Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Corneal drank two cups of steaming hot coffee and went up to his bridge. Watching the visi-screen his eyes flicked over each detail that flashed across its surface; but there was still a part of his mind free to think. And he was thinking of a possible encounter with the black ship known as the Vortex and its fabulous commander, the Falcon. The stories told of the Falcon’s skill were scoffed at by seasoned commanders, but secretly believed. For once he had engaged an Earth squadron and led it helplessly and futilely across a gigantic expanse of void, before slipping it easily and disappearing.

  This was a matter of record, signed humiliatingly by nineteen captains of unquestioned integrity.

  PRIDE was absent from Corneal’s make-up; but he knew objectively that there was no pilot in the service today who could master him in maneuvers; and that no gunner was faster or more deadly. These things he knew were true. And he knew that the Falcon’s reputation was based on fact.

  For those reasons he wanted to meet the Falcon; but chiefly he wanted to bring the Falcon to Earth because he was a law-breaker, a man who had renounced his planet, who preferred sailing the void, free and undisciplined, to putting talents in the mold of service to Earth.

  Now the Olympiad was drawing near to the sullen red globe of Mars.

  It was a growing disc in the top left corner of the visi-screen swelling steadily as the Olympiad’s mighty jets sent it speeding silently through the black void.

  Beneath Mars hung a vast nebulous chain of astrocloud formed of cohesing planet fragments, whitening as their splitting centers were pierced by the void’s absolute zero.

  Suddenly Corneal saw a black streak flash across the lower right corner of the screen. Its passage had been too swift to identify; but he snapped orders immediately.

  “Change course one quarter of a point. Watch for strange ship dead ahead.”

  The Olympiad swung to its new course.

  Corneal searched the screen but saw nothing.

  “Throw on the auxiliaries. Full speed ahead!” he snapped.

  The Olympiad leaped ahead under the tremendous impetus of its full power. For half a moment they raced on the new course; then in the center of the screen a black dot appeared, grew larger and in a few seconds Corneal saw the twin crimson flashes of its jets.

  “Steady on course,” he ordered. “Draw abreast of that craft.”

  They raced on for several moments in silence. Corneal from his bridge looked down on the backs of the pilots and the helmsman. They were rigidly intent on their work. He felt the smooth functioning of his ship and it brought him a strange peace. His mind knew what was happening to each plane of the ships hull, to each jet, to each rivet; and he could follow the operations of his crew in the engine room, the plotting room, the fore and aft gun turrets. He knew precisely what each man would be doing, and this feeling of being the soul and brain of a swift deadly engine of justice brought him satisfaction.

  All emotion subordinated to a mission. All energy bent on one task. Everything concentrated and unified. Men, steel, knowledge, fission of elements and skill blended and forged to one weapon for one purpose.

  They gained steadily.

  Corneal contacted the fore turret.

  “Stand by!” he ordered.

  “Stand by!” He heard his command repeated.

  “Fire a barrage on their port and starboard sides.”

  The command was repeated and almost instantly eight orange balls soared from the nose of the Olympiad cutting a parabola across the black face of the void.

  The second barrage followed immediately; and Corneal watched with grim satisfaction as the shots flashed past the sides of the speeding black ship.

  Close enough to singe the plates!

  HE waited a moment for the black ship to come about, but it continued its flight, ignoring the barrages which was the adopted signal of the Council.

  Corneal felt a smouldering anger. The Falcon was defying an order of his, an order of the Council. Deliberately, carelessly, the Olympiad’s signal was defied.

  “Fire!” he snapped.

  “Signal?”

  The gunner’s hesitation hardened Corneal’s anger. The men were becoming so soft that they questioned an order to fire.

  “This is not a course in marksmanship, gentlemen,” he said, in an icy voice. “Ahead of us is an enemy of Earth. Fire!”

  “Yes, sir!” The gunnery officers voice was exultant.

  The deadly barrage leaped forth again; but the black ship was climbing now, spiralling upward at the exact instant the barrage had been released.

  Corneal watched the brilliant maneuver with controlled rage. The Falcon had changed course as if he had been standing in the Olympiad’s plotting room and had known precisely what Corneal’s orders had been.

  That was the start of a chase that led them beyond Mars by a half million miles. The Falcon kept carefully out of range most of the time and to catch him; and when they did get within firing range he anticipated their barrages and twisted away.

  Corneal’s face was hard and cold. He wanted to take the controls himself, but that was impossible. From the bridge he directed the tactics of his pilots with all his skill; but he needed the feel of the controls in his hand, the sense of movement and balance that would make his mind become a part of the ship, directing it unconsciously. Only then could a pilot truly match himself against another ship. There was a knowledge, a subtle intuitive sense that developed from studying an opponent. And this knowledge made possible the anticipation of movement that would culminate in a final slashing attack.

  Corneal’s face showed no strain; it was like something carved from rough wood and then covered with leather. His commands were harsh, sudden, terse as he studied the darting black ship in the screen.

  “Climb!” he snapped.

  Instantly the Olympiad flashed upward and the black ship dropped from the screen. Corneal counted five slowly to himself. He was risking a chance that the black ship might take the opportunity to flash out of sight. But it was a chance he felt he had to take.

  At the count of five he ordered the pilot to dive.

  The Olympiad arched at the top of its climb and streaked downward; the black ship appeared in the visi-screen again, closer now and caught by the Olympiad’s sudden diving attack.

  “Now fire!” Corneal said quietly.

  The barrage came and the black ship twisted; but not soon enough this time. Two of the glowing orange balls clipped its tail surfaces and Corneal saw instantly that the damage was severe. The black ship was practically out of control.

  There had been no answering fire from the Falcon as yet and Corneal wondered about this. He assumed their guns were out of order; but he was taking no chances.

  “Stay on their tail,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” the gunner answered reluctantly.

  THEY wanted to finish off the Vortex; but Corneal knew better. The Falcon was adrift dangerously now and he would have to make an attempt to reach his home base. Corneal intended to let him try. He would follow. Then he could destroy the base and rid space forever of these lawless marauders.

  The Vortex circled aimlessly for several moments apparently expecting the Olympiad to finish the job it had started; but as the Olympiad showed no sign of continuing the fight it turned two points and started down toward the under side of Mars in a long glide.

  The Olympiad followed at a safe distance . . .

  Skirting the astrocloud they followed the black ship and finally to a pocket formed by the drifting star-fragment. Directly in the center of this tiny harbor in space floated a single asteroid that appeared to be several miles in diameter.

  Corneal ordered the Olympiad to hover as the black ship settled slowly to a mooring tower in the center of the asteroid. Now he knew he could end the Falcon forever; one burst from the Olympiad’s main batteries would blow this tiny asteroid into dust. But he had no intention of doing that. The Falcon was not his to destroy: he belonged to the justice of Earth and it was ther
e Corneal would bring him.

  For half an hour he waited; then he ordered one shot fired into the black ship. He knew it would be empty now; but he didn’t intend to moor before the pirates chance of escaping was destroyed.

  Then he ordered the pilots to settle the Olympiad on the asteroid. When the long keel of the ship touched the flaky ground of the Asteroid, Corneal heard the rattle of rocket fire against the steel plates.

  He went below to his cabin and called Nelson.

  “Take a party of men out the hatchways on the port side,” he told him. “They’ll be protected then from the firing. Take prisoner all men you find. If they resist you’ll know what to do.”

  Nelson saluted happily and went out. Corneal took off his heavy leather jacket and put on his uniform and helmet. About his waist he buckled the broad black command belt with the silver buckle that indicated his rank. A rocket pistol hung at his side.

  He went down the companionway to the starboard and looked out through the vision slots. The Olympiad had settled about two hundred yards from the mooring tower, which was located amidst a cluster of steel buildings. Further back there was a larger building with armored sides from which he saw firing was coming. Behind this was a craggy expanse formed by the pitted surface of the asteroid.

  That was all. A mooring tower, a cluster of buildings on a pitiful tiny speck of land in space. And from that these fools had challenged the law of Earth.

  He turned to a cadet who was standing guard at the hatchway.

  “Give my orders to the gunners to destroy those outlying buildings. Also tell him to knock one side off off the building from which the firing is coming.

  The cadet saluted and hurried off; and soon the turrets of the Olympiad swung about and the stubby atomic cannons were firing.

  WHEN it was over Corneal opened the hatchway and stepped onto the ground. From the rocks behind the main building he heard bursts of fire. But the firing had ceased from the large square building behind the tower. One of its walls had melted down; its door hung crazily.

  Walking toward the mooring tower he noted with satisfaction film of ash on the ground—that was the remains of the black ship, the Vortex. Approaching the large block house he drew his rocket gun.

  Another ten feet and a man appeared in the shattered doorway. He wore leather space clothes and hanging from his right hand was a rocket revolver.

  Corneal stopped. “Drop that gun,” he ordered. “You’re in custody of Earth.”

  “I take no orders from Earth.” The smile stayed on the man’s weary face. The gun in his hand raised slowly.

  Corneal fired twice. Silent rays struck out; the man stiffened, twisted sideways and fell forward on his face.

  Corneal waited a moment and listened. There was still firing coming from the rocks beyond the tower; but it was scattered and sporadic now. He guessed that Nelson had about completed his mission.

  He walked to the block house and went inside. There was a short corridor that formed an L. With his gun ready he turned with the hallway and stood facing a large room furnished simply with a desk, a few maps and a bunk in the corner. There were two men lying dead on the floor near the walls beneath vision clots. Another was sprawled behind the desk.

  Corneal stood still feeling no emotion. These men were law-breakers. Their deaths meant nothing to him but the accomplishment of a mission.

  He took a step forward and then stopped. Beyond an open door next to the bunk he heard approaching footsteps. He lifted his gun and said:

  “Come out with your hands up!”

  “Very well,” a curiously light voice said.

  The door was pushed aside and a tall, red haired girl entered the room. She crossed the room and stood with her back to the desk facing Corneal. Her eyes were level and her features expressionless.

  “I welcome you to asteroid 13,” she said.

  “Who are you?” Corneal said.

  “My name is Mace.”

  She offered nothing else and Corneal felt a stir of curiosity. She seemed hard and cold as finely tempered steel; but there was a smouldering flame in her eyes that belied the composure of her features, the poise of her body.

  She was tall, finely proportioned, with red hair that fell in straight flaming lines to her wide shoulders. A short crimson cape buckled at her throat and hung to her waist. She wore a broad studded belt about her waist and a to her knees. Her legs were bare, tan-black metallic shirt that hung halfway ned to a deep bronze; and they were slim and strong. Her feet were shod in black boots that flared out at her ankles. She faced him with her hands on her hips, head flung back arrogantly, and there was violent hatred in the swimming depths of her green eyes.

  Corneal flicked a glance at the bodies of the men on the floor.

  “Which of these was the Falcon?”

  “None. The Falcon was a melodramatic name coined by frightened Earth captains. He did not exist.”

  “Who was the commander then of the Vortex?”

  “I commanded the Vortex.”

  FOR once Corneal’s calm was broken. He didn’t believe her at first. It was incredible to him that a girl could have commanded the Vortex; but looking at her more closely he decided it was quite possible. She had a strength and power about her that was like his own.

  “You are a prisoner of Earth,” he said. “When we clean things up here you will be taken back to stand trial.”

  “That I know. It must delight you. But what am I to stand trial for?”

  This will be decided on Earth. It is not my duty to levy charges against you.”

  She smiled bitterly. “You have killed a dozen brave men and destroyed their ship, but you know not what charges have been made against these men.”

  “That is not my concern,” Corneal said coldly. “My orders were explicit. My concern is in carrying out my instructions.” He hated himself for justifying his action to this girl: but something about her arrogant scorn made him feel the necessity of justifying himself.

  “You are a slave to your duty,” she said. “A blind mindless automaton who can’t think for himself. You have murdered honest men and you preach to me of duty. You are viler, Captain, than the enemies of Earth.”

  Corneal felt an anger that was almost sensuous in its keenness. This was what he stood armed against all his life. This was lawlesness, independence, contempt for the rules of society. She represented these elements in the way she had chosen to live; and it was evident in her defiant arrogance. The straight clean lines of her body, legs spread wide, hands on hips, the head flung back imperiously—this enraged him as would a slap in the face.

  “You’re hardly in a position to afford such sentiments,” he said dryly. “Your cooperation with us might help you at the trial.”

  “I want no help at the trial.”

  “Very well. We require your cooperation.”

  “You will get nothing from me.”

  “I want to know the names of the men who were with you, the extent of your raids and how long you have operated from the asteroid.”

  “You will get nothing,” she repeated icily.

  There was a footstep in the corridor and Corneal turned swiftly; but it was Nelson, flushed and grinning.

  “We got them all, Captain,” he said, saluting. He saw the girl then and stared in surprise.

  “Very well,” Corneal said. “Round up the casualties and have them treated.”

  “Two of our crew were hurt,” Nelson said. He paused. Then: “There were no other casualties. The men here refused to surrender.”

  “They are all killed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Corneal saw the girl stiffen; but her expression didn’t change.

  “Send two men in to remove the bodies from here. Then check the Olympiad for an immediate return flight. And notify Earth that we have completed our mission.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nelson said, and went out.

  “Mission completed,” the girl said. “That’s your God, isn’t it? Carrying o
ut orders that come down to you from some mystic height.”

  “Not my God, my life,” Corneal said.

  TWO of his men entered and carried out the bodies of the men. Corneal said to the girl: “Give me your pledge that you will not attempt escape and I will let you free until we reach Earth.”

  “I give no pledges,” the girl said. “Should I get the chance I’ll shoot you without delay or pity.”

  Corneal felt his rigid control snap. He said to his two men: “Bring cords and bind this prisoner.”

  He watched her in silence until the men returned. She showed no expression. He suddenly felt it desperately important that he break this spirit of hers, humble her to his own precept of order and duty.

  He sat down behind the desk while the men bound her wrists behind her back. She offered no struggle or protest; but her green eyes mocked him. The men then stretched her on the cot and tied her legs together at the ankles and below the knees.

  Corneal felt a savage satisfaction in the sight of her lying helplessly bound. Now she would know discipline; she would know that her arms and legs and spirit and mind were not hers to use as she chose. There was a power above human will; and to Corneal that power was duty.

  He dismissed the men and walked to the cot and looked down at her. She glared back at him in her eyes was contempt. He felt frustrated.

  For the bonds he knew had not chained her spirit and mind.

  “When you feel willing to cooperate you will be released. Meanwhile it might do you good to think about the fruits of stubborness.”

  “I pity you,” she said. “You know one method, one motive, one sense of right. And chains are your answer to those who disagree with you.”

  “I have no concern with such things. I am a soldier, obeying orders.”

  “You might be shocked if you had to questions of right and wrong I leave decide such questions for yourself just once.”

  “The occasion is not likely to arise,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  Coming toward him on a dead run he saw Nelson. Saluting as he came to a stop Nelson shoved a message into his hands. “Just came in, sir. A conference message to all Earth fleet units.” Corneal opened the message and saw that it wasn’t in code. As he read the words his heart began pumping harder. He forced down the chill that spread through his body.