(2/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume II: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

by Various

  Judd placed one of his pirates at each of the windows of the large room, taking himself the center one.

  Around the house milled dozens of animal bodies, snorting, bellowing and roaring, their little red eyes flashing, claws tearing the soil in futile rage at the men they knew to be safely within. A babel of brutish sounds rose from them. Two of the bulls fell foul of each other and fought in fury, to suddenly turn and hurl their weight against a ground floor door, quivering it. But their rashness was answered by a streak of light from an attic window, and as one toppled back, its body burnt through, the sights of the destroying ray-gun were already on its fellow.

  The huge fire the brigands had laid was dying, and night was seeping ever thickening darkness over the scene. Glinting very slightly in the starlight were the black shapes of the two silent space ships.

  Then Judd the Kite, as he aimed and shot and aimed and shot again, was suddenly struck by a disturbing idea. From where had Carse fired at the corral fence? What was the logical vantage point for him?

  A shiver trembled down his spine. He saw suddenly with terrible clearness where that vantage point was--and it had not been searched. The roof!

  He turned swiftly, his lips opening to give orders.

  And there, standing on the threshold of the door to the smaller adjoining room, stood the figure of a man whose eyes were cold with the absolute cold of space, and whose left hand held a steady-leveled ray-gun that pointed as straight as his eyes at Judd!

  "Hawk--Carse!"

  "Judd," said the quiet, icy voice.

  * * * * *

  The Kite went white as a sheet. His men turned slowly as one. One of them gasped at what he saw; another cursed; the other two simply stared with fear-flooded eyes; only one thing flamed in every mind--the never-failing vengeance of the Hawk.

  "Carse!" repeated Judd stupidly. "You--again!"

  "Yes," whispered the trader. "And for the last time. We settle now. There are a few debts--a few lives--a few blows and kicks--and a matter of some torture to be paid for. The accounts must be squared, Judd."

  And slowly he raised his right hand to the queer bangs of flaxen hair which hung down over his forehead. He stroked them gently. Judd's eyes, dry, hot, held fascinated on the hand. He shuddered.

  "It's not pleasant," came the whisper, "to always have to wear my hair like this. That's another debt--the largest of all--I have to settle. Sheathe your guns!"

  The voice cracked like a whip. They obeyed without sound, though they read death in the frigid gray eyes. As their guns went into holsters, Carse's followed suit; he stood then with both hands hanging at his sides. And he said, in the whisper that carried more weight to them than the trumpets of a host:

  "Once before we were interrupted. This time we won't be. This time we will see certainly for whom the number five brings death. Count, Judd."

  With a jerk, the Kite regained some control over himself. The odds were five to one. Five guns to one gun. Carse was a great shot, but such odds were surely too great. Perhaps--perhaps there might be a chance. He said in a strained voice to his men:

  "Shoot when I reach five."

  Then he swallowed and counted:

  "One."

  Aside from the tiny flickering of the left eyelid, the Hawk was graven, motionless, apparently without feeling. Judd, he knew, was just fairly fast; as for the others--

  "Two."

  --they were unknown quantities, except for one, the man called Jake. He had the reputation of possessing a lightning draw; his eyes were narrowed, his hands steady, and the body crouched, a sure sign of--

  "Three."

  --a gunman who knew his business, who was fast. His hip holsters were not really worn on the hips, but in front, very close together; that meant--

  "Four."

  --that he would probably draw both guns. So Judd must wait; the other three, being unknowns, disposed of in the order in which they were standing; but Jake must be--

  "Five!"

  --first!

  * * * * *

  One second there was nothing; the next, wicked pencils of orange light were snaking across the attic! And then two guns clanged on the floor, unfired, and the man called Jake staggered forward, crumpled and fell, a puzzled look on his face and accurately between his eyes a little round neat hole that had come as if by magic. Two others, similarly stricken, toppled down, their fingers still tensed on ray-gun triggers; the fourth pirate, his heart drilled, went back from the force of it and crashed into the wall, slithering down slowly into a limp heap. But Judd the Kite was still on his feet.

  His lips were twisted in a snarl; his hands seemed locked. His eyes met the two cold gray ones across the room--and then his coarse face contorted, and he croaked:

  "Damn you, Carse! Damn you--"

  His body spun around and flattened out on the floor with arms and legs flung wide. A tiny black hole was visible through his shirt. He had been last, and the Hawk had struck him less accurately than his fellows.

  The trader was unwounded. He stood there for several minutes, surveying what lay before him. He looked at each body in turn, and his eyes were calm and clear and mild, his face devoid of expression. Silence hung over the attic, for the bellowings and snortings of the beasts outside had died into faint murmurings as they straggled off for their jungle home. The single living man of the six who had lived and breathed there minutes before holstered his still warm ray-gun; and then the sound of a step on the stairs leading from the rooms below made him look up.

  A man stood in the doorway of the attic.

  * * * * *

  He was big and brawny; but, though his arms and bare torso were streaked with blood, and his trousers torn into shreds, and his legs crisscrossed with cuts, there was broad grin on his face--a grin that widened as his rolling white eyes took in what lay on the attic floor.

  Neither said anything for a moment. Then the Hawk smiled, and there was all friendliness and affection in his face.

  "You made the pit, Eclipse?" he asked, softly.

  Friday nodded, and chuckled. "Yes, suh! But only just. If Ah'd bin a leap an' a skip slower Ah'd bin a tee-total eclipse!"

  Dancing lights of laughter came to the Hawk's eyes.

  "Still feeling chipper," he said, "--in spite of your burns. Well, good for you. But I guess you've had enough of Ku Sui for a little while!"

  The negro grunted indignantly. "You surely don't imply Ah'm sca'ed of that yellow Chink? Hell, no! Why--"

  Carse chuckled and cut him off.

  "I see. Well, then, drag these carrion out to your pit. And then--"

  There was something in the air, something big. Friday listened eagerly. "Yes, suh?" he reminded his master after a pause.

  "Judd," said Hawk Carse softly, "was to have had a rendezvous with Dr. Ku Sui in seven days. The place of the rendezvous is entered in the log of his ship. I've got the last of Judd's crew a captive on the Star Devil...."

  The adventurer paused a moment in thought, and when he resumed his words came clipped and decisive.

  "I myself am going to keep that rendezvous with Ku Sui. I want to see him very badly."

  Friday looked at the man's gray eyes, his icy graven face, the bangs of flaxen hair which obscured his forehead. He understood.

  * * *

  Contents

  THE HELPFUL HAND OF GOD

  BY TOM GODWIN

  (From "Vogarian Revised Encyclopedia":

  SAINTS: Golden Saints, properly, Yellow Saints, a term of contempt applied by the Vogarian State Press to members of the Church Of The Golden Rule because of their opposition to the war then being planned against Alkoria. See CHURCHES.

  CHURCH, GOLDEN RULE, OF THE: A group of reactionary fanatics who resisted State control and advocated social chaos through "Individual Freedom." They were liquidated in the Unity Purge but for two-thousand of the more able-bodied, who were sentenced to the moon mines of Belen Nine. The prison ship never arrived there and it is assumed that the condemned Saints someh
ow overpowered the guards and escaped to some remote section of the galaxy.)

  Kane had observed Commander Y'Nor's bird-of-prey profile with detached interest as Y'Nor jerked his head around to glare again at the chronometer on the farther wall of the cruiser's command room.

  "What's keeping Dalon?" Y'Nor demanded, transferring his glare to Kane. "Did you assure him that I have all day to waste?"

  "He should be here any minute, sir," Kane answered.

  "I didn't find the Saints, after others had failed for sixty years, to then sit and wait. The situation on Vogar was already very critical when we left." Y'Nor scowled at the chronometer again. "Every hour we waste waiting here will delay our return to Vogar by an hour--I presume you realize that?

  "It does sound like a logical theory," Kane agreed.

  Y'Nor's face darkened dangerously. "You will--"

  Quick, hard-heeled footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. The guard officer, Dalon, stepped through the doorway and saluted; his eyes like ice under his pale brows and his uniform seeming to bristle with weapons.

  "The native is here, sir," he said to Y'Nor.

  He turned, and made a commanding gesture. The leader of the Saints appeared; the man whose resistance Y'Nor would have to break.

  A frail, white-bearded old man, scuffed uncertainly into the room in straw sandals, his faded blue eyes peering nearsightedly toward Y'Nor.

  "Go to the commander's desk," Dalon ordered in his metallic tones.

  The old man obeyed and stopped before Y'Nor's desk, his hands clasped together as though to hide their trembling.

  "You are Brenn," Y'Nor said, "and you hold, I believe, the impressive titles of Chief Executive of the Council Of Provinces and Supreme Elder of the Churches Of The Golden Rule?"

  "Yes, sir." There was a faint quaver in old Brenn's voice. "I welcome you to our world, sir, and offer you our friendship."

  "I understand you can produce Elusium X fuel?"

  "Yes, sir. Our Dr. Larue told me the process is within our ability. We--" He hesitated. "We know you haven't enough fuel to return to Vogar."

  Y'Nor stiffened in his chair. "What makes you think that?"

  "It requires a great deal of fuel to get through the Whirlpool star cluster--and even sixty years ago, the Elusium ores of Vogar were almost exhausted."

  Y'Nor smiled thinly. "That reminds me--you would be one of the Saints who murdered their guards and stole a ship to get here."

  "We killed no guards, sir. In fact, all of them eventually joined our church."

  "Where is the ship?"

  "We had to cut it up for our start in mechanization."

  "I presume you know you will pay for it?"

  "It was taking us to our deaths in the radium mines--but we will pay whatever you ask."

  "The first installment will be one thousand units of fuel, to be produced with the greatest speed possible."

  "Yes, sir. But in return"--the old man stood a little straighter and an underlying resolve was suddenly revealed--"you must recognize us as a free race."

  "Free? A colony founded by escaped criminals?"

  "That is not true! We committed no crime, harmed no living thing...."

  The hard, cold words of Y'Nor cut off his protest:

  "This world it now a Vogarian possession. Every man, woman, and child upon it is a prisoner of the Vogarian State. There will be no resistance. This cruiser's disintegrators can destroy a town within seconds, your race within hours. Do you understand what I mean?"

  The visible portion of old Brenn's face turned pale. He spoke at last in the bitter tones of frightened, stubborn determination:

  "I offered you our friendship; I hoped you would accept, for we are a peaceful race. I should have known that you came only to persecute and enslave us. But the hand of God will reach down to help us and--"

  Y'Nor laughed, a raucous sound like the harsh caw of the Vogarian vulture, and held up a hairy fist.

  "This, old man, is the hand for you to center your prayers around. I want full-scale fuel production commenced within twenty-four hours. If this is done, and if you continue to unquestioningly obey all my commands, I will for that long defer your punishment as an escaped criminal. If this is not done, I will destroy a town exactly twenty-five hours from now--and as many more as may be necessary. And you will be publicly executed as a condemned criminal and an enemy of the Vogarian State."

  Y'Nor turned to Dalon. "Take him away."

  * * * * *

  "Scared sheep," Y'Nor said when Brenn was gone. "Tomorrow he'll say that he prayed and his god told him what to do--which will be to save his neck by doing as I command."

  "I don't know--" Kane said doubtfully. "I think you're wrong about his conscience folding so easily."

  "You think?" Y'Nor asked. "Perhaps I should remind you that the ability to think is usually characteristic of commanders rather than sub-ensigns. You will not be asked to try to think beyond the small extent required to comprehend simple commands."

  Kane sighed with weary resignation. An unexpected encounter with an Alkorian battleship had sent the Vogarian cruiser fleeing through the unexplored Whirlpool star cluster--Y'Nor and Kane the two surviving commissioned officers--with results of negative value to those most affected: the world of the Saint had been accidentally discovered and he, Kane, had risen from sub-ensign to the shakily temporary position of second-in-command.

  Y'Nor spoke again:

  "Since Vogarian commanders do not go out and mingle with the natives of a subject world, you will act as my representative. I'll let Brenn sweat until tomorrow, then you will go see him. In that, and in all subsequent contacts with the natives, you will keep in mind the fact that I shall hold you personally responsible for any failure of my program."

  * * * * *

  The next afternoon, two hours before the deadline, Kane went out into the sweet spring air of the world the Saints had named Sanctuary.

  It was a virgin world, rich in the resources needed by Vogar, with twenty thousand Saints as the primary labor supply. It was also, he thought, a green and beautiful world; almost a familiar world. The cruiser stood at the upper edge of the town and in the late afternoon sun the little white and brown houses were touched with gold, half hidden in the deep azure shadows of the tall trees and flowering vines that bordered the gently curving streets.

  Restlessness stirred within him as he looked at them. It was like going back in time to the Lost Islands, that isolated little region of Vogar that had eluded collectivization until the year he was sixteen. It had been at the same time of year, in the spring, that the State Unity forces had landed. The Lost Island villages had been drowsing in the sun that afternoon, as this town was drowsing now--

  He forced the memories from his mind, and the futile restlessness they brought, and went on past a golden-spired church to a small cottage that was almost hidden in a garden of flowers and giant silver ferns.

  Brenn met him at the door, his manner very courteous, his eyes dark-shadowed with weariness as though he had not slept for many hours, and invited him inside.

  When they were seated in the simply-furnished room, Brenn said, "You came for my decision, sir?"

  "The commander sent me for it."

  Brenn folded his thin hands, which seemed to have the trembling sometimes characteristic of the aged.

  "Yesterday evening when I came from the ship, I prayed for guidance and I saw that I could only abide by the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

  "Which means," Kane asked, "that you will do what?"

  "Should we of the Church be stranded upon an alien world, our fuel supply almost gone, we would ask for help. By our own Golden Rule we can do no less than give it."

  "Eighteen hours ago I issued the order for full-scale, all-out fuel production. I've been up all night and day checking the operation."

  Kane stared, surprised that Y'Nor should have so correctly predicted Brenn's reaction. He tried to see some change in the old m
an, some evidence of the personal fear that must have broken him so quickly, but there was only weariness, and a gentleness.

  "So much fuel--" Brenn said. "Is Vogar still at war with Alkoria?"

  Kane nodded.

  "Once I saw some Alkorian prisoners of war on Vogar," Brenn said. "They are a peaceful, doglike race. They never wanted to go to war with Vogar."

  Well--they still didn't want war but on Alkoria were Elusium ores and other resources that the Vogarian State had to have before it could carry out its long-frustrated ambition of galactic conquest.

  "I'll go, now," Kane said, getting out of his chair, "and see what you're having done. The commander doesn't take anybody's word for anything."

  * * * * *

  Brenn called a turbo-car and driver to take him to the multi-purpose factory, which was located a short distance beyond the other side of town. The driver stopped before the factory's main office, where a plump, bald man was waiting, his scalp and glasses gleaming in the sunshine.

  "I'm Dr Larue, sir," he greeted Kane. He had a face that under normal circumstance would have been genial. "Father Brenn said you were coming. I'm at your service, to show you what we're doing."

  They went inside the factory, where the rush of activity was like a beehive. Machines and installations not needed for fuel production were being torn out as quickly as possible, others taking their place. The workers--he craned his neck to verify his astonished first-impression.

  All of them were women.

  "Father Brenn's suggestion," Larue said. "These girls are as competent as men for this kind of work and their use here permits the release of men to the outer provinces to procure the raw materials. As you know, our population is small and widely scattered--"

  A crash sounded as a huge object nearby toppled and fell. Kane took an instinctive backward step, and bumped into something soft.

  "Oh ... excuse me, sir!"

  He turned, and had a confused vision of an apologetic smile in a pretty young face, of red curls knocked into disarray--and of amazingly short shorts and a tantalizingly wispy halter.