Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol XII

by Various

  "D. V. Lawrence by Martin J. Black, his attorney-in-fact."

  "J. F. Cadigan Realty Corporation by Richard Joyce, Vice-President."

  Another pen lifted with the invisible but delicate twist of a feminine psi-touch.

  "Before me this ninth day of September in the year Nineteen Hundred and Seventy-six Anno Domini psionically appeared...."

  The options were psigned, come what may!

  VI

  An oak-panelled conference room. Lawrence's first vice-president reading the proposal. The board of directors. The major stockholders. Smaller ones. Attorneys-in-fact for both Lawrence and Black.

  And Bob Standskill!

  What was Standskill doing here?

  But the first vice-president had finished reading the proposal and was asking for a vote.

  Lawrence--forty-five thousand shares--yes!

  Maryk--twenty thousand shares--no!

  Carrese--nine thousand shares--no!

  Tonemont--seven thousand shares--no!

  Black--four thousand shares--yes!

  Turitz--five thousand shares--no!

  And the smaller stockholders, one by one--no, no, no!

  Forty-nine thousand shares--no! Forty-nine thousand shares--yes!

  Black felt ill. His hovering consciousness almost fled from its invisible vantage point above the conference table back to the mansion on Riverside Drive, back where the memories of Martha Black remained.... But it wavered, stabilized....

  Standskill rising, so implacable, so sure and saying, "Two thousand shares--yes!"

  Black probed Standskill's mind almost involuntarily then, realizing instantly that he should have disregarded Ethics and probed before. Standskill was a psi, a non-service psi! And Black knew then that when his consciousness had flitted through association to Le Cheval Fatigué in Montmarte, Paris, and had fixed there for a brief unstable moment it had yielded to Standskill all knowledge of the Lawrence deal, persuading Standskill to order his brokers to buy the corporation's stock for the trust....

  Black's consciousness sped to join Joyce's in a law office in Oklahoma. It watched the landowners signing the deeds even as it signed psionically the checks which represented the good and valuable considerations.

  The deal was closed.

  VII

  Joyce, tell me--did you, to your knowledge, tip off the BEB psis?

  Yes. Inadvertently, of course. I had a nightmare. I'm afraid I'm sometimes unstable, anonymously so, when asleep. Only then, though, thank Heaven!

  And, Joyce, why aren't you in service?

  For the same reason you can't be.

  Confusion.

  What do you mean?

  Your mother knew.

  My mother?

  Yes, Marty, don't you realize that only unstable psis are taken into service? Stability is the mark of the superman. Do the majority of men want the minority--the supermen--running their world even though the supermen are their brothers, sisters and children? And they must surely realize that all mankind will evolve to psis one day. Marty, you were in psi school. So was I. Did you complete Stabilization?... I see you didn't. No psi does! They let you think you're getting away with something when you skip classes, but you're not!

  Fortunately, if you are strong enough, you stabilize on your own. Perhaps you'll realize now that your mother gave you the incentive: the thirty percent angle, realizing that an uncle you definitely did not like would inherit if you didn't strive to the utmost. It worked.

  They can't touch me, Marty, and they can't touch you! We can elude them mentally and physically. They know they can't touch us; so they just have to tolerate us! I can read in your mind that you've stabilized. You can fit physically now. Why don't you try? Lawrence is waiting....

  Black's consciousness sped back to his body. His body lifted and sped to a hospital room.

  Lawrence was awake. He viewed Black's materialization with incredulity.

  "The deal is closed," Black said.

  "But--you--" Lawrence stammered. "Closed?"

  "Yes. And, considering the shares I hold, I guess that makes me something of a psilent partner of yours!"

  A brash young man, Lawrence thought. A very brash young man!

  Black grinned. Thirty percent? He couldn't miss!

  They shook hands.

  It was a deal. Psigned, sealed and delivered!

  * * *

  Contents

  THE MAROONER

  By Charles A. Stearns

  Wordsley and Captain DeCastros crossed half a universe--suffered hardship--faced unknown dangers; and all this for what--a breath of rare perfume?

  Steadily they smashed the mensurate battlements, in blackness beyond night and darkness without stars. Yet Mr. Wordsley, the engineer, who was slight, balding and ingenious, was able to watch the firmament from his engine room as it drifted from bow to beam to rocket's end. This was by virtue of banked rows of photon collectors which he had invented and installed in the nose of the ship.

  And Mr. Wordsley, at three minutes of the hour of seventeen over four, tuned in a white, new star of eye-blinking magnitude and surpassing brilliance. Discovering new stars was a kind of perpetual game with Mr. Wordsley. Perhaps more than a game.

  "I wish I may, I wish I might ..." Mr. Wordsley said.

  * * * * *

  The fiddly hatch clanged. DeCastros, that gross, terrifying clown of a man, clumped down the ladder from the bridge to defeat the enchantment of the moment. DeCastros held sway. He was captain. He did not want Mr. Wordsley to forget that he was captain.

  The worst of Captain DeCastros was that he had moods. Just now he was being a sly leprechaun, if one can imagine a double-chinned, three-hundred pound leprechaun. He came over and dug his fingers into Mr. Wordsley's shoulder. A wracking pain in the trapezius muscle.

  "The ertholaters are plugged," he said gently. "The vi-lines are giving out a horrible stink."

  "I'll attend to it right away," Mr. Wordsley said, wincing a little as he wriggled free.

  "Tch, tch," DeCastros said, "can anyone really be so asthenic as you seem, Mr. Wordsley?"

  "No, sir," Mr. Wordsley said, uncertain of his meaning.

  The captain winked. "Yet there was that ruffled shirt that I found in the laundromat last week. It was not my shirt. There are only the two of us aboard, Mr. Wordsley."

  "It was my shirt," Mr. Wordsley said, turning crimson. "I bought it on Vega Four. I--I didn't know--that is, they wear them like that on Vega Four."

  "Yes, they do," DeCastros said. "Well, well, perhaps you are only a poet, Mr. Wordsley. But should you happen to be a little--well, maggoty, you positively do not have to tell me. No doubt we both have our secrets. Naturally."

  "I haven't," Mr. Wordsley said desperately.

  "No? Then you certainly will not mind that I am recommending an Ab Test for you when we get home."

  Mr. Wordsley's heart stopped beating for several seconds. He searched Captain DeCastros' face for a sign that he might be fooling. He was not. He looked too pleasant. Mr. Wordsley had always managed to pass the Aberrations Test by the skin of his teeth, but he was sure that, like most spiritual geniuses, he was sensitively balanced, and that the power and seniority of a man like DeCastros must influence the Board of Examination.

  "You might be decommed. Or even committed to an institution. We wouldn't want that to happen, would we, Mr. Wordsley?"

  "Why are you doing this to me?" Mr. Wordsley asked strickenly.

  "To tell the truth, I do not propose to have any more of my voyages blighted with your moon-calfing, day-dreaming and letting the ertholaters stink up the bridge. Besides--" Captain DeCastros patted his shoulder almost affectionately. "--besides, I can't stand you, Mr. Wordsley."

  Mr. Wordsley nodded. He went over to the screen that was like a window of blessed outer night and sank down on his knees before it.

  Have the wish I wish tonight.

  "Ah, ha!" DeCastros exclaimed with sudden ice frozen around the rim of his voice. "What
have we here?"

  "A new nova," Mr. Wordsley answered sullenly.

  "It is common knowledge that no engineer can tell a nova from the D.R. blast of an Iphonian freighter. Let me see it." He shoved Mr. Wordsley out of the way and examined the screen intently.

  "You fool," he said at last, "that's a planet. It is Avis Solis."

  * * * * *

  Now the name of Avis Solis tingled in Mr. Wordsley's unreliable memory, but it would not advance to be recognized. What planet so bright, and yet so remote from any star by angular measurement?

  "Turn it off," DeCastros ordered.

  Mr. Wordsley turned on him in a sudden fury. "It's mine," he cried. "I found it! Go back to your bridge." Then, aghast at what he had said, he clapped his hand over his mouth.

  "Dear me," said Captain DeCastros silkily. Suddenly he seemed to go quite berserk. He snatched a pile-bar from its rack and swung it at the screen. The outer panel shattered. The screen went dead.

  Mr. Wordsley grabbed at the bar and got hold of it at the expense of a broken finger. They strained and tugged. The slippery cadmium finally eluded both of them, bounded over the railing into the pit, struck a nomplate far below and was witheringly consumed in a flash of blue flame.

  Then they were down and rolling over and over, clawing and gouging, until Captain DeCastros inevitably emerged upon top.

  Mr. Wordsley's eyes protruded from that unbearable weight, and he wished that there was no such thing as artificial gravity. He struggled vainly. A bit of broken glass crunched beneath his writhing heel. He went limp and began to sob. It was not a very manly thing to do, but Mr. Wordsley was exercising his poetic license.

  "Now then," said DeCastros, jouncing up and down a bit. "I trust that you have come to understand who is master of this ship, Mr. Wordsley?"

  His addressee continued to weep silently.

  After awhile it occurred to Captain DeCastros that what he was doing was expressly forbidden in the Rules of the Way, Section 90-G, and might, in fact, get him into a peck of trouble. So he got up, helped Mr. Wordsley to his feet, and began to brush him off.

  In a kindly voice he said, "You must have heard of Avis Solis."

  "I don't seem to remember it," Mr. Wordsley said.

  "It's a solitaire. One of those planets which depend upon dark, dwarf, satellite suns for heat, you know. It is almost always in eclipse, and I, for one, have always been glad of it."

  "Why is that?" said Mr. Wordsley, not really caring. His chest was giving him considerable pain.

  "Because it holds the darkest of memories for me. I lost a brother on Avis Solis. Perhaps you have heard of him. Malmsworth DeCastros. He was quite famous for certain geological discoveries on Titan at one time."

  "I don't think so."

  "You need not be sorry. The wretch was a murderer and a bad sport as well. I need not append that my brother and I were as unlike as night and day--though there is no night and day proper upon Avis Solis, of course. I imagine you would like to hear the story. Then you will undoubtedly understand how it is that I was so upset a moment ago by the sight of Avis Solis, and forgive me."

  Mr. Wordsley nodded. A birdlike, snake-charmed nod.

  * * * * *

  "Avis Solis is a planet absolutely unique, at least in this galaxy. In addition to being a solitaire, its surface is almost solidly covered to a depth of several meters with light-gathering layers of crystal which give it the brilliant, astral glow that you saw just now. Its satellite suns contribute hardly any light at all. It contains ample oxygen in its atmosphere, but hardly any water, and so is practically barren. An ill-advised mineralogical expedition brought us to Avis Solis."

  "Us?" Mr. Wordsley said.

  "There were six of us, five men and a woman. A woman fine and loyal and beautiful, with the body of a consummate goddess and the face of a tolerant angel. I was astrological surveyor and party chief."

  "I didn't know that you were once a surveyor."

  "It was seventeen years ago, and none of your business besides."

  "What happened then?"

  "Briefly, we were prospecting for ragnite, which was in demand at the time. We had already given up hopes of finding one gram of that mineral, but decided to make a last foray before blasting off. My brother, Malmsworth, stayed at our base camp. Poor Jenny--that was her name--remained behind to care for Malmsworth's lame ankle."

  Captain DeCastros was lost for several minutes in a bleak and desolate valley of introspection wherein Mr. Wordsley dared not intrude. There was a certain grandeur about his great, dark visage, his falciform nose and meaty jowls as he stood there. Mr. Wordsley began to fidget and clear his throat.

  DeCastros glared at him. "They were gone when we returned. Gone, I tell you! She, to her death. Malmsworth--well, we found him three hours later in the great rift which bisects the massive plateau that is the most outstanding feature of the regular surface of Avis Solis. At the end of this rift there is a natural cave that opens into the sheer wall of the plateau. Within it is a bottomless chasm. It was here that we found certain of Jenny's garments, but of Jenny, naturally, there was no trace. He had seen to that."

  "Terrible," Mr. Wordsley said.

  DeCastros smiled reminiscently. "He fled, but we caught him. He really had a lame ankle, you know."

  The mice of apprehension scampered up and down Mr. Wordsley's spine. "You killed him." It was a statement of certainty.

  "No, indeed. That would have been too easy. We left him there with one portable water-maker and all of that unpalatable but nourishing fungus which thrives upon Avis Solis that he could eat. I have no doubt that he lived until madness reduced his ability to feed himself."

  "That was drastic," Mr. Wordsley felt called upon to say. "Perhaps--perhaps it occurred to you later on that, in charity to your brother, the er--woman might not have been altogether blameless."

  For a moment he thought that Captain DeCastros was about to strike him again. He did not. Instead he spat at Mr. Wordsley. He had the speed of a cobra. There was not time to get out of the way. Mr. Wordsley employed a handkerchief on his face.

  "She was my wife, you know, Mr. Wordsley," Captain DeCastros said pleasantly.

  At nineteen-over-four the contamination buzzers sounded their dread warning.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Wordsley got the alarm first. He had been furtively repairing the viewscreen and thinking dark thoughts the while. There was sick dread for him in the contemplation of the future, for after this last unfortunate blunder DeCastros would be certain to keep his promise and have him examined. This might very well be his last voyage, and Mr. Wordsley had known for quite a long time that he could not live anywhere except out here in the void.

  Only in space, where the stars were like diamonds. Not in the light of swirling, angry, red suns, not upon the surface of any planet, so drab when you drew too near. Only in the sterile purity of remote space where he could maintain and nourish the essential purity of his day-dreams. But of course one could not explain this to the Board of Examiners; least of all to Captain DeCastros.

  Moreover, he was afraid that Avis Solis, which he had been permitted to behold for only a few seconds, would be out of range before he got the scanner to working again. The aspect of this magnificent gem diminishing forever into the limitless night brought a lump to his throat.

  But then, at last, the screen came alive once more, and there it loomed, more brilliant than ever, now so huge that it filled the screen, and it had not become drab, neither gray-green or brown. No, it was cake frosting, and icicles, and raindrops against the sun, and all of the bright, unattainable Christmas tree ornaments of his childhood.

  So rapt was he that he scarcely heard the alarm. Yet he responded automatically to the sound that now sent him scrambling into his exposure suit. He fitted one varium-protected oxy-tank to his helmet and tucked another one under his arm for Captain DeCastros.

  This was superfluous, for DeCastros not only had donned his rig; he had managed to re
call to memory a few dozen vile, degrading swear words gleaned from the sin-pits of Marronn, to hurl at Mr. Wordsley.

  No one could have helped it, really. Ships under the Drive are insulated from contamination clouds and everything else in normal space. The substance polluting the ventilation system, therefore, must have been trapped within their field since Vega. Now it had entered the ship through some infinitesimal opening in the hull.

  It was the engineer's job to find that break. It was not easy, especially with DeCastros breathing down one's neck. Mr. Wordsley began to perspire heavily, and the moisture ran down and puddled in his boots.

  An hour passed that was like an age. The prognosis became known and was not reassuring. This was one of the toxic space viruses, dormant at absolute zero, but active under shipboard conditions. A species, in fact, of the dread, oxygen-eating dryorus, which multiplies with explosive rapidity, and kills upon penetration of the human respiratory system.

  Because of the leak in the hull, the decontaminators could not even hold their own. Mr. Wordsley shuddered to note that ominous, rust-colored cobwebs--countless trillions of dryori--already festooned the stringers of the hull.

  Another precious hour was taken from them. Mr. Wordsley emerged wearily from the last inspection hole.

  * * * * *

  "Well?" DeCastros snapped. "Well--well?" His face was greenish from the effects of the special, contamination resistant mixture that they were breathing.

  "I found the leak," Mr. Wordsley said.

  "Did you fix it?"

  "It was one of the irmium alloy plugs in the outer hull beneath the pile. They were originally placed there, I believe, for the installation of a radiation tester. The plug is missing, and I am sorry to say that we have no extras. Anything other than irmium would melt at once, of course."

  "We have less than eight hours of pure air in the tanks," DeCastros said. "Have you thought of that, you rattle-head?"

  "Yes, sir," Mr. Wordsley said. "And if I might be allowed to speculate, Captain, I would say that we are finished unless we can make a planetfall. Only then would I be able to remove the lower port tube, weld the cavity, seal the ship and fumigate."