio exchange—the two worlds had completely severed communication—Bruce telephoned military headquarters in New York. He was referred to Intelligence, and here a brusque voice cut him short:
“Secret Martian war base in the Red Spot? We know nothing of that. It’s preposterous in the first place. Lord, these cranks…” The official hung up.
Bruce whirled from the phone. “Something went wrong,” he groaned. “I’m going to headquarters myself. John Gorson didn’t get the information through…”
“Yes, he must have,” said Dora, with a strange sort of loyalty. “Whatever else you may think of him, he’s a clever, dependable man.”
Dr. Kent also put a restraining hand on Bruce’s arm. “You’re worrying unnecessarily. The Intelligence doesn’t speak freely with everyone who calls. I need your help in my experiments, Bruce. Help me unpack the box that just came.”
Though fre
tting, Bruce decided to wait a little longer for the revelation of the Martian camp. He reflected that things like that did work slowly.
Dr. Kent’s apparatus consisted of a group of electrical units that he rapidly fitted together. The window of the room he worked in let out upon a sunken roof criss-crossed with radio aerials. Dr. Kent trailed a wire outside and fixed to it a large, upright helix.
“You see,” he explained, “I melt my metal by induction, in that coil. It’s best to do it in open air, as the crude, hasty set up I have here might—well, act up. I need only one little item of information. Then my formula will be complete. I should have it in a day or so.”
He looked up in the sky, then, as though defying the menace from another world.
The phone rang. Bruce answered.
“Jay Bruce?” spoke a deep, authoritative voice. “Intelligence calling. Your vital report has been confirmed. Action will be started soon. The information just came through to this office. We extend our official thanks, which will later be accorded in the form of the Decoration of Space.”
Bruce turned away from the phone with a dazed grin. The Decoration of Space! Less than a hundred men in his lifetime had ever earned that honor for service to Earth and its empire. It must mean they considered the exposure tremendously important—perhaps the desperately needed thing for Jovian intervention.
Dora looked at Bruce enigmatically, though she congratulated him with her lips.
“I won’t accept it, of course,” he said stiffly, “unless the names of John Gorson, Dr. Kent and the spy who died on Jupiter are given equal honor.”
“Oh, it’s a trivial thing right now,” Dr. Kent said testily. “The important thing is to get this apparatus working.”
* * * *
Working all night, Bruce and the scientist looked groggily into the red dawn over the roof.
