Forgotten Fiction

by Lloyd Eshbach

  Leaving the two to make themselves as comfortable as they could in the crowded room, he sent his craft roaring through space, the wreck of the Helios trailing after them at the end of the steel cable.

  GLOOMILY Larry Damore gazed out through a round isol-glass window into the Ceresian night. His gray eyes shone dully under frowning brows. His mind was troubled, striving to fathom the inexplicable and uselessly cruel caprice of fate which had recalled Marcia MacDonald from the mists of memory to torture him with vain longings.

  They were asleep now, the girl occupying his bed in the other room, and Ray Starke stretched out on a pneumatic couch in a near by corner. He could hear their soft, regular breathing. His own couch remained untouched. There would be no sleep for him this night; his thoughts were a horde of mocking devils that gave him no rest.

  Lord—what he’d give for a shot of dope to quiet his nerves! He licked his lips—then suddenly clamped his jaws together, silently cursing himself for his craving. Dope be damned! . . . Then he shook his head. No sense in letting himself go. Eventually calmness returned.

  Queer, he thought, how events were interwoven in the vast loom of life. On one hand, his wish to overcome the drug habit, and his assignment to this lonely outpost. On the other, the whim that had prompted an adventure-loving girl to persuade her father to make a place for her in a diplomatic interplanetary voyage—where she certainly did not belong. That, and a massive meteor hurtling through space for incalculable ages, to strike a space ship at a certain point in its flight. Queer!

  Suddenly Larry’s lips twisted wryly. There had been nothing “queer” about his recent conversation with Marcia. That had been agony.

  Upon reaching his metal home several hours earlier, he had reported to his superiors the rescue of Marcia and her companion. Then, while the three of them had talked, he had prepared a hasty meal for his guests. At its conclusion, Marcia, with characteristic abruptness, had announced that she wished to speak with Larry alone—“to talk over old times.” Taking the hint, but with poor grace, Starke had decided to do a little exploring before darkness fell, and had left them.

  Marcia had gone directly to the thought that had been troubling her. Larry remembered her words:

  “Larry Damore, you’re not yourself! You’re too quiet, too reserved. What’s wrong?”

  Then he had told her his story, omitting nothing.

  “I’m here now,” he had concluded, “thousands of miles from drugs. I can’t go back—and even if I could, I wouldn’t have the courage. Here I can fight against the craving with half a chance of winning. On earth something might happen—the dope—and I don’t think I’d have enough will power left to take myself away from the stuff again. I know I’m a coward—but I can’t help it.”

  “Oh, Larry—I’m sorry, so sorry,” she had whispered.

  He had looked into her eyes, had seen a world of pity there—but he hadn’t wanted pity—didn’t want it now! He had been glad when Starke had returned.

  Spineless, she must think him—and she was justified. He ground his teeth savagely. He hadn’t asked for the drug in the first place, had he? It—it was hell! Memories of past happiness with Marcia tortured him—for he loved the girl.

  With unseeing eyes Larry stared out into the nocturnal gloom. Then slowly his mind began to record the things he saw. A vast ebony dome, the setting for a spangled splendor of gleaming gems. No; they were eyes, some huge, round, owlish—the neighboring asteroids; others narrowed, mere pin-points of light—the distant stars.

  One of those globes was Vesta, the most enigmatic of the asteroids; it must be that glittering, silvery orb to the left—the impressive and most brilliant body in the heavens. Idly Larry studied the sphere, an idea fixing itself in his brain. Suddenly he decided. More than an hour of darkness remained; he couldn’t sleep; so he’d spend that hour beneath his telescope studying Vesta at close range.

  Stealthily he secured his space suit, and got into it without disturbing the sleepers. As soundlessly he opened the air-lock, passed through it into the Ceresian night.

  His telescope was stored in the space-boat hangar; lighting his way with an electric torch, he crossed the broken terrain. Reaching the hangar, he carried the telescope, already set on its tripod, to a huge, flat-topped rock, and trained it on Vesta. Then he seated himself on a small stone beneath the instrument and peered through the eyepiece.

  An instant he stared, uncomprehending; then his eyes grew wide and fixed in frozen astonishment. Little wonder that Vesta shone with thrice the brilliance of any other asteroid; little wonder that no one had explained the cause of that brilliance. For Vesta was encased in a sheathing of mail!

  A huge ball of silvery white, she hung in the sky, casting back the rays of the sun in a blinding torrent. Like some gigantic, spherical space ship, she seemed to Larry, with her highly polished surface dotted with small, circular apertures. Apertures too regularly spaced to be the result of anything but intelligent planning.

  With his mind a chaotic jumble, Larry studied the unnatural sphere. What was the reason for the coating of metal? What manner of beings had created it? Suddenly he blinked, then gazed steadily through the eyepiece.

  Something, a drifting cloud of silvery mist, seemed to be flowing from the round openings, to drift and eddy and swirl about the little world. Steadily the cloud grew, obscuring portions of the metal surface. Now it began to move away from Vesta; and with its motion, it became more tenuous, more difficult to see. Finally Larry lost it among the stars.

  For the remainder of the short night he kept his gaze fixed on Vesta, but it remained unchanged.

  Dawn, sweeping over the low, airless Ceresian mountains in a single burst of glory, cut short his observations. Rising, he sprang across the rocks to his home. Noisily he passed through the air-lock and burst into the room, forgetting that his guests would still be sleeping.

  Ray Starke snapped erect, startled. “What happened?” he demanded, blinking sleepily.

  From the other room came sounds of uneasy motion.

  Larry grinned. “Sorry I disturbed you. But I’ve just seen something that to me—or any other astronomer—is about the biggest thing that ever happened.” Rapidly he told what he had discovered.

  “All very interesting,” Starke commented stiffly, “but I don’t think it’s important enough to warrant your waking me.” He glanced through a window. “Since it’s daylight I suppose I might as well get dressed.” He slipped into the few outer garments he had removed for the night.

  Larry shrugged. “I’ve already apologized; I’m afraid I can’t do any more.”

  At that moment Marcia’s voice came through the partition. “May I come out?”

  Larry and Starke answered in unison; and the girl joined them, the nervous horror gone from her face. She was smiling disapprovingly.

  “There seems to be some disagreement between you two,” she chided. “It just isn’t being done, you know. What did you see, Larry?”

  Eagerly Larry described his discovery. As he talked he saw Marcia’s face light up with wondering interest.

  “I want to see that!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you, Ray?”

  “Oh, yes; of course,” he answered without attempting to conceal his boredom.

  “Is it still visible, Larry? Can I see it now?”

  Larry nodded; and Marcia immediately began putting on her space suit. With studied indifference Starke followed her example. Ready, the three passed into the open.

  Suddenly Marcia pointed upward questioningly. Larry’s eyes followed the direction of her gaze, and he stopped short, an unaccountable stab of anxiety prodding him.

  High above was that cloud of silvery mist that had come from Vesta two hours earlier. But now it was no cloud; it had become a swarm of small, metallic bodies that reflected the sunlight in a white shimmer. A swarm that drew steadily closer.

  An instant Larry watched the shifting mass; then he motioned Marcia and Starke back into the boxlike building. About to ob
ject, Marcia met Larry’s eyes, and she followed Starke without remonstrance. As they passed from sight, Larry sprang to his telescope and pointed it toward the metallic horde.

  God! The word was more of a prayer than a curse. What were these things? Thousands upon thousands of slender metal tubes about a half-inch in diameter and three or four inches in length were flashing toward Ceres!

  Each end tapered to a needle-sharp tip—a swarm of double-pointed projectiles. Could these be the intelligences that had given Vesta her metal cloak? Or were the cylinders but the vehicles that bore the inhabitants of the asteroid? The latter was probably the truth.[2]

  STEADILY larger grew the swarm, passing beyond the field of the telescope. Were they friendly or hostile? If hostile, they were drawing too close for safety. Straightening, he glanced upward—and with a startled cry sprang for shelter. The things were darting all around him!

  He was beset by a horde of them, a deafening fusillade rattling against his space suit. With flailing arms he beat them off, but they returned with increased fury. He was staggering drunkenly when he reached the door of the airlock; his head was ringing—and through it struggled a thought of thankfulness for the strength of his isol-glass helmet.

  The door swung open, and Marcia and Ray Starke stood in the doorway. Twin streams of flame shot from their rocket pistols, spraying back and forth through the ranks of the silvery tubes. Like wax they burned under the blasts; in an instant the main body of the things darted out of range. As Larry stumbled into the airlock his companions ceased firing, and flung shut the door.

  As the three removed their helmets, Larry smiled grimly. “One good turn deserves another . . . Thanks.”

  Neither Starke nor Marcia answered. They were listening to the ceaseless rain of impacts like a furious hail storm battering the roof and sides of the building. Rapidly it mounted to a steady roar. The girl crossed to one of the windows, and her face paled as she saw the thousands of tiny projectiles. Facing Larry, she raised her voice above the din.

  “How long will the wall keep them out? It can’t last very long, can it?” There was grave concern on Larry’s face. The roar came from a single section of the wall now.

  “Not very long, Marcia. For some reason they want to get in here—and I don’t know how we can stop them.” Starke looked at the pistol he was holding. “We can give them some opposition with this; the little devils can’t stand the heat.”

  “Too many of them,” Larry said curtly, shaking his head.

  For silent moments they looked into each other’s faces. What could they do? Starke stared fearfully through a window. Marcia watched Larry who was deep in thought. She saw his expression change subtly. Something indefinable appeared on his face. Suddenly he spoke, his voice almost casual.

  “I have a plan that should work. I’ve considered it from all angles, and it seems fool-proof. The space-car is the only way out. But if we’d just run for it, the little imps might puncture our suits before we made it. And if we’d get into it safely we’d probably be followed out into space, and have the boat disabled there—since the things seem to be just as fast as a space ship.

  “As I see it, there’s only one way for you, Marcia, and Starke to escape. I’ll go out first and start running away from the buildings. When our little friends follow me—I’m sure they will—and we’re out of sight, you two rush for the space ship and head toward Mars. You can operate the boat, Marcia. Perhaps I can double back and get into the shack again, and make a stand against the things.”

  Marcia’s heart leaped. So this was the self-styled coward, the weakling drug-addict who feared to go back to Earth! But every atom of her cried out against his making the sacrifice.

  “No!” she objected emphatically, “I won’t stand for that. It wouldn’t be fair. You—you’d be committing suicide while we ran like cowards!”

  With an effort Larry ignored her; addressed Starke. “It’s the only way to save Miss MacDonald, so we’ll have to do it.”

  Starke flushed. “But it isn’t fair for you to take all the risk. Let’s toss up a coin.”

  Larry shook his head decisively. “Nothing doing! It’s my job. I took you from the Helios, and it’s up to me to see that you get safely back to earth or Mars. I stay.”

  With reluctance that poorly concealed his relief, Starke agreed. “We shouldn’t do it,” he said, “but if you insist—”

  “Okay, get ready to go. I’ll want one of the rocket pistols; and when you leave, don’t close the outer airlock door. Move fast when the time comes. That’s all.”

  Marcia was silent. She knew nothing she could say would deter Larry, but her heart rebelled against his giving his life for theirs—for hers! She watched him don his helmet through a blurring mist of tears; began putting hers on mechanically.

  Quickly Larry shook hands, gripping Marcia’s fiercely; then he crossed to the door—and was gone.

  For a moment there was no change, the roar on the wall continuing unabated. Then Marcia caught a glimpse of Larry dashing away in gigantic leaps, a swarm of the metal projectiles after him. The clattering din began to diminish, and in a short time had almost ceased.

  They watched until Larry vanished below the near by horizon of the little world. Then they hurried through the airlock, leaving the second door ajar. They were met by several hundred of the little cylinders which immediately attacked them; but they blasted these into slag with the remaining pistol, and reached the space-car without mishap.

  A minute later they were seated in the control room, and the little craft roared into space, bearing them toward Mars—and safety.

  H.C. MACDONALD’S unruly gray hair bristled angrily as he entered the control room of the express cruiser Vulcan. His rugged features were set in an expression of stern relentlessness.

  “Schneider,” he addressed the pilot, “more speed—more speed! There’s a lad out there on Ceres who saved my daughter’s life. Stuck to his post and let Marcia and that young squirt, Starke, get away in his boat while he risked his neck! An’—an’, by God, if you’ll find some way to stop. D’you hear?”

  “Yes, sir. But if I put on more speed, sir, our momentum will make it difficult to land when we reach the asteroid, sir.”

  “Momentum be damned!” MacDonald roared. “I want more speed; and you’ll find some way to stop. D’you hear?”

  “Very well, sir.” Schneider crouched over the controls.

  The Vulcan, almost empty of passengers, leaped suddenly ahead like a falling meteor. She literally tore through space, her rocket vents thundering—onward, toward Ceres.

  Standing before the space chart, H.C. MacDonald fixed his eyes on the luminous speck that represented the asteroid. And in another part of the cruiser Marcia stared anxiously through an isol-glass window into the blackness, hoping against hope for the safety of Larry. But her heart was heavy, her face pale, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

  “Ceres ahead!” At last the welcome words rang through the cruiser. Skillfully Pilot Schneider manipulated the controls, sending retarding rocket charges from the nose of the Vulcan. At first there was no appreciable difference in their pace, but as the full power of the forward check-vents was applied, the cruiser slowed its headlong flight, and in a very few minutes floated almost motionless in space.

  “We’ve done it, sir,” Schneider announced quietly.

  “I knew you would.” H.C. MacDonald left the room to get into a space suit.

  Through a powerful binocular the pilot searched the surface of Ceres for sight of the great fuel tank and the boxlike house—the refueling station. Back and forth across the little world he sent the cruiser, but nowhere could he see that which he sought. Finally he caught sight of a wide, shining metal plain blotched here and there with irregular masses of black. He let the ship sink toward it. A minute passed—and the Vulcan landed a hundred feet from the gleaming area. Within the cruiser everyone clustered at the windows.

  Before them lay an irregular plain of Ceresian rock,
blackened in spots as by searing flame; in others, coated with metal, as though molten nickel-steel had flowed and splashed over them. There was no motion, nothing to indicate life.

  “What—what happened?” H.C. MacDonald muttered.

  Marcia shook her head dumbly, biting her lip in dread. What have happened? For this was where Larry’s home had been—she recognized the topography of the place. But the tank, the three buildings, even the wrecked fragment of the Helios—all were gone! Fused into metal to coat the rocks!

  And Larry—where was he? And where were the little metal things? Perhaps they had . . . Marcia uttered a horrified gasp. Could they have done this, burning Larry with the refueling station, then leaving for their own world? She buried her face in her hands to shut out the thought.

  “What is it, Marcia?” her father asked anxiously.

  Sobbing, she explained. “And, dad,” she ended, “I knew him at college—loved him there . . . And I—I love him now!”

  “But—the drugs—”

  Quickly she pressed her fingers over his lips. “That—that’s past. I know he had overcome the habit—and I know he loves—loved me.”

  H.C. MacDonald swallowed an annoying something that rose into his throat. Awkwardly he patted the girl’s shoulder.

  “Maybe there’s still a chance. You may be mistaken about what happened here. At least, we’ll search for him.”