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Title: Space rays
Author: Jr. John W. Campbell
Author of introduction, etc.: Hugo Gernsback
Illustrator: Frank R. Paul
Release date: September 22, 2026 [eBook #79635]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Stellar Publishing Corporation, 1932
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79635
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPACE RAYS ***
SPACE RAYS
By John W. Campbell, Jr.
_Illustration by Paul_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Wonder Stories December 1932.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Reasonableness In Science Fiction
BY HUGO GERNSBACK
When science fiction first came into being, it was taken
most seriously by all authors. In practically all instances,
authors laid the basis of their stories upon a solid scientific
foundation. If an author made a statement as to certain future
instrumentalities, he usually found it advisable to adhere closely
to the possibilities of science as it was then known.
Many modern science fiction authors have no such scruples. They do
not hesitate to throw scientific plausibility overboard, and embark
upon a policy of what I might call scientific magic, in other
words, science that is neither plausible, nor possible. Indeed, it
overlaps the fairy tale, and often goes the fairy tale one better.
This is a deplorable state of affairs, and one that I certainly
believe should be avoided by all science fiction authors, if
science fiction is to survive.
In the present offering, Mr. John W. Campbell, Jr., has no doubt
realized this state of affairs and has proceeded in an earnest way
to burlesque some of our rash authors to whom plausibility and
possible science mean nothing. He pulls, magician-like, all sorts
of impossible rays from his silk hat, much as a magician extracts
rabbits. There is no situation that cannot easily be overcome by
some sort of a preposterous scientific--(as he terms it)--gimmick.
Hurling fifteen million horsepower from one space flyer to another
means nothing. If he has left out any colored rays, or any magical
rays that could not immediately perform certain miraculous wonders,
we are not aware of this short-coming in his story.
In other words, the author proceeds to burlesque science
fiction--not only science fiction, but he burlesques his own
abilities, to show us what really can be accomplished when the
bounds of reasonableness are overstepped.
Yet, all in all, he has spun a delightful tale which will,
nevertheless, entertain you, and keep your interest throughout. We
were tempted to rename the story "Ray! Ray!" but thought better of
it.
I have gone to this length to preach a sermon in the hope that
misguided authors will see the light, and hereafter stick to
science as it is known, or as it may reasonably develop in the
future.
* * * * *
Eight large men were crowded in a small emergency space ship. They were
physically crowded; the air was bad for the little ship was built for
three men, and the capacity of the air apparatus was hardly sufficient
for them. And so the E.E. 4 was wobbling under her controls, with
acceleration greatly reduced.
Lt. Roger Lane and his men felt exceedingly foolish. They had just
surrendered without protest to a pirate, for the altogether-too-good
ship _Robin Good_ had suddenly appeared alongside the Lane Patrol ship
L.P.C. 563. The air in the patrol cruiser glowed faintly blue, and the
crew of seven men and two officers slumped down where they were. The
latest Farrel Atomics, capable of generating fifteen million horsepower
for the defense of the cruiser hadn't even started. Nine helpless men
watched while _Robin Good_ sent over a shipload of men in space suits.
Each carried a small hand projector, and without entering the beam from
the ship they turned their small projectors on the men in the cruiser.
Fully conscious, but helplessly paralyzed, Lt. Lane and his men
were dumped unceremoniously into this tiny escape ship, and turned
adrift, without radio or weapons. Lane was heading with all speed for
Mars, some thirty million miles away. But one of the pirate crew had
thoughtfully removed one of the miniature Farrel Atomic engines, with
the result that their McKinley space-drive plates were not getting
the power they should have--the lights were dim, and the already
over-loaded air apparatus was functioning badly.
Pilot Warren was in the tiny cubby-hole in the nose of the ship,
speeding with all the acceleration he could muster for Mars, although
the officers of the ship were not so enthusiastic about getting
there. It would have been bad enough to have been unable to find
the pirate after being sent out for the purpose of overhauling his
slower ex-space-yacht, but to have lost the speedy, powerfully armed
space cruiser without a struggle! Commander Morrison would make some
exceedingly pointed remarks, and it would be a long, long time before
Lane got a new rating.
"I'll bet Barclay gets a work-out outa this," said Patrolman Reynolds,
sourly.
Yes, decided Lane, Special-Captain Donald Barclay would probably get
some work. He hoped that Barclay would be picked up by the pirate too.
Barclay had an annoying habit of doing what he was sent to do. Nobody
ever said anything about it, least of all Barclay, but those reports on
the bulletin board had become monotonous.
Lt. Lane permitted himself to grouse heartily, silently and hungrily
for thirty hours while the escape ship limped into port. He decided to
permit himself a meal and a shower before appearing before Commander
Morrison. It would be a teleview appearance, because Morrison was on
Earth, but the Commander had long since learned the knack of being
nasty over the televisor. He would be specially nasty this time. Lane
took a long pull on some forbidden _tekey_--fermented Martian cactus
juice--and felt ready to face the Commander.
Half an hour later he came out of the booth. It was after sunset, the
air was chill, but Lane was sweating profusely. Morrison had just
grinned and nodded. Lane wished he could grin like that. Then he
wouldn't have to bawl out sloppy workers. Lane went to the barracks and
was soon asleep.
Meanwhile Commander Morrison started things moving. As he cut off the
teleview image of the harassed young officer on Mars, he pushed a
button, and his orderly appeared.
"Special-Captain Barclay, at once please." The orderly saluted smartly
and right-about faced. Ten minutes later a peculiar looking man entered
the room behind the orderly. Morrison greeted him with a friendly, easy
salute.
Special-Captain Don Barclay smiled at him. Barclay looked to be
about five feet tall by four feet wide. Actually he was nearly
five-feet-seven, but his enormous breadth belied it. Barclay was a type
of man seen rather rarely on the minor planets. He was a Jovian.
Three generations back his people had migrated from Earth, when
Jupiter's colonies were newly opened, in 2250. Men and women picked by
the Interplanetary Council, for both physical strength and health, for
courage and for trustworthiness. To them had been given the task of
developing a new race, a race of giants. Under a gravitational force
of from two and one half to three times that of the Earth, they had to
learn to live again. The cowards never started, the weaklings died.
Never was it more true than of this Jovian colonization.
* * * * *
Born and raised on this planet, where all things must move rapidly to
keep up with their surroundings, where a falling body moved two and
a half times as quickly as on Earth, Don Barclay had become a giant.
His legs were thick, heavy and almost blocky, his arms were built on
the same plan, his tremendous shoulders seemed rounded and padded as
though he wore wadding under the tight elastic Patrol uniform. His
massive head, crowned with crisp black hair, seemed set directly on his
shoulders, the neck seemed missing. Five-feet-seven--and he weighed
over two hundred and ninety pounds!
"More work, Commander? I thought I was to have a week off after
that little run-in with the Eugenic people." He smiled, his lean,
almost black face, burned from ceaseless exposure to the unshielded
ultraviolet rays of the sun, creasing in a good-natured smile.
"Uhuh--so did I. But remember, this isn't a business, it's a war, only
we don't know whom we're fighting half the time. This time it's Percy
DeWare Jennings, better known as 'Robin Good'," replied the officer
sourly. "He just stole one of our ships--the L.P.C. 563, Lt. Lane in
command."
"Ouch--he tickled us that time. That does demand some action. What else
has he been doing. I don't know all his story."
"Started off with a ten-man ship he bought second-hand on Mars,
only half a million horse, but he and his gang captured an ex-yacht
converted to an excursion ship. They used that about a month, then they
captured this ship of ours. Fifteen million horse in perfectly good
Farrel atomics, with induction rays, magnetic and induction screens,
super-sensitive electron balance detectors. It hasn't got protolectric
guns, but has got the shields. In other words he's got everything we've
got, plus his own paralyzing ray. All in all a sweet situ--"
Commander Morrison stopped. His orderly had intruded hurriedly with
"Pardon me, Commander, but this broadcast--" He snapped on the news
broadcast machine, and the screen glowed with the image of a popular
humorous news man.
"--anonymous person has sent in this tip from space. They gave data,
and checking shows it's right. Believe it or not, 'Robin Good' has
sneaked one over on the Patrol for sure this time. He stole their
patrol Cruiser 563, got away with it, and sent the men home, neatly
wrapped up in an escape ship designed for three men. They landed on
Mars, I hear. All this happened yesterday, Sol 3, of the year of our
Lord 2374. I certainly would like to have seen our good Commander
Morrison's face when Lt. Lane, commanding 563 reported _that_ in. Hah!
Hah!"
"Damn! Now who in the name of the nine planets sent that dope to that
blabber-mouthed nit-wit!" roared Morrison. "I'd like to twist his
squawking neck for--"
"And," continued the news machine imperturbably, "I'd like to see
Commander Morrison's face right now if he's listening."
Had he been able to, he would have seen it tinged with an apoplectic
purple, the stiff, iron-grey hair bristling erect on his head, his
mouth open and gasping for words to describe his opinion of the man.
* * * * *
The orderly shut off the machine and hurried from the room before
Commander Morrison could regain his tongue.
When the color had receded, his mouth closed with a snap. He turned on
Barclay with a roar. "Captain, GET THAT MAN, AND BRING HIM IN ALIVE!"
"I'll try," said Barclay, saluting. He left the office. "Whew--I think
I'd better. And it'll be one sweet job. Nobody ever sees that man's
ship; he's supposed to have found the secret of invisibility, and I'm
supposed to find him.
"I think some research is in order." His stride suddenly became
purposeful as he started for the elevator. He dropped swiftly to the
street, went down the hill to the edge of the Patrol Headquarters
grounds, and entered the city of Morristown itself. At the gates he
paused long enough to slip on a suit of civilian clothes. Then he went
directly to the monorail station, and swung aboard a car bound for New
York City 33rd. The streamlined car darted forward as a McKinley drive
plate in the nose came to life, and hurled itself along the rail fifty
feet above the countryside toward the city.
At 33rd Station he descended, and stepped aboard the uptown walk,
quickly moving over to the medium speed lane. At thirty-five miles an
hour he was swept along through the magnificent canyon of New York.
The flashing vitreous walls of huge buildings, made of colored glass
bricks, windowless, save on the first two stories where show windows
broke the sweeping lines of the pinnacles and lighted the street with
reflected lights of red and gold and blue. Within, perfectly controlled
artificial lights and perfectly comfortable artificial weather
displaced the glaring sunlight and humid heat of the streets.
To the man of Jupiter these cities were forever wonderful. Jupiter,
burdened with its heavy gravity, could not build so high, because
the sheer weight would have pulled the structure down. On Mars was
the Martian Lines Tower, carrying the flag of the Martian Lines
interplanetary ships one full mile into the clear, crisp air--standing
tall, almost alone among the massed ranks of giant structures that made
this a city like none other.
Finally, at 87th Street he left the moving walk, and went down to
the towering skyscraper library of the City of New York. It was the
scientific news journals that he inspected first. Journals of six
and eight months back, before Dr. Percy DeWare Jennings had gone
a-pirating, when he was a highly respected bio-physicist.
But there was little to indicate that he might have discovered the
secret of invisibility, his work had not been along those lines. But
six months ago he had announced his discovery of the long-sought
paralyzing ray that was not fatal. Others had made paralyzing rays that
paralyzed--permanently, however. The trouble was that they paralyzed
the heart and the lungs as well as the arms and legs. But Jennings
had announced his discovery of a non-fatal paralyzing ray. Scientists
of the world had scoffed--it was an impossibility. "Come and see!"
demanded Jennings.
They came. But they did not see, for something went wrong with the
apparatus. First it killed a dog, then a mouse ran about under it
unhampered. The scientists went home laughing.
Perhaps Jennings had gone slightly mad. At any rate he disappeared
for five months, to turn up with a pirate gang. They looted passenger
liners, helpless under the paralyzing ray, but they themselves could
not enter the ray without being paralyzed, for they had no screen for
it.
Don Barclay mused, investigated, and got later data--accounts of the
experiment written by scientists who had seen it, both immediately
after the demonstration, and five months later when Jennings proved his
claims all too thoroughly.
It was a long patient search, and took two days. The third day Special
Captain Barclay of the Interplanetary Lane Patrol became Dr. Donald
Barclay, and went to the Patrol research laboratories. He spent three
more days there. Commander Morrison asked him why he hadn't started,
and Barclay merely replied he had gone.
But on the sixth day he reported to Commander Morrison, and asked to be
assigned to a ship.
"Naturally," snapped Morrison. "But why didn't you come after it
sooner?"
"I was working on leads here," replied Barclay. "And may I have X-531?"
"What!" gasped Morrison, "X-531? That's a one-man experimental ship."
"With ten million horse in the brand-new Ridgely Automatic
Atomics," replied Barclay. "And I want another ship anyway, the new
Twenty-five-Hundred. And I'd like Dave Wier to take it, with a crew of
Jovians. I'll try to find the pirate myself in the small ship. I can
hide a mosquito like that in space, with a little black paint on it,
and some red windows, with green lights in the ship. I'm betting that's
what this Jennings does with his _Robin Good_ anyway. I hear that
Grantland has just finished a new type fast-action infra-heat photocell
that will work a viso-screen. I want one of those installed, that'll
make anything visible in space. And--here's something to install in the
I.P.C. 2500."
CHAPTER II
Barclay Goes to Work
Morrison looked at his crack Special-Captain sourly.
"Oh, yes sir, and can I give you the rest of the fleet?"
"Will you if I bring in Jennings and his crew--unharmed?" smiled
Barclay, looking at the news-receiver, clucking and chuckling to itself
on low power.
Morrison got slightly red and snapped "Yes!"
"And look at this, sir!" suggested Barclay. Morrison took the sheaf
of papers, and glanced hurriedly at the first lines, stiffened, and
scanned the paper rapidly. "Good Lord, will it work?"
"It does, Commander, I tried it. I did some research on reports I found
in the Public Library, and made some experiments."
"But--don't you want it in the X-531?" he asked in surprise.
"No sir, I don't. I want the Miller Twins instead. I have an idea that
works better this way."
"But the pirate may capture you, and learn the secret of the Miller
Twins. That's our latest and best weapon. Why, the Twenty-five-Hundred
isn't even commissioned yet, and she's the only one that's got them,
and the insulation," objected the Commander. "I can't let Wier take
that ship, she isn't commissioned."
"Commander, I'll bring in Jennings if you'll let Wier take that--if
he has to steal it unofficially. Why can't Wier take it out on trial
maneuvers?"
"Ahh--well," said Morrison, scowling at the news machine, "go
ahead--but if that half-witted flap-eared donkey reports that Jennings
is using the Miller Twins before any commissioned ship--you needn't
report back!"
Barclay's lips cracked in a slight smile. "He may--but don't worry
Commander--it'll be my own hide that suffers."
Barclay left with the requisition slips Morrison had been filling out.
And twenty-four hours later, after fifteen hours of concentrated sleep,
Barclay left Earth in a tiny pea-pod of a ship, scarcely twenty feet
long. But it carried ten million horsepower generators humming with a
soft, pleasant melody behind him. They occupied almost the entire bulk
of the ship, the pilot was forced to sleep in his pneumatic springed
pilot chair.
A million miles from Earth, on his way toward Mars, Barclay took a
small key and unlocked the acceleration stop-block. Presently he moved
the metal stop-block from its position at "4000" to "7500". Four
thousand centimeters per second per second was all any Earth-native
could stand in the way of acceleration and still retain sufficient
consciousness for fighting. Hence the lock, lest some foolhardy
fighter try more. But Barclay, brought up on a world where the natural
acceleration and gravity was nearer 3000, could readily stand the
higher value.
And somewhere in space he knew that Dave Wier, his support in the
Twenty-five-Hundred, was manipulating a similar key in a similar
lock-block. His crew of twenty-two men were all Jovians, for that
acceleration might well be fatal to the Earth-native.
Presently Barclay locked the block again, closed down the control panel
hood, and forced the accelerator control over. He pushed steadily till
his face grew pale under the nearly black complexion years in space
had given him. His arm was knotted with great muscles, the shoulders
bulging and straining at the fabric of his uniform. A black metal
needle had long since passed the red danger line on the accelerometer
gauge, and hung at 7500. Barclay gradually eased back, and the needle
dropped to a comfortable 2750. Barclay got up, and stretched under
Jupiter-normal.
He prepared a hasty meal while the ship darted along under automatic
controls, jogging slightly now and then as a meteor came into the range
of the exceedingly sensitive electro-static mass-detectors. Presently
he finished, cleaned away the scraps by dumping them into space,
re-seated himself and shoved the acceleration up a bit. Hour after hour
he bored on into space, his ship a black dot in a black void.
* * * * *
Three days later found the tiny ship far beyond Mars, circling near
the asteroids. _Robin Good_ was reported to work out this way in
search of Jupiter traffic. Barclay had been following the shifting
Jupiter-Earth lane for two days now. The Space Liner _Mira_ was due to
pass in another day, from Jupiter to Earth, and loaded with the usual
assortment of heavy metals, platinum, iridium, osmium, some uranium,
and a full pound and a half of jovium, element 97, on which the pirate
must depend for renewing his atomic engines.
The space patrol cruiser had had only a sixteen-hundredth of a gram
left in the supply bins, and an eight-thousandth of a gram in the
engines. This might well last a year in ordinary service, but under
the heavy drains the pirate's constant warfare would make, it would
probably give out in six months. With a pound and a half at his
command, he could retain a full ounce, a lifetime supply, and sell the
rest of the activator. Barclay felt sure he would attack.
Barclay was right. He was sleeping when the exceedingly delicate
electro-static apparatus gave him the first warning of the _Robin
Good's_ approach. The tiny X-531 spun on her axes in an instant--and
space was empty. Nowhere could Barclay get a sight of the ship the
instruments said was less than a mile away, and approaching! Then--the
infra-red screen, and the long, black hull was suddenly visible exactly
where the instruments had said it would be. Invisible in ordinary
light, the radiated heat made it shine a pale green on the screen.
Chuckling, Barclay shoved home a small control lever. The white cabin
lights suddenly snapped out, and green lights came on in their stead.
Simultaneously, the ship leapt forward at her full 7500 acceleration,
at right angles to the line between the two ships. Outside, the
pirate looked in vain for the tiny ship that had been shining red
before him. The green light did not penetrate the red glass windows.
Barclay was lost, and the special electro-static field he was setting
up, fluctuating wildly, made it impossible to locate him with the
instruments.
Ten miles from his original position, he swung, till the nose of his
ship pointed toward the pirate craft, and a pair of hair lines crossing
on the center of the infra-screen covered the center of the pirate
ship. The X-531 suddenly chattered violently as a machine gun, shooting
one inch slugs loaded with atomic explosive iron dust, raked the pirate
craft from stem to stern.
The ex-cruiser's magnetic screen stopped them, but they resulted in
a magnificent display of fire-works that would have blown an entire
nation off the face of the Earth. Barclay moved. From another angle he
centered his cross-hairs on the screen and pushed a button. Suddenly
a spot five feet across on the wall of the pirate ship was blazing
red--orange--and then black, while a sea of splashing, warring energy
appeared on the induction screen.
The arcing decreased abruptly as Barclay cut down the power on this,
and turned five million horsepower into an infra-heat ray. The result
was an instant blaze of white light, and a puff of white-hot vapor from
the bow of the _Robin Good_. The black outer-hull soaked up the heat
like a blotter taking water--and destroyed itself. But suddenly, in
the wink of an eye, the black was gone, and the clean, shining metal of
the patrol cruiser appeared. Instantly the reflected heat struck the
little X-531 and Barclay was compelled to shut off his beam and shift
hurriedly.
A sizzling induction beam from the pirate snapped by where he had been
a moment before. Barclay felt it was time for the Twins.
Twin, milky-white columns of light reached out like pipes of milky
glass. They swung abruptly, and touched the pirate ship some
twenty-feet from the tail. Instantly the metal between the two beams
blazed into white heat, and exploded out into space. And immediately
after, a second puff from the same spot indicated the destruction of
the inner skin of the ship. A long fountain of light stood out from the
wall of the ship as the air rushed out.
Barclay moved his beams slowly and steadily, while the generators
behind him whined and howled steadily. Ten million horsepower were
pouring into those beams, and into the metal of the other ship. For
less than five seconds that work continued. The _Robin Good_ rolled,
twisted and struggled, but the little mosquito ship hung grimly in
place, and poured its deadly beams in. Then a pale blue-green ray,
scarcely visible in space, reached back along the twin milky beams,
and touched the mosquito ship. Suddenly the X-531 followed a perfectly
straight course, and the twin beams wandered far afield.
Inside the ship the air became luminous with the blue-green beam, and
Barclay slumped inertly forward over his instrument panel. His eyes
were open, but stared motionlessly straight ahead. Don Barclay was
fully conscious, but absolutely unable to move a muscle.
* * * * *
The blue-green luminosity crept forward in the ship, till only the
pilot and the pilot's seat was bathed in it. Presently something grated
on the emergency escape air-lock, and there was a hiss of gas, then a
steady pumping. A moment later a giant of a man stepped from the inner
lock-door, a flashlight in one hand, a ray-pistol of some sort in the
other. It was a curious mechanism, a pistol grip, a flexible lead
looping back along his arm to a small pack on his back. The business
end of the pistol ended in a lens of wires, woven and crossed with
infinite care, the whole protected by bars of metalite, an insulating,
non-conductor of heat with the strength and polish of many metals.
The man was a giant, but such a giant as one might see in
dreams--nearly six-feet-eight in height, broad in proportion. He wore
only light green rayon shorts, a short-sleeved shirt to match, and a
broad leather belt from which hung three holsters, and two more pistols.
But his face was an awful travesty of what Nature had meant. At some
time he had been in a ray-fight, the entire left side of his face was a
mottled purple and angry red, the right side was puckered and twisted
till it drew the flesh away from the teeth, a horrible artificial grin
resulting. The tip of the nose was entirely missing. But from just
below the eyes to the hairline the flesh was smooth, and deeply tanned,
almost black from exposure to the sun of space. The face was topped by
a shaggy, unkempt mop of glaring red hair.
The motionless Barclay groaned inwardly. Belasco Red! Six months before
Lt. James McRuddy had reported the death of this devil in human form.
When the Belasco gang had been cleaned out of Thenton, Mars, he had
been rayed, across the face, the flesh charred black. A companion had
been there to drag him away. The companion had been captured two days
later and told the Patrol that Belasco Red had died and been cast into
space, while the ship struggled to make good its escape.
Belasco Red was grinning more broadly now. The pistol suddenly shot out
a blue-green ray which centered on Barclay's neck. A great hand waved,
and the beam from the pirate ship snapped out. Belasco walked forward
gingerly, keeping the ray on Barclay, then picked him up and carried
him back to the lock, through the metal communication tube and into the
pirate ship.
"Looka wat we caught," he laughed, dumping Barclay on the floor. For a
fraction of a second the patrolman was out of the ray, and the instant
his body touched the floor he leaped up like an un-leashed spring. His
hand darted toward the giant outlaw's pistol, but halfway it fell to
his side as the ray touched his neck once more.
"It wants to fight I think," said Belasco. "It's a patrolman from the
looks of the suit. Shall we play with it awhile?" His grotesque face
writhed into an expression impossible to describe.
A man of medium height, with smooth sandy hair had looked into the
room, where three other pirates had been when Belasco returned.
"Oh, I say, that looks like Special-Captain Barclay. Truly we're
honored, you know, Captain, but we must detain you a while.
"And, Red, let's let him help us a bit. I'm sure the fellow will be
glad to. That was a nasty little jolt he gave us with those skim-milk
rays of his. Did you look at the apparatus, Thad?" He spoke to a
stockily-built man to one side. Thad was nursing a burned hand.
"Yeah--it's been gimmicked. H-T stuff. Almost took my hand off. I was
careful enough, but the damn thing turned loose half a million volts
soon as I moved the control panel. I'll be damfino how it could. I shut
off the generators. They were new, too, but they blew out when the
beam-control went off."
"Ah--the new Ridgely Automatic Atomics. They can start themselves,
Thad. And they're much more powerful. Too bad. We'll have to capture
the Twenty-five-Hundred when they commission that. I hear it will be
equipped with the new generators.
"Well, it's all right. Cast the machine loose, burn it, and I'm sure
Special-Captain Barclay can help us. I know a bit about rays and such
myself. We should be able to figure it out together, don't you think so
Captain?" The lean man looked at Barclay. "Yes, I think so.
"By the way, Red, just go on and move into position for the _Mira_. We
won't need to make repairs before then, and haven't time. We don't know
just when she'll come, it may be a day or two, and it may be at once.
We can make repairs there."
The disfigured giant gave the ray-pistol to the stocky Thad, and
departed on his errand. Presently the ship swung somewhat in its course.
"Thad," said the sandy-haired one, "suppose I try using that pistol.
I'd like to talk to our friend here, and he seems sulky." Silently the
blocky Thad passed the weapon over. Quickly the new possessor made
several adjustments, then moved the beam from the neck to a point just
below the middle of the chest. Don found his neck and head as well as
his eyes could move now.
"Hello, Jennings. That feels better."
"Ah--quite so, quite so. Have you heard of the stimulator, I wonder?"
"No, I admit ignorance of that. A new invention?"
"Yes--quite. We ought to try it out, don't you think so, Thad? Please
bring me the portable set." Thad disappeared silently. Barclay looked
at the green-clad man before him. Save for the bright red-leather belt
at his waist, his uniform was exactly like the others.
"Is it Lincoln green?" asked Barclay. "I never did know colors."
"No," replied Jennings with mock sadness, "it isn't. We couldn't get
it. It isn't made, and I haven't had time to make any. Managing this
little adventure is really trying. Belasco is so insistent that we
remove all of your confrères on sight, he becomes hard to control at
times. Ah, the Americans are so enterprising. He wants to destroy the
entire patrol. I'm more modest in my desires. We English are apt to
be. I'm planning to induce certain so-called scientists to witness a
demonstration. That will probably take some time, and I do hope I will
continue to have Belasco's co-operation. He's almost impossible.
"You see I treated his face, and not being a skilled plastic surgeon,
it isn't beautiful. But he lived. It's healed now. I used a certain
drug during the process, very quick healing, but unfortunately it's
habit forming. He has hemorrhages of a most frightful sort if he
doesn't get his daily ration. And I'm the only one who can make it.
"He tried once to make me give him the secret. Just once. But he's
still hard to handle sometimes. You for instance. He will insist on
being unpleasant about it. And I am hoping to take certain captives
from the _Mira_ this time, with our larger ship, equipped as it is
with a brig for prisoners, it should be a lucrative trade. But he will
probably be unpleasant.
"Ah, Thad. Thanks. This is the stimulator, Captain. Stimulates certain
nerves. See?"
CHAPTER III
Man and Woman
A pale orange ray reached out of the cone-shaped projector, and touched
Barclay's foot. Involuntarily a cry rang from him. It felt like nothing
describable, it seemed a red-hot vise was clamping on it, crushing
every bone and tendon, while a dozen rats with white-hot teeth gnawed
at it. It lasted but an instant, then the orange ray snapped out.
"The stimulator," said the bland Jennings, "affects only the nerves
leading to the brain, stimulating them instead of paralyzing the nerves
leading from the brain as does the paralyzing ray. It affects all the
nerves, so the sensations are mixed, a feeling of fire, of crushing
pressure, of breaking bones, itching, everything is stimulated.
"Very interesting," Jennings nodded to himself. "Very effective," he
smiled.
A muffled vibration from the beryllium metal flooring announced the
approach of some massive man, and presently Belasco's ghastly mask of a
face appeared.
"Ah, entertaining him? Does he know what that apparatus is all about?"
"Certainly. He probably aided in its construction. They wouldn't send a
man who knew nothing about it to test it would they?" snapped Jennings.
"You do, do you not, Captain?"
"No," lied Barclay immediately. "It was secret stuff; they told me how
to work it, rigged it with that gimmick, and sent me out. I couldn't
even turn the gimmick off."
"There. You see he knows. Any man who didn't wouldn't be so explicit in
what he didn't know, but would tell all he did," said Jennings, turning
back to Belasco. "In the meantime, let's get that apparatus installed.
You will show us how, Captain?"
"No, I can't, anyway," snapped the Patrol Captain.
Belasco's ham-like hand took the cone of the stimulator projector and
a broad grin appeared on his face. "No?" The ray touched Barclay's
foot. For a moment he stood it grimly, but as the ray deepened in
color, as more power came on, he groaned aloud, sweat started from
his forehead--and yet the ray was not actually harming him! Belasco
grinned wider, and increased the power. This was not pain that was
caused in a natural manner, it was pain that was actually a harmless
nerve stimulation! There was no destroying fire to deaden the nerves,
and lessen the agony, no grinding vise crushed them. They were merely
stimulated.
In thirty seconds Barclay was willing to tell them what he knew.
Belasco kept it up for a full minute. "More," he promised, "if we don't
like your behavior. Will you need anything we won't have on the ship?"
* * * * *
The pain left the instant the ray snapped off, and Barclay sat up
dazedly, leaning back against his hands. His legs were powerless, a
pencil beam shone on them, paralyzing him from the waist down. "Yes,"
he said faintly, "if you've got the regular stock-supplies."
"And more, Captain," Jennings assured him, "we always sail well
equipped, as I like to do experimental work."
"All right. You, and your ray-engineer," said Barclay, "will have
to help. And you'll need some extra heavy conductor cables. To be
effective you've got to turn every horsepower of your generator into
the Twins. Twin beams. And don't put fuses in the lines--" He talked
rapidly, explaining the apparatus, how it projected a beam that would
carry a current of electricity across empty space, explained that if
the beams carrying their millions of horsepower encountered a rib in
the ship, a surge might develop that would blow out a fuse, without
reason but with disastrous results in battle, for several minutes would
be needed to make replacements.
Belasco hung in the background as they worked at plans and drawings and
calculations, his paralyzer and stimulator projectors ever ready. A
fixed projector had been arranged that kept Barclay helplessly pinned
in his seat, his legs powerless.
The ship rang with the clangor of repair workers at work on the damage
done by the X-531.
In some four hours Barclay had finished the plans. Then he was promptly
removed, and put in the brig, stout chains fastening him to the metal
wall. The room, about thirty feet long by fifteen wide, was ordinarily
used by the Patrol as an auxiliary storeroom, but the stores had been
removed in preparation for the expected prisoners of the _Mira_. One
tiny porthole opened on space, to give a view of star-studded heavens.
A row of bright lights down the roof offered illumination. The door was
a single slab of solid steel three inches thick, sliding vertically
against the ship's normal acceleration, and held in place, when locked,
by the series of tremendous magnets all about it. Once settled in
place, nothing short of a disintegration ray could move it. To move the
door in any way, to fuse it, would generate a terrific current in it,
and automatically give the alarm, as well as stun anyone standing on
the metal plates of the brig.
Fifteen feet from the floor was the roof, and five feet below the roof
was a little platform on which a guard could sit to watch a number of
prisoners.
Belasco kicked Barclay in, and left with a growl. He would have
preferred to kill the Special-Captain then, but Jennings pointed out
that the projectors might not work after all.
He was securely chained, and the men left, locking the door
magnetically. Barclay disposed himself on the hard bunk, stoically,
smiled resignedly, with a flash of humor in his eyes. He went
peacefully to sleep.
He woke, hours later, to the clang of the great metal door as it was
shot upward in its slides. A small wiry man, clad in the green uniform
of the pirate ship, entered and stepped to one side of the door, a sly
grin of pleasure on his face. There was a portable stimulator set in
his hand, which he set on the floor, retaining the projector cone and
control mechanism in his left hand, and a paralyzer in his right. A
moment later there was a heavy trampling on the metal floor, groans
and low voices, a sharp command to "step along" in Belasco's harsh
voice, and a string of men entered the room, clad in civilian clothes.
There were tall ones and short ones and thin and fat, but they were all
marched in and fastened by chains to the bunks.
Then finally two women came. The men had been reacting to their capture
in all ways, from the height of indignation to the depths of groveling
fear. The two women marched proudly in, looked over the room with a
swift glance, and marched over to the least-crowded corner, about
twenty feet from Barclay.
One was young, about twenty-two, the other, evidently her mother, about
forty-five. Both were tall, broad and heavily built. The daughter was
Junoesque, if not more. Her mass must have been easily 170 pounds, and
her mother was equally heavy.
And, bringing up the procession, came Belasco. He entered the doorway,
and stood waiting till everyone had been chained, his hideous face
distorted in what was supposed to be a smile of satisfaction.
Silently, a second figure appeared behind him--Jennings. Quick dark
eyes scanned the prisoners, and with a sudden narrowing stopped
on a tall, powerfully built civilian, his face a deep brown from
long exposure to Martian sunlight. But he was a terrestrial, his
smooth-fitting elastic shirt proclaimed his muscles were well
developed, not as a terrestrial becomes after months on Mars.
Jennings passed Belasco, and stepped nearer to the man. "Who," he
demanded, "are you?" still scrutinizing him closely.
"Jimmy Durante, terrestrial engineer, working on Mars. Just made a
trip to Jupiter for some special machinery when your murdering gang of
cut-throats killed off the crew of the ship, and took us. I hope you
get blood-poisoning."
* * * * *
Jennings' face had relaxed from its intense stare of concentration.
"No," he smiled, "you aren't Jimmy Durante, you're John Norcross, and
you're Special-Lieutenant John Norcross at that. You take the air.
We don't want you." He pulled out the red-butted pistol that hung on
his right side, aimed it deliberately at the center of the Patrol
Investigator's forehead and pushed the trigger button. A blinding flash
of white light sprang from it, a momentary odor of burned flesh, and
the light disappeared as Norcross dropped.
"Take that," said Jennings to another uniformed pirate, "and throw
it down the waste-chute." Jennings turned, and started back toward
Belasco. "I'm going up to the pilot-house. The Twins have been
finished, and while you were tying up our friends here, I tried it out
on the old _Mira_. Cut it in two nicely."
"Shall I finish off this thing now?" asked Belasco eagerly, looking
toward Barclay.
"Hmmm--no, I wouldn't yet. I...."
"I wouldn't either, Jennings," said Barclay, "I saw a piece of
apparatus back at H.Q. that might interest you. Shield for the
paralyzer ray, they claimed."
"That," said Jennings judicially, "is a lie. There isn't any. I can't
make one myself, and I made the apparatus, and have the only ray
apparatus."
"Of course you are also the best physicist in the system?" queried
Barclay mildly, but slightly ironically.
"Not the best," admitted Jennings, "but the only one who knows anything
about this apparatus, so you are a liar naturally. But we will want you
in about twelve hours to look over the ray apparatus, so you needn't
spring that joke about a paralyzer screen." Jennings turned and left.
Belasco looked disappointed a moment, then his eyes lighted as he
looked at the girl again.
Everyone had been looking at Barclay. Suddenly the elder woman gave a
little cry of surprise. "Why! It's Donnie Barclay. I didn't see you at
first. How did you get here?" Her voice was deep and powerful.
"Accidentally," replied Barclay with a wry smile, "and unintentionally.
They captured my little one-man ship, Mrs. Willman. I'm sorry to meet
you again."
Mrs. Willman smiled. "Apparently these pirates want ransom for us. I
think Dick will get it. You've recognized Pat haven't you. It's been
nearly seven years since you've seen her though." Mrs. Willman didn't
seem greatly perturbed.
"I did," nodded Barclay, "as soon as you came in."
"Shut up, you!" growled Belasco, looking at Don. There was a gleam of
anticipation in his eyes as he looked at Pat Willman. "And you, little
lady, are kinda heavy. But since a damn ---- of a Planetary Patrolman
rayed me, I haven't seen a woman. I think it's about time. Take off the
things you got on. I wanna see if I like you."
Pat Willman looked at him with unconcealed loathing. "No wonder," she
said simply. "And naturally not. And I advise you not to try it."
Belasco grinned down at her from his six-feet-eight, some thirteen
inches taller. "I think I will. I'd like it."
Mrs. Willman winked at Barclay, Barclay smiled grimly, and began to
weave his fingers into the chains that held him.
Belasco advanced. A grim glint came into the girl's eyes. Belasco's
huge paw reached out and grasped her light jacket. With a vicious jerk
he pulled it away, tearing the material. Pat Willman stood clad in a
light dress. "That," she said with cold anger, "is more than enough."
Belasco grinned, and reached out again. Pat Willman's hand moved like
a streak of light, the great wrist was caught in slim white fingers
that bit into the flesh, a terrific jerk pulled the giant toward her,
and the other hand came up. Belasco was turned around, thrown down, and
kicked, thoroughly pounded, then thrown away, gasping and roaring with
rage and pain. He was thrown at least fifteen feet across the room,
though the ship was moving under an acceleration of an Earth-gravity
now. He fell heavily.
He rose with a roar, and rushed back at her. Pat Willman watched him
coolly. Pat Willman, twenty-two Earth-years old, had lived practically
all her life on Jupiter, a neighbor of Don Barclay. She could move
about three times as rapidly as a terrestrial, and had the strength of
three terrestrials her own size. She was easily more than a match for
any terrestrial man, and she knew it.
CHAPTER IV
Rays and Rays
Barclay had been looking about the room. The guard who had been at
the door when the prisoners entered had gone up to his platform, and
was interestedly watching Belasco's discomfiture at the hands of the
Jovian girl. Belasco had reached her again, and this time she was
slapping him. Her slap was comparable to the playful slap of a tiger,
and Belasco was getting a more severe beating than many men could have
given him. She slapped him with her left hand, which threw him against
her right, her right hand slapped his ribs, and hurled him back to the
left.
"Keep it up," her mother said softly. "Donnie is doing something."
Pat kept it up, till Belasco's head lolled with each jerk, and
blood began to pour from his nose. The guard on the platform didn't
interfere, he didn't like Belasco any more than most of the others of
the crew. In fact he was laughing. Finally Pat threw the unconscious
giant into the middle of the room. The guard looked at him, but made
no move to aid him. Pat Willman also looked at him, her breath coming
rapidly, for the air in the ship was thin for such exertion, used as
she was to Jupiter's dense atmosphere.
Barclay crouched slowly as she turned to look at him, then, like a
flash of light, he bounded straight into the air, and toward the guard
platform thirty feet away, and ten up. His first enormous bound carried
him directly beneath the shelf-like platform, and as the guard rose
with a sudden cry of amazement, to look over the edge, a powerful hand
grasped him, and hauled him downward. As he fell, Barclay eased the
landing with a catlike softness, his great hand about the throat of the
other.
The other hand rose, and with a queer semblance of preciseness, struck
the small man on the side of the head. He went suddenly limp and
Barclay released him. "Two hours," he said judicially, and leapt over
to Belasco. He hit him also on the side of the head with the palm of
his hand.
"Three hours, considering what you did to him, Pat," he smiled at the
girl. "You took their attention away while I broke those chains. I knew
the strength of the chains, and we always have to use double-shackles
on Jovians. This is an ex-Patrol ship, and I know a whale of a lot more
about it than they do."
Barclay drew Belasco's heat-gun, and his paralyzer gun, gave the heat
gun to Pat, and took the paralyzer from the guard. He looked at them
hastily. "Hmmm--twenty shots in all, or ten minutes operation. I'll--"
He stopped abruptly as the heavy metal door shot up. Two men stood
revealed. They had come for the body of the man Jennings had killed.
With a cry of alarm they sprang back, and brought their paralyzer
pistols up. Barclay, moving three times as fast, threw a streaking beam
across both of them. Suddenly one of the pistols exploded in a flash
of light, then grew gradually red-hot. The guard dropped it as Barclay
released him from the beam. In an instant Barclay's swift mind saw what
it meant--the pistols were vulnerable to each other, some induction
effect released the stored energy of one caught in a ray from another.
The dropped pistol was white hot now, smoking and glowing.
From down the corridor came shouts and calls, pounding feet. The
reenforcements were coming. "Throw me your pistol!" commanded Barclay,
lowering his own ray till it paralyzed only the lower part of the man's
body. The second pistol was thrown to him. An instant's glance told him
it was full. He slipped it into his belt, and retreated to the platform.
A moment later a crush of pirates tumbled through the still-open door,
and came with their paralyzers in their hands. Swiftly Barclay passed
his rays over each, and one by one they dropped pistols that were
swiftly heating to incandescence.
But from the door, a yet un-rayed pistol reached Barclay, and his
weapons were suddenly growing unbearably hot. But they seemed to suck
the paralyzing energy into themselves, away from the man, for as he
hurled them from him, he drove like a bullet toward the man whose
pistol had ruined his weapons. The ray caught him in mid-air, but so
swiftly was he coming the man had no time to dodge, and Barclay's
flying body knocked him down, the pistol flying from his hand to crash
into wreckage as it struck the metal wall.
Then men began to pile on Barclay. But Barclay was a rubber ball. He
bounced about the room with unbelievable speed, his flying hands merely
slapping men, but leaving them unconscious for an hour, unless revived
by outside aid.
[Illustration: Men began to pile on Barclay. But he was like a rubber
ball. He bounced about the room with unbelievable speed, merely
slapping men into unconsciousness.]
There were twelve men attacking him, it took him less than forty-five
seconds to send them all to sleep.
* * * * *
Now he lost no time. Others were coming from other parts of the ship no
doubt, and he had no more pistols.
"Pat--that pistol," he demanded. Without a word the girl tossed it to
him. He whirled and shone a beam on a rivet-weld to one side of the
heavy metal door. There was a crash, and the great metal slab fell into
place as the rivet-weld glowed red-hot under the lashing heat-beam.
"Here's the gun--keep it, and cut your chains. Take care of them,
collect their guns and distribute them among the other prisoners
here. The door can't be opened from outside nor inside now, till the
generators are stopped. This is a last resort for the Patrol men on
the ship if mutiny occurs, or prisoners gain control," Barclay smiled
broadly. "I'll be back."
He leaped toward the wall where star-studded space looked in through
a narrow porthole, set deep in the double walls. He did something to
the wall of the room, and a section fell back into the space between
the walls. There was air here, air intended for those who might have
to make repairs between the walls. But this carefully concealed door
was a secret means of escape--and re-capture of the ship. For now,
between the walls of the ship, Barclay closed and re-locked the metal
door-plate, and made his way along the ribs and braces between the two
skins of the ship, climbing against the ship's acceleration toward the
bow.
In a minute or so he rested on two cross-beams outside of what he knew
was the pilot-room. A mass of cables led from this room, back to the
engine-room below. He could have entered the engine-room had he wished,
or the ray-room. He preferred the control-room. Every outside room on
the ship had these secret panels for emergencies. It was his own idea,
and one Commander Morrison hadn't too heartily approved of. But it was
proving itself now!
From an almost hidden clamp he extracted a screwdriver, rapidly
manipulated it on what appeared to be a signal-junction box, twisted
the leads to one side, and then pushed on a bolt-head. There was a
sudden, subdued hiss, and a panel sprang backwards as the pneumatic
cylinders drove it open. With a single bound, Barclay was in the
pilot-house.
Jennings, cold-eyed, bent over the chart table, while Thad stared
out of the pilot window, glancing occasionally at the meters and
instruments on the board before him. A squat, powerfully built man was
working over near the door.
The three turned as one when Barclay entered. Thad, with a trained,
dexterous flip of his fingers threw the ship on to automatic control,
leaped from his seat, and dove for Barclay. Jennings was whipping a
paralyzer pistol from his holster, and the squat man was turning to do
battle, his mouth opening for a bull roar.
It seemed like slow motion to the Jovian, while his motions seemed
streaks of blurred light to the Earth-trained pirates. Barclay still
had the long, sharp-bladed screwdriver, with its heavy insulite handle
in his hand. The hand flashed up, and the screwdriver flashed across,
to bury itself to the handle in Jennings' wrist. With a scream of pain
the pirate-scientist dropped the weapon as the metal blade severed
tendons, blood-vessels, and smashed through bone. It had been going
with nearly the speed of a pistol bullet, and weighed nearly 12 ounces.
Long before Jennings' pistol could touch the floor, and before Thad
had reached him, Barclay grasped the weapon in his hand, whirling in
the air as he dove across the small pilot-house. The opened mouth of
the squat pirate was emitting sound now, and a pistol was in his hand.
Barclay trained his ray-gun on the other in a fraction of a second,
and flicked a full-powered beam at it. In an instant a puff of smoke
shot out, and the pirate dropped his weapon to see it burst into
incandescence as it hit the floor.
From below-decks an answering roar was coming, and the pound of heavy
feet. The squat man and Thad reached Barclay almost simultaneously.
For some reason Thad had not been wearing any weapons, but now he
clung to Don's paralyzer like grim death. The squat man attempted to
uppercut to the Patrol Captain's jaw, but Don's head moved a fraction
of an inch, and the blow whistled by harmlessly. An open palm struck
the side of Thad's head, and the pilot dropped senseless. An instant
later the remaining pirate bolted through the door--or attempted to.
Barclay caught him, and a moment later he joined Thad on the floor of
the pilot-room.
A glance assured Barclay that Jennings had fainted from loss of blood
and pain. His hand reached up to a small knob to one side of the
entrance-way and a heavy steel panel fell across the one door to the
pilot-house, locking in air-tight gaskets. A moment later, and huge
magnets had fixed it immovably.
Barclay leaped back to the pilot-board, seated himself swiftly, and
threw on the powerful radio set on range 245-671. Swiftly, with nearly
1,000,000 horsepower backing his signals, he sent out a call to Wier,
somewhere in near-by space, supporting him in this mad attempt.
"Wier--Wier--P.C. 2500. Wier--Wier--P.C. 2500," he repeated
monotonously, listening in his set.
* * * * *
It became difficult presently as men began to work on the door.
Meanwhile his other hand was swiftly altering the course of the ship,
bearing back toward the Jupiter-Mars lane.
"Don--Don--P.C. 2500 answering."
"Temporarily in control here. Heading ship back toward Jupiter-Mars
lane. Using spotlight beam and floodlight. Will start radio and leave
it going as long as possible. Get direction and distance. Step on it.
They're working on this door."
"P.C. 2500 coming," replied the radio set.
Don's flying fingers did things to the radio controls, necessitating
considerable work to stop it, and much more work to repair it. But
it sent out a continuous high-pitched note. Now he short-circuited
certain resistances, and relays, and the ship staggered forward under a
full Jovian gravity. There was an abrupt stoppage of work on the door
outside, as the terrestrials fell down. Barclay grinned, and locked the
controls as they were, adding some bits of wire to hold his shorts in
place. Then he got up heavily, and with a tremendous effort walked to
the door through which he had entered. From the other side he arranged
it to close and lock in place when he released it. Returning, he
released it, and watched it merge into the wall.
He returned to the pilot-table once more, seated himself heavily, and
listened to Dave Wier's calls.
"Distance 500,000 miles. Approaching rapidly." Carefully Barclay
altered the course of the ship's flight till it was pointed toward
Wier's machine, and racing toward it even faster. The tremendous
acceleration was beginning to tell on the speed indicator.
Barclay glanced back at the door. A dull blue haze was forming about
it. "Hmmm--distintegrator didn't stop working. Probably has a range of
ten feet, and will hit that wall over there. I wonder--"
Barclay took two heavy bus-bars from the stock room attached to the
pilot room, connected them swiftly, bending them over his knee. These
he led over, and set up like two poles close together in the necessary
path of the disintegration machine's ray. The haze of ionization
was growing stronger swiftly. By the time the two bus-bars were in
position, there was a tiny pin-prick of blue ray flaming across the
room, and a moment later scores of holes appeared.
Then two of them hit the bare copper bus-bars, charged with 150,000
volts. There were two wires. First the door, or what was left of
it, exploded into flaming vaporized steel. Next the disintegrator
exploded with a terrific concussion, raining white-hot metal parts all
about. The machine had short-circuited the twenty-million horsepower
generators of the ship, and the result was inevitable.
Barclay looked out through the hole in the door. One man had been badly
burned, but the others had crawled laboriously down the hall and away
from danger, when they realized that none of them could stand up to
turn off the disintegrator and guessed what Barclay, who could stand
the weight, would do.
Barclay laughed, and taking his paralyzing pistol, rayed first one then
another of the men. Practically the entire crew had come to the defense
of the pilot-house. The others had been working on the brig door. As
one after another felt the ray, he slumped, and threw his burning
pistol to one side the instant he was released.
Barclay's weapon had two shots left when he finished and returned to
the cabin. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than from the ceiling
above there poured a rain of the paralyzing rays. His fingers relaxed,
and dropped the ray-pistol, which smoked slightly, but didn't explode,
as all its charges were gone, his knees held for a moment before he
toppled over and fell with a crash.
Joyfully the pirates in the hall hastened to crawl back toward the
pilot-house, helping each other. Three made it, and promptly keeled
over as they entered the paralyzing rays that filled the room.
Finally one of them crawled back and got a metal bar about five feet
long. It took four of them to raise it into position and bring it
down on the master-switch, opening it, and instantly shutting off all
acceleration.
Then one of the men hauled himself back along the corridor to the
engine room, and from the emergency engine-room controls, which were
powerless as long as the master-switch was closed, but which now sent
the ship ahead under one Earth-gravity.
Gathering a brace of ray pistols from the bench as he ran up to join
his friends, he watched them manipulating the metal bar again. It was
easier now, and they quickly worked the half-hidden button that had
flooded the room with rays. It was just over Jennings' face as he had
lain there.
* * * * *
His eyes were bright and hard as he watched. He was weak, and knew
it, holding his right wrist with his left hand. But Barclay wasn't.
The shutting off of the paralyzing rays had started him even more
quickly than it had started his enemies. With a bound he leaped for
them, burying himself in their midst. The metal bar was wrenched from
their hands, and thrown across the room. Then the sixteen men who had
congregated there got a taste of a Jovian in action. His terrible,
flying hands meant certain unconsciousness, or broken bones, while he
himself was an invulnerable mass of iron-hard muscle to their blows.
The one on the outskirts of the battle who held the two pistols,
hesitated to use them, they would paralyze friend and foe alike.
Presently Jennings saw them. "FOOL!" he shrieked over the noise of the
fight, "RAY THEM ALL--FOOL!"
The two pistols shot out their beams, and suddenly the fight stopped,
Barclay, and those near him fell helpless, those on the outskirts had
not been rayed, and with a cheer, fell to pulling their comrades out of
the melée.
"He sent a call for help. I couldn't read the radio code, confound him,
but he called someone, and got an answer. He shifted our course till
we were headed right for that other ship. We were traveling under that
acceleration of 4.5 normal for I don't know how long. I'm hurt, the
---- ---- ---- used a screwdriver on me. Threw it like a bullet from a
gun.
"Now: battle stations. Tie that thing up till I'm ready for it. It
escaped? Broke its bonds? Then tie it! Put one and a half reverse
accelerations, but turn the ship around. First, put that damned radio
on the blink, he's got it going, sending a direction-howl. Then make
sure the lights are off, and use only the colored lights inside. Check
the electrometer."
There was a shrill clangor as the electro-detector caught the tell-tale
emanations of powerful atomic generators driven hard. "Ship over-taking
us, Captain! Comin' like a streak of light. Funny looking patchwork
thing. Must be a thousand years old. I'll bet they plan to ram us,
they're comin' too fast to stop," reported the pilot.
"Ray--paralyzer," snapped Jennings.
The generators in the bowels of the ship hummed a deeper note.
"Oh, GOD! Cap--they've _got a screen! The rays don't touch them!_"
called the pilot.
Barclay's face lit with a smile, Jennings' eyes opened in consternation.
"Put all your power in induction, switch suddenly to paralyzer,"
ordered Jennings.
The ray operator's fingers flew. A moment later his face fell. "Didn't
touch 'em," he reported.
"Why aren't they raying us?" demanded Jennings in a puzzled tone.
"Oh--the prisoners." A smile of satisfaction came over his face.
"Listen, throw every kilowatt, even the shield-base power, since they
won't ray us, and turn it into the Miller Twin rays, our kind friend
installed for us."
Jennings grinned at Barclay as he wrapped a bandage around his injured
wrist. The ray operator was working again, and the shrill whine of
the generators fell to a rumbling hum. The Twenty-five-Hundred hung
motionless beside them now, manned by Jovians it had been able to stop.
A green bulb flashed suddenly on the pilot-board. The Twins were ready.
* * * * *
Two milky tubes of radiance leaped out into space, curved sharply, and
cut suddenly across the Twenty-five-Hundred. Something was wrong, the
Twin Beams, touching adjacent patches on the ship's side, did not flash
into arcing, burning light.
"The paralyzer screen," said Barclay's calm voice in the tense silence,
"I helped develop it. You left records when your fiasco demonstration
was made."
"Guns," he went on, but his voice was suddenly drowned out. The two
patches which the beams touched suddenly flashed with terrific fire.
Somewhere below, in the depths of the ship, the great generators rose
to a singing whine as the milky beams glowed with blue fires, terrific
shattering lightnings at 100,000,000 volts pressure and 15,000,000
horsepower.
They whined like titanic disc saws, then, incredibly they struck
some cosmic snag, the shrill whine became an awful, soul-wrenching,
nerve-shattering grind, the ship trembled throughout her length, and
with an awful abruptness but there was no sound. A man speaking in the
engine room suddenly was shouting in silence. The awful calm lasted
a fraction of a second. Then it exploded into eye-searing light and
terrific concussion. The generators had been re-polarized and exploded,
taking a wall with them.
It was quiet again, the faint chug of air-pumps gone.
"Guns," resumed Barclay calmly, "kick--and Miller beams work both ways.
I hoped you'd install those beams for me. It was the only way we could
destroy your defensive generators without destroying you--to throw them
against the hundred million horsepower Ridgely Atomic on that ship."
Jennings stared at him in stupid amazement.
Somewhere behind came the bump and clang as the Twenty-five-Hundred
came alongside the helpless ship.
THE END
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