by Jerry
But to Boris the janitor, this was no novelty. He passed the case without even looking at it. His flashlight remained glued on the floor guiding him to the stair-well that led to the power-room. He must not fail to see that the refrigerating mechanism worked. He could hear the words of the director saying, “Never—you understand?—never must the pumps go out. We must keep this perfect specimen frozen. To try and mount or embalm it would be a crime. Remember that Boris, or . . .” And Boris shuddered and promised he would remember. He didn’t want the wrath of the authorities to descend upon him.
But it had been a hard day and after checking the dials and gauges of the powerful refrigerating mechanism, Boris sat back and relaxed. It was so warm and comfortable in the power room. Pretty soon he nodded . . .
For thirty thousand years Tanugh had been glaciated, for thirty thousand years, the miniature mind of the mammoth had been empty of everything, a cold darkness, a nothingness. He could not think—not as we know it,—but suddenly and clearly consciousness came to the beast. He felt cold, numblingly cold, but with a subtle warmth he dared to move, and his limbs responded!
The massive bulk of Tanugh shivered, trembled and swayed a little. But the inherent abilities were not to be denied. Tentatively he put forth his foot. Softly, gently he walked across the floor, the massive bracings shivering with his weight and bulk.
The tusks struck the glass and shattered it into a thousand pieces. Jagged shards of glass pierced and annoyed Tanugh. His trunk rose and the peculiar wailing cry of his kind spilled from his throat. He cried like a lost human soul—and strode across the floor . . .
Boris, aroused by the noise and sounds of shattering glass, incautiously appeared in the monster’s path. The pulp that had been a human being was ground into the floor . . .
They killed Tanugh, they killed him with rifle bullets, and he stands once more in the museum, but the luster is gone from his eye and no glass case surrounds his stuffed and padded bulk. Tanugh came back once, came back across the gap of eons, but not this time . . .
The Final Weapon . . .
Lynn Standish
WHOEVER YOU ARE, reading this, don’t think too unkindly of me. For all I know you may be a creature as alien from my species as I am from an Earthly insect. Perhaps what I have to say may not disturb you. But before I go on, let me confess. I have just killed my friend.
Yes, his body lies in the laboratory two steps away. I shot him just as he turned to face me. “Is that you, Paul?” he asked, and I said, “Yes, Frank—I’m sorry.” And I shot him, shot him cold-bloodedly and mercilessly. I can still see the pitiful look on his face as he slumped to the floor. And to make sure I emptied the gun into him.
Well whether you understand the feeling we humans of the thirty-first century have for each other or not is really of no importance. I told the above event so that in case you are of a human type you may understand the tortured complex motives that inspired me to do this terrible deed.
Frank and I have been research scientists for a long time. We shared this work on cosmic radiation here on this bleak Plutonian station, enjoying and savoring our fascinating work to the fullest.
Two days ago we discovered the “Anderson effect” as we christened it—my name is Anderson and Paul indulged my vanity—but an eternity has since passed. I feel as if I’d lived and died a thousand times.
The Anderson effect, you see, is the ultimate weapon.
The Anderson effect is the aloha and omega of all life in the Universe.
The complexities and details—God forbid—I won’t even suggest. This discovery is merely the final push-button which man has been talking about since the invention of the atomic bomb and the hydrogen bomb. All Paul and I need have done was to touch a trigger and the Solar System would vanish in radiation, a wave-front which would sweep out with the speed of light and trigger off into atomic incandescence, every bit of matter in the Universe! And this effect would go on and on until for lack of matter, it ceased—which might be never.
We talked about it, did Paul and I. We thought about it. We didn’t sleep. We knew that this secret must never again come to men and it probably would not have come to us save by the sheerest and most outrageous tricks of all chance.
But Paul wanted to communicate the discovery at least to the Solar Council to have them bury it. But that is ridiculous. I told Paul that, but he remained stubborn and adamant. Unfortunately I knew that I would have to complete the third act of this Greek. tragedy.
I’ve done that. Paul lies dead. As soon as I fire the station and destroy every evidence of our existence, except for this document which I’m burying through a beam a thousand feet into solid rock, I’m going to commit suicide. I am too dangerous to live. T hold too much power to tempt me always. Paul and I are really no longer humans. Mark well what I have said . . .
Surprise!
Lynn Standish
HARLEY WESSON let the nose of the Venture I drop lower and lower. The sleek body of the rocket edged down into the vaporous sight-blocking clouds. Harley’s eyes were glued to his controls, always watching the tell-tale radar altimeter which told him how far above tangible matter he was.
Through the ports nothing could be seen. The arrival of Man on Venus apparently was going to go unheralded. Wesson turned to his partner:
“What do you make out?” He asked Jess Frale.
Jess took his eyes from the infra-red scope. “Not a thing yet,” he replied slowly. “The murk is too thick or we’re still too high.” He muttered half to himself: “The Martian landing was twice as easy.” Delicately the two men manuevered their bulky torpedo “Venuswards”, the Venture I responding perfectly to the touch of hand and the guidance of brain.
“Oh, oh,” Jess said excitedly, “this is it. The scope shows something solidly!”
“Five hundred meters,” Harley sang out.
Abruptly the air cleared and perfectly visible before the explorers lay the terrain of Venus! The cloud-layer was perfectly smooth, that blanket through which they had just passed. Somehow whitish, pale light filtered through the cloud-layer, illuminating the “acquain”, for the land masses beneath them were in reality large islands surrounded by the unmistakable sheen of water.
Harley brought the rocket down without trouble, seating it cleverly on its jets with the skill born of long practice. The tail guides sank deep into the soft ground. Suited and armed the two men stepped out of their ship. Air samples would come later.
Through Harley’s phones crackled Jess’s voice. “To your left, Harley! Look! Something’s coming!”
Harley swung around, his blaster-rifle at the ready, prepared to fire if necessary. Some strange creature was running toward them.
And as the running figure drew near them, Harley gasped with surprise. It was a human being!
He glanced at Jess and saw him staring unbelieving. “What—what—” Jess started to say.
Then the stranger was on them.
Harley’s diaphragms vibrated with the sound of a voice. The words were high and clear and held such a tone of happiness or joy that he could hardly believe them.
“Thank God,” the voice cried out, “thank God, you’ve come!”
Harley stared at the man who faced them. Unmistakably he was an Earthman. His manner and bearing were so familiar. He wore a crude garment of some tattered material, but on his wrist was a conventional wrist-watch!
“I’m Professor Joseph Loring,” the stranger said, tears of joy streaming down his face, “and believe your eyes. Yes, I’m an Earthman, the first one to cross interplanetary space. You may have read four years ago about the disappearance—I was working on a time—machine! And I warped space as well as time . . .”
The Bull-Headed Gyroscope
Lynn Standish
EVERYBODY, including Aunt Tillie, has, at one time or another played with that fascinating half-dollar toy called a gyroscope. Consisting of nothing more than a heavy die-cast wheel mounted in a simple set of gimbals which pe
rmit it to swing freely, the gyroscope is not particularly impressive, and as a rule, after Daddy plays with it a while, watching it react so oddly, balance on a string and so on, he quickly forgets about it.
But the gyroscope is one things as a toy—as an important element of modem science it is another. In some respects, the gyro might be called the “conscience” of instrumentation.
The gyro is (in auto-pilots, ship-stabalizers, scientific instruments) essentially a small heavy wheel with a large moment of inertia (all the weight is on the rim) and it spins at a high speed driven by a jet of air or by an electric motor. The stringwinding kind is good only for demonstrations.
There it is, simple enough to see. Ah, but it’s behavior is another thing. A spinning gyro freely mounted, will keep its axis aligned with the axis of the Earth! This astounding property is what makes the auto-pilot. It means that a moving plane or ship has an absolute reference even though it isn’t near land or is high in the air. That’s the gyro-compass.
It addition, another amazing property of the little spinning wheel is its extraordinary inertia when constrained in its mounting. You stick the spinning wheel on a string and expect it to fall down. Instead, it spins in a ponderous circle at right angles to two of its axes! It’s positively un-natural. It can’t be—but it is.
They tell the story of the comedian—there’s one in every group of physicists who mounted a battery powered gyro in a suitcase and then took it with him on a trip. The red-cap picked up the suit-case and started to carry it to the train. It may have seemed odd but he thought nothing of it—until he tried to abruptly turn a comer. He turned but the gyro in the suit-case kept going straight!
This intense inertia is used as is well known to stabalize pitching rolling ships and planes. Bomb-sights make use of the stability. It is in this respect that the gyro exhibits a conscience. It is insistant on behaving in one certain way—always and at all places. And so in its way, it is important to technology—it’s the only object that does this.
When rocketry—interplanetary stuff, that is—gets going with a bang, you can rest assured that the gyro is going to be right up there in front. Already in V-2’s, Neptunes, Wac Corporals and a dozen other types of missiles and rockets, the gyro has acted as the guiding brain. The Lunar rocket will certainly make use of the gyro, both as a stabalizer and a stellar “compass.” But it is also likely that it will be extremely important as a simple device for rotating a rocket on its axis without using the rocket tubes.
And such things come out of childrens’ toys!
Lunar Priority Claim
Carter T. Wainwright
THE WHOLE chain of events which culminated in American domination of the Moon began rather dramatically at that secret session of Congress addressed by the outwardly cool, inwardly excited Major Anderson of Intelligence. His simple bombshell was: “Gentlemen: the Sovs have assigned an unlimited budget and highest personnel priority to the construction of a Lunar rocket—with what intentions you can readily judge. General Myers has authorized me to ask for the equivalent . . .”
The resultant landing on the Moon two years later, at the same time of an American and a Sov rocket, are both well known. Their mutual destruction because of “faulty fuel tanks”, is also common knowledge. The second American rocket and its successful return with full claim on Lunar “soil” is common knowledge too. With the present downfall of the Sov government by internal revolution it is once more safe to speak frankly of the first landings and to clarify and amplify the little known events that occurred on Luna’s bleak face. The story is writ in tragedy, but the kind of tragedy of which heroes are made.
It won’t be very long before Steve Wrighton and Robert Manning will be enshrined forever in the Heroes’ Hall in Washington.
The log of the Pioneer, actually a carefully kept diary reveals accurately exactly what happened on that trip and how both men met with calm courage, the certain doom they knew as theirs, the minute the Sov projectile destroyed their rocket and left them to die slowly in the barren airlessness . . .
The first indication that the Sovs were in space too came at forty thousand miles from Luna’s surface. Wrighton, who was monitoring the radar on twenty centimeters caught the last few words of the Terran transmitter in New Mexico before the beam faded into silence. He swept the dial through its narrow range and to his astonishment picked up his knowledge of the Sov rocket. It too was signing off communications with Novorisisk, its base.
Wrighton made a friendly overture,—and was repulsed by the Sov pilot with strong language. Marveling at the amazing indoctrination the Sovs had achieved, Wrighton and Manning concentrated on their landing a few hours later. They succeeded contrary to subsequent reports to the American people, succeeded perfectly and would have taken off a short time later save for the fact that within minutes after their landing, the Sovs came down with admirable control also.
In accordance with instructions Manning and Wrighton had planted the rather grotesque but never the less proud metal American flag, scattered the white metallic marking powder, fired the oxygen magnesium-flare, and buried the document-carrying cylinder.
The Sovs, a mere twenty miles away, witnessed the primary claim in silent chagrin, in spite of Wrighton’s attempt at communication with them over the shortwave. What motivated the Sovs we’ll never know, though it is likely that they had not gotten official orders for their next act. Regardless of that, Wrighton and Manning who were a mere eighty feet from their ship at the time, saw a flash from the Sovs. An instant later the flat trajectory in light Lunar gravitation of some sort of a projectile—the log says “suspected seventy-five-recoilless”—knifed through emptiness. In terror Wrighton and Manning saw the rocket tip from its fins, a gaping hole in its metallic sides. Miraculously the fuels did not ignite.
Praying for time, as coolly and methodically as soldiers contemplating an attack, the two Americans entered the smashed rocket and came out with their only weapon, a simple bazooka-type rocket launcher originally intended for throwing a cable or line over a crevice.
They crossed the pumiced “luna-terrain”, two space-suited figures gasping with cold—the heaters weren’t strong enough—and saw the Sov rocket doing almost exactly what they expected. Flame was issured from the under jets and the rocket was preparing to launch itself. Sov markers studded the surrounding ground.
Hurriedly they took aim and after the fourth shot, they had success. The Sov-rocket vanished in a coruscant flare of intense heat as a lucky hit penetrated the highly unstable fuel tanks!
With their remaining strength the two men went back to their own rocket after destroying the many evidences of Sov markings, to sit grimly by while they awaited death. It was not long in coming. Manning shot himself and Wrighton followed suit a short while later as the paroxysms of horrifying asphyxiation set in. But the log made it quite clear that they knew exactly what they were doing.
The later American rockets saw the perfectly preserved tableau. Photographs have recently been released, though security regulations at that time claimed that both rockets had been destroyed in faulty landings—fuel tanks—it said.
The last words recorded in the log are quite simple, but they tell more than oratory or rhetoric could possibly—”. . . my love to Maria—and God bless her . . .”
Cylinders of Death
William Karney
JERRY SPOTTED it first. I missed the quick flash of sunlight that revealed it to him. But not Jerry. He had eyes like a hawk.
“Mike,” he said, “look over there. What the devil is it?”
“Where?” I tried to spot what he was referring to. Then it caught my eye. Not two hundred meters away was a smooth-surface black cylinder which from its glossiness must have been metallic. We were drifting slowly across it.
“I don’t get it. Patrol didn’t say anything about stationary cylinders.”
We were both aboard the S-7 a typical Patrol craft keeping watch along the Luna run. They were putting in the big o
bservatory and rockets were thicker than bees. With the frequent troubles, meteoric knockouts and occasional minor collisions the Rocket Patrol had its hands full. But this was a new one.
“Match the velocity and position, Mike,” Jerry said. “Ill put on a suit and give it the once over.”
“Right,” I agreed and in a matter of minutes I’d blocked in the strange object. It wasn’t any trick to match to it, because I quickly discovered its angular velocity was matched to Earth’s. It was literally hovering over a single spot on the planet.
Jerry went “outside” in a cumbersome “boogeyman”, a heavy metal, insulated oxygen suit. He remained outside a half hour toying and tinkering with the cylinder. It was about twenty feet—oops six or seven meters (I can’t remember to think in metric terms)—long, three feet in diameter and looked for all the world like a miniature rocket. I could even see exhausts, but they weren’t flaring and besides the strange vessel was too small for human occupancy anyway.
“Well, that takes the cake,” Jerry said when he came in. “Mike, you’re looking at the most beautiful specimen of remote controlled rocket I’ve ever seen. It’s a watchmaker’s dream. And sitting right smack in the heart of it is a Hydrogen Bomb!”
“Whose?” I exploded.
“You don’t think they’d put markings on it, do you?” he asked cynically. “But it’s obvious. That thing was made in Sinkiang or I’ll eat this helmet. The Pan-Asians are really mad. That’s for sure.”
“I’ll put through a message to the Mother-Ship right now,” I said.
“Code it, for God’s sake!” Jerry shouted. “We don’t know how many more of these things are floating around. While you communicate, I’ll disarm it. I’m taking a torch with, this time.”
He went outside again, and I touched the encoder stud, spilling the story quick and simple to Brain Central aboard the Mother-Ship.
