Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “There is truth in what you say,” he murmured. “We would be in an unhappy position if Earth had a hundred of her new fighters. But she hasn’t; I know that, and so do you. We know that the ship you brought here is an experimental fighter, that Earth can’t produce them at high speed for several years. We aren’t going to wait that long. We are striking tomorrow morning, simultaneously at five Earth bases. You and Mr. MacGregor will be detained here to assist our laboratories in studying your marvellous fighter. Soon we shall be able to produce a ship of that type in great quantity; and we will rule the solar system.” He spread his small delicate hands in a bland gesture. “So you see we’re not worried about the outcome of our war with Earth, for we know how weak she is.”

  Ogar’s words had been like fists landing against Terry’s face but he kept his face expressionless.

  “I don’t know from what source you get your information,” he said grimly, “but I’d advise you to check it again. If you think our ship is an experimental fighter, just wait until you hit the first defenses of Earth. You’ll see a hundred more of them and those ships will be armed. Your pilots aren’t going to like that very much, Ogar. They prefer combat against unarmed ships.”

  “Your bluff won’t work,” Ogar said, shaking his head and smiling. “You see, I got my information from Miss Masters. She was tactless enough to admit that the ship was an experimental one.” He glanced at the girl and smiled mockingly. “Allow me to thank you, my dear.”

  TERRY looked at the girl and he knew from her painfully flushed face that the Martian wasn’t lying. She met his eyes entreatingly.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she said in an anguished voice.

  Terry’s face hardened with bitterness and he looked away from her white, drawn face without speaking.

  “You must believe me,” the girl cried. She took MacGregor’s arm in her hands but he shook her off roughly.

  “It’s done,” he said bitterly. “Forget it.”

  Ogar stood up and smiled gently at the girl.

  “I wouldn’t let their unsociable attitude worry you, Miss Masters,” he said. “I will be your friend and you will find me extremely sociable.” He motioned to two of the guards and nodded to the girl. “Take her to my quarters.”

  The girl shuddered as the grinning Martian guards approached.

  The guards were reaching for her when MacGregor suddenly wheeled and struck one of them in the face with all his strength. His small wrinkled face was white with fury. The guard fell backward to the floor and jerked his ray gun from his belt.

  Before Terry could take a step an orange ray stabbed upward from the gun and MacGregor clutched suddenly at his breast. He staggered once, his face twisted with pain and then he fell in a crumpled heap to the floor, as if his muscles had shriveled to nothingness.

  Terry dropped to the side of the old Scotchman, but when he turned him over, he saw that he was dead. There was a soft contented expression on the old man’s features, as if in death the kindness and sentiment hidden deep in his heart had come to the surface and transfigured his face.

  He knelt beside the twisted figure of the old man and the scalding tears in his eyes almost blinded him. Hatred was a live thing in him, searing him with its helpless bitterness.

  He looked up and saw that six of the small Martian guards were surrounding him, weapons in hands, tense, watchful expressions on their faces.

  “His death is regrettable,” Ogar said coldly. “The guard will be punished. But I’d advise you not to repeat his mistake.”

  He gestured sharply to the guards and they closed in slowly on Terry. “Take him to the dungeons below.”

  Terry stood up slowly and dully. His eyes met those of the girl and his hands clenched into fists as he thought of what she had done.

  He said, “I hope you consider this a good day’s work,” and the charged bitterness in his voice was like a hard slap across her face. She flushed and turned her eyes away.

  Terry was led from the room by the squad of six guards . . .

  HE LAY on a small dank cot, unable to sleep, unable to rest. He had changed his position a dozen times in the last hour. The cell was dark, stifling, with no opening save the one barred door.

  His mind was like a squeezed sponge, dry of thought or hope or sensation. He had tried to think of some way to escape, to warn Earth of the impending Martian attack; he had tried until his brain hurt and there was a bright patch of pain under each eye.

  He had been locked in the dungeon for several hours. How many he could not be sure. There were no guards he could see in the corridor. They evidently believed there was no chance of his escaping the tight little dungeon.

  And it looked as if they were right. He had inspected every inch of the foul hole and had found nothing that he could use in an escape. The door was securely bolted from the outside. He had slammed into it a dozen times with the full weight of his body, but the only results had been a bruised, aching shoulder.

  He shifted his position again and stared despairingly into the darkness. He thought of MacGregor’s death and it was like a cold hand closing over his stomach.

  He had known the little Scotchman for only a few days but, in that time, the man had come to seem like the father he had never known.

  He heard a faint sound outside his cell door and, in an instant, he had swung his feet off the cot to stand in the darkness of the cell, every muscle tensed. He was determined to take any chance that might present itself—regardless of how slim it might be.

  The bolts slid back slowly, creaking in their sockets, and he felt rather than saw the narrow, barred door swing quietly open.

  He stepped forward on the balls of his toes, moving lightly as a cat. There was a dim form visible in the doorway and he lunged forward suddenly, both hands outstretched.

  One hand closed over a soft mouth, cutting off a fearful exclamation, and his other hand dug into a bare shoulder that was brushed by long, smooth hair.

  The creature in his steel grip was a woman!

  He released the hand over her mouth and her voice, a low, terrified whisper, was in his ears. “Please, Terry; it’s Dale. Dale Masters.”

  He took his hands from her, too surprised to speak. He could see her face only as a dim white triangle, but her eyes, close to his, were luminous and bright.

  “What do you want here?” he asked, when he had recovered from shocked surprise.

  “I came here to help you,” she whispered. “We haven’t much time.”

  TERRY felt a quick hard suspicion, and he said, “How did you get here? What kind of a game are you playing?”

  “You must believe me,” the girl said, and her low whisper was desperate with urgency. “I know you hate me. I’ve acted like a fool. I’m responsible for the trouble you’re in, but don’t think of that now, please. We have a chance to get away if we work together.”

  “How did you get here?” Terry asked again. The urgent appeal in the girl’s voice was realistic, but he was still not completely convinced.

  “I can’t tell you everything now,” the girl said frantically. “But Ogar came to me tonight. I—I pretended to like him. I even let him hold me in his arms.” Terry felt her convulsive shudder as she leaned against him, and her voice broke in a dry sob. “It was hideous. But it was the only way I could get the gun at his waist. I drew it and shot him. Then I came here. I killed another guard at the end of this corridor. We’re only a few dozen feet from the tower where our ship is moored. The way is clear now. If we leave immediately, we may have a chance to make it.”

  “Have you still got the gun?” Terry asked quickly.

  She pressed it into his hand and he felt a new surge of confidence as he felt its slim, deadly weight in his palm. He patted the girl’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said, “If you’re lying, may God help you.”

  Together they left the cell and hurried down the black corridor.

  The girl led him through the darkness, past several intersecting
corridors and finally to the door that opened on the great Martian space field.

  It took Terry several seconds to accustom his eyes to the murky illumination of the stars, but then he saw the slim hull of MacGregor’s fighter silhouetted against the faint brightness of the night sky.

  They had to cross a patch of open ground a dozen yards wide to reach it, and Terry could see, in the shadow of the ship, several Martians lounging there, on guard.

  “We’ve got to take a chance,” he whispered in the girl’s ear. “Start walking with me toward the ship. When they see us, get behind me and run toward the ship as fast as you can.”

  He stepped through the door and started for the ship. The girl was at his side. They covered half the distance before one of the guards detached himself and stepped out, challenging them in his high, reedy voice.

  Terry didn’t answer. He caught the girl’s hand and walked steadily on toward the ship, cutting a yard of the distance with every stride. When they were within ten feet of the ship, the guard called out excitedly to his companions and reached for the gun at his belt.

  “Get behind me!” Terry snapped to the girl.

  He raised the gun in his hand and drilled the guard with a livid orange blast. He fell without a cry, but the other guards began to yell frantically.

  Terry swung his gun on them and two blasts flashed from its muzzle, scattering the guards in four directions.

  “Run!” Terry shouted.

  He charged toward the ship, dodging and weaving, but the Martians didn’t fire. They were evidently too surprised and frightened by his sudden appearance to organize an effective resistance.

  THE side hatch of the ship was open.

  Terry scrambled in, pulled the girl after him and slammed the heavy door. He jerked the switch that sealed it with hundreds of pounds of compressed air, then streaked for the control chamber. He snapped on a light and checked the instruments as he reached for the release switch. The oxygen tanks had been filled, the rocket current was charged to capacity and even the atomic cannons were loaded. The Martians had evidently completely restocked the ship for their own experimental purpose.

  The hum of the rockets grew in volume and at the same time he heard the heavy, thudding blows being rained on the solid surface of the hatch door.

  He grinned and opened the throttle. The little red men were just a bit too late. The ship trembled for an instant and then it blasted itself from the gravity of Mars, streaking void-ward, a pin-point of searing light against the immensity of dark space.

  Terry settled back in his seat and studied the rear visi-screen. Visible in it was a long, gleaming line of fighter-ships, in blast-off formation, on the Martian space field.

  The girl came to his side, her eyes anxious.

  “Ogar said the Martian fleet would attack Earth tomorrow,” she said. “Can’t we communicate with Earth and warn them of the danger.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Terry said, with a grim smile. He grinned up at her. “What did you say your first name was?”

  “Dale.”

  “Well, Dale, I don’t know if you’ve ever shot ducks on water, but you’re going to see something pretty close to that right now.”

  He glanced up at the line of Martian fighters on the visi-screen and then swung his ship about in a tight roll and dove back toward Mars. He cut his speed and came over the great space field at an angle that brought the long, gleaming line of hundreds of ships directly into the range of his atomic cannons.

  He triggered the guns viciously and the spearing blasts of powerful energy raked the line of ships as he flashed over them. The searing atomic beams cut through the ships of the Martian fleet like a hot knife through butter. And when Terry pointed the nose of MacGregor’s fighter void-ward again, there wasn’t a ship of the great Martian attacking force that would ever strike out into space again.

  Terry glanced at Dale as their ship screamed through Mars’ atmosphere to begin the long trip back to Earth.

  He grinned. “That,” he said, “is known as offensive sabotage.”

  “It was magnificent,” Dale said quietly.

  Terry patted her shoulder.

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” he said simply. “You’re pretty magnificent yourself.”

  A WEEK later Terry stood before Commander Moore’s desk, at rigid attention.

  “There is nothing I can say,” the commander said, glancing up at him, “there is nothing anyone can say that will adequately express the gratitude the people of Earth owe you, Terry Lester.”

  He fumbled among the papers and picked out a bulky envelope. He extended it toward Terry.

  “This is small enough payment,” he said.

  Terry colored slightly. “I told you, sir, that I didn’t want any money for what I did.”

  “Take it anyway,” Commander Moore said.

  Terry opened the envelope with stiff fingers. There was no money inside. There was an engraved piece of paper, stamped with the seal of the Federated Command. It stated that Terrence Lester was again a member of the Command, reinstated for services above and beyond the call of duty.

  Terry had difficulty swallowing as he looked down at the commander.

  “You may not care to accept it,” the commander said; “but we’re hoping you will come back to us.”

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted,” Terry said. He put the paper in his pocket and grinned awkwardly. “It’s too bad MacGregor isn’t here,” he said. “Maybe he could have been reinstated too.”

  Commander Moore looked puzzled.

  “MacGregor? Reinstated?” He shook his head. “Hardly possible, since he was never a member of the Federated Command. We tried hard enough to get him, but he always said our uniforms looked like monkey suits.”

  Terry swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. MacGregor had told him the story of being thrown out of the Federated Command just to buck him up, when he needed it more than anything else in the world.

  “I—I forgot,” he said. He patted the pocket that held his reinstatement paper and said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll be ready for duty whenever you need me.”

  He walked toward the door and fumbled blindly for the handle. Dale was waiting for him in the reception room and when she saw him, she rose and came to his side eagerly. He smiled at her and they left together.

  [*] To eliminate the physical hazards produced by the tremendous acceleration necessary for such speeds, an inertia nullifier had been perfected by Keating in 2017, and which was standard equipment on all space ships.

  PROFESSOR THORNDYKE’S MISTAKE

  First published in the September 1944 issue of Amazing Stories.

  Why he hated cats was a mystery until Mack told about the girl, the professor, and the feline that didn’t have nine lives . . .

  IT WAS getting dark when Lefty O’Rourke and I left the smoke-filled little bar where most of Chicago’s working newspapermen hang out, and headed back for the office.

  Lefty was carrying a fifth of Scotch under his arm with all the zealous care of a mother carrying a two-months-old baby, and I had two roast beef sandwiches stuffed in the outside pocket of my topcoat. These supplies constituted our evening snack and helped to while away the tedious hours of the dogwatch. The sandwiches were for the copy boy.

  Lefty glanced at a clock as we passed the Sherman Hotel.

  “Holy cats!” he said. “The old man’ll—”

  He stopped, seeing the look on my face.

  ‘Tm sorry, Mack,” he said. “It just slipped out. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” I growled. “You should know better than to mention the word ‘cat’ in my presence.”

  “I won’t,” Lefty said, “but I wish you’d tell me why.”

  “Maybe there isn’t any reason,” I said moodily.

  “Then you ought to see a psychologist,” Lefty said. “You’ve got what they call a phobia. You’ve been buggy on the subject of cats for as long as I’ve k
nown you, and that’s for over three years.”

  “It was four years ago,” I said. “That’s when I started hating cats. It was when—” I stopped and glared at him. “What difference does it make?”

  “None at all,” Lefty said mildly, “but it sounds like there’s a good story behind your feeling about cats. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  We walked to the office in silence. I settled down at my desk and Lefty got some paper containers for the Scotch. We checked the copy from the City Press Bureau and then made a few phone calls to the outlying police stations. The news was quiet, so Lefty poured a round of drinks. I had a couple and then I sat up straight in my chair.

  There was a large yellow cat ambling across the floor.

  “Who let that animal in here?” I yelled.

  Our freckle-faced copy boy stuck his head around the door and said, “One of the girls brought ’im in today.”

  “Get him out of here,” I said, “or I’ll feed him into the presses.”

  “Okay.” The boy scooped the cat up under his arm and disappeared.

  Lefty looked at me and shook his head slowly.

  “You’re goin’ to go bats,” he said, “if you don’t stop worrying about cats.”

  “I don’t worry about them,” I said, sipping my drink, “I just don’t like them. Does a man have to have a logical reason for not liking cats.” I finished my drink and Lefty poured another. “A man who likes cats,” I continued, “is much more in need of a psychologist than a man who doesn’t. Why, if I told you the complete story of why

  I dislike cats you’d—”

  “Why don’t you,” Lefty suggested, pouring me another drink.

  I stared for a moment in moody silence at my shoes on the top of the desk. Finally I shoved my hat back on my head and picked up my drink.

  “All right,” I said, “you asked for it.”

  So I told Lefty the story . . .

  IT WAS pounding a beat for the Express four years ago, and Paddy Kane, a slave-driver but a good newspaperman, was city editor. He worked us like mules and accepted no excuse for missing a story.