Rudy Hartman was drunk. An overtured bottle of _khlar_, the fiery
Martian brew, lay beside his cot, and he stumbled over it and cursed
thickly as he blinked at tropical sunlight. The gross, shapeless body,
clad in filthy singlet and dungarees, lumbered over to a crude
laboratory bench, and Hartman, blinking and grunting, fumbled for a
syringe. He shot thiamin chloride into his arm, and simultaneously heard
the roar of a plane’s motor.
Hastily Hartman left the _godown_ and headed for the island’s beach near
by. The camouflaged amphibian was gliding across the lagoon—a quick
flight, that had been, from the Polar Circle to the South Pacific!
Hartman’s eyes focused blearily on the plane as it slid toward the rough
dock.
Two men got out—Olcott and Duncan.
“Everything’s ready,” Hartman said. His tongue was thick, and he
steadied himself with an effort.
“Good!” Olcott glanced at his wrist-chronometer. “There’s no time to
waste.”
“When do I take off?”
“Immediately. You’ll pick up the _Maid_ this side of the Moon, but it’s
a long distance.”
Hartman was blinking at the convict. “You’re Saul Duncan. Hope you’re a
good pilot. This is—um—ticklish work.”
“I can handle it,” Duncan said shortly. Olcott was already moving toward
a trail that led inland from the beach. The other two followed for
perhaps half a mile, till they reached the dead-black hull of a small
cruiser-type spaceship, camouflaged from above with vines and _pandanus_
leaves. The boat showed signs of hard usage. Duncan walked around to the
stern tubes and carefully examined the jointures.
“Crack-up, eh?” he said.
Olcott nodded. “How do you suppose we got our hands on the crate? It was
wrecked south of here, near a little islet. There weren’t any survivors.
It cost me plenty to have the ship brought here secretly, where Hartman
could work on it. But it has been put in good shape now.”
“She—um—runs,” the scientist said doubtfully, blinking. “And she has
strong motors. Unless they’re too strong. I spot-welded the hull, but
there is—um—a certain amount of danger.”
Olcott made an impatient gesture. “Let’s go in.”
* * * * *
The control cabin showed signs of careful work; Duncan decided that
Hartman knew his job. He moved to the controls and examined them with
interest.
“Made any test-runs?”
“Without a pilot?” Olcott chuckled. “Hartman says it’ll fly, and that’s
enough for me.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I see you’ve painted the ship black. That’ll make it
difficult to spot. I’ll have only occlusion to worry about, and a fast
course with this little boat will take care of that.” Duncan pulled at
his lower lip. “I noticed you put rocket-screens on, too.”
“Naturally.” Rocket-screens, like gun-silencers, were illegal, and for a
similar reason. The flare of the jets are visible across vast distances
in space, but a dead-black ship, tubes screened, would be practically
invisible.
“Okay,” Duncan said. “What about the Plutonians.”
It was Hartman who spoke this time. “Just what do you know about the
Plutonians?”
“No more than anyone else. No ship’s ever landed on Pluto. The creatures
are mental vampires. They can reach out, somehow, across space and suck
the energy out of the brain.”
Hartman’s ravaged face twisted in a grin. “So. But their power can’t
break through the Heaviside Layer. That’s why Earth hasn’t been harmed.
Only space travelers, unprotected by a Varra convoy, are vulnerable.
Even with Varra Helmets, men are sometimes killed. All right. How do you
suppose the Plutonians find their victims?”
“Nobody knows that,” Duncan said. “Mental vibrations, maybe.”
Hartman snorted. “Space is big! The electrical impulses of a brain are
microscopic compared to interplanetary distances. But the ships—there’s
the answer. A spaceship is visible for thousands of miles—reflection,
and the rocket-jets. It’d be easy for the Plutonians to locate our
ships, if they have any sort of telescopes at all. So, we have here a
ship they cannot find. Therefore, we do not need a Varra escort to
protect us from the Plutonians.”
“It would have been safer if we could have hired a Varra,” Olcott said.
“Still, that was impossible. They’re hand in glove with the government.”
“I know. They’ve convoyed me, in the old days,” Duncan grunted. “Let me
go over it again. I take this ship out, pick up the _Maid_, Earthside of
Luna, and get the radium—and Andrea.”
“Right,” Olcott nodded. “Then back here, and I hand over half a million
credits.”
“Going into space without a Helmet is risky.”
“You will not be near Pluto,” Hartman put in. “There is danger, yes, but
it is minimized.”
“But there is danger. I’m thinking of Andrea. When I pick her up, she’s
got to leave her Helmet in the _Maid_.”
“Naturally,” Olcott snapped, his lips thinning. “If she continues to
wear it, she brings a Varra back to Earth with her—a spy.”
Duncan looked at Hartman. “What armament are we carrying?”
“Six four-inch blaster cannons, fully charged.”
“Okay.” Duncan turned again to the controls, slipping into the cushioned
basket-seat. “Everything oiled and clean, eh? Doors?” He touched a stud;
the valve of the door closed silently.
“Everything is ready,” Hartman said.
“Air-conditioning?” Duncan tried it. “Good. Course?” He checked the
space-chart before him. His back to the others, he said quietly, “You’re
asking Andrea to take a big risk, Olcott. You too, Hartman, going into
space without a Helmet.”
Olcott moved uneasily; Duncan could see him in the mirror above the
instrument panel. “Hell! It was her own choice—”
“You blackmailed her into it.”
Olcott’s lips thinned. “Backing out? If you are, say so.”
“No,” Duncan said, “I’m not backing out. I’m going into space. But you
two are going with me—_right now!_”
His poised fingers shot down on the instrument board. Olcott’s oath and
Hartman’s startled yell were both drowned in a sudden raging fury of
rockets. In the mirror Duncan could see the gun that flashed into
Olcott’s hand, but at the same instant terrific acceleration clamped
hold of the little ship.
* * * * *
Olcott’s gun was never fired. The three men’s senses blacked out
instantly, mercifully, as the stress of abnormal gravities lifted the
cruiser bullet-fast from the islet. Three figures lay motionless on the
plasticoid floor, while the rockets’ bellow mingled with the shrieking
of the atmosphere. The insulated hull scarcely had time to heat before
the ship was in free space, shuddering through all its repaired beams
and joists, the dull, heavy thunder of the screened tubes vibrating like
a tocsin of doom in every inch of the cruiser.
The hull was dead black, the jets screened. No eye detected the swift
flight of the ship. Toward the Moon it plunged, rockets bellowing with
insensate fury....
Duncan was first to awaken. Space flight was nothing new to him, and his
body had been hardened and toughened by five years at Transpolar.
Nevertheless, his muscles throbbed with pain, and he had a blinding
headache as he dragged his eyelids up and tried to remember what had
happened.
Realization came back. Spaceman’s instinct made Duncan look first at the
controls. The chronometer on the board told him that he had been
unconscious for many hours. Watching the star-map, he figured swiftly.
Fair enough. They were off their course, but the cruiser had been
traveling at breakneck speed. It was still possible to keep the
rendezvous with the _Maid_. Duncan readjusted the controls.
After that, he turned to Olcott and the scientist. Neither was seriously
injured. Duncan relieved Olcott of his gun; Hartman was unarmed. Then he
took a drink and sat down to wait.
Presently Olcott stirred slightly. His lashes did not move, but without
warning his hand streaked toward his pocket.
“I’ve got your gun,” Duncan said gently. “Stop playing possum and get
up.”
Olcott obeyed. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, and he swayed a
little as he stood, straddle-legged, facing the pilot.
“What’s the idea?”
Duncan grinned. “I’m carrying out your orders. I just thought I’d like
company.”
Olcott fingered his mustache. “You’re the first man who ever played a
trick like that on me.”
For answer Duncan stood up and waved negligently at the controls. “Take
over, if you like. Head the ship back to Earth.”
The irony was evident. In free space, almost anyone could pilot a
cruiser. But emergencies and landings were different matters. Years of
training in split-second, conditioned reactions were necessary to make a
pilot—and only Duncan had had that training. Olcott could easily turn
the ship around, but he probably could not control it in atmosphere, and
he certainly could not make a safe landing. Olcott was in a prison, and
Duncan held the only key.
“What do you want?”
“Not a thing. I’m going through with the job. I’ll get the radium-for
you, and pick up Andrea. But if the Plutonians harm her, without a
Helmet, she won’t die alone. We’re all in the same boat now.”
Olcott came to a decision. “All right. You’ve got aces. Later, we can
settle things—not now.”
Duncan turned to the star-map. “Fair enough.”
In the mirror he watched Olcott kneel beside the unconscious Hartman and
break an ammonia capsule under the scientist’s nose. Yes, fair enough.
He had Olcott in a trap. Dangerous as the man was—and Duncan made no
mistake about that—he would scarcely be fool enough to cause trouble
till his own safety was assured.
It wouldn’t be assured till the cruiser was back on Earth. Meanwhile,
they were in free space—without Varra Helmets. Duncan shivered a
little. His eyes sought the enigmatic blackness where Pluto swung in its
orbit, invisible and menacing. The Plutonian mind-vampires. Apparently
Hartman’s trick had worked. The creatures had not yet discovered the
blacked-out cruiser.
Not yet. But the scope of their powers was unknown. After all, the
Plutonians were the reason why space was forbidden.
Instinctively Duncan’s teeth showed in a snarl of savage defiance.
* * * * *
There was hilarious excitement aboard the _Maid of Mercury_. The big
passenger-cargo ship had just crossed the Line—Luna’s orbit—and that
entailed a ceremony involving those who had never crossed before. An
officer, grotesquely costumed as the Man in the Moon, presided from a
makeshift throne in the main salon, and Andrea Duncan, smiling a little,
watched the victims each get their dose of crazy-gas. She’d already had
her initiation, and the effects of the mildly intoxicating gas were
wearing off.
It was difficult to believe that outside the hull lay empty space, dark
and limitless. Andrea turned her mind away from the thought. But another
came—Saul—and she bit her lip and caught her breath in a tiny gasp.
Saul! Had Olcott managed the escape? Was Saul Duncan free from
Transpolar?
He must be. Olcott wouldn’t fail. That meant that in a few hours Andrea
must destroy the communication system. Olcott had told her the best way.
Yes, she was ready. It would mean freedom for Saul.
If she failed, Olcott had said, her husband would be sent back to
Transpolar, with an additional heavy sentence—ten more years, perhaps.
Well, she wouldn’t fail.
A man brushed past her. “Your hair’s mussed up—”
Instinctively Andrea lifted a hand, only to be checked by the hard
plastic curve of her Helmet. It was an old gag, but she forced herself
to smile. The necessity of wearing Helmets in space had become a joke to
most of the passengers. Probably only the officers realized the true
danger of the Plutonian mind-vampires.
Everyone in the salon, of course, wore a Helmet—even the Man in the
Moon, under his disguise. Cumbersome as they looked, they rested lightly
on the wearers’ shoulders, and were actually so light that one easily
became accustomed to them. Andrea studied her reflection in a nearby
mirror. Her small, heart-shaped face seemed dwarfed by the Helmet.
Experimentally, like an interested child, she pressed a stud and saw the
transparent, air-tight shield slide into place an inch from her nose.
Within the ship the shields were not necessary, nor were complete
space-suits. But the Helmets were vital.
* * * * *
Andrea knew little or nothing of the technical details. The secret of
the Helmets lay in the luminous, intertron knob atop each one. It was
this that provided a two-way hook-up with the Varra. She remembered what
an officer had told her, when she had first donned a Helmet at the
Atlantic Spaceport.
“Never done it before, eh, miss? Well, don’t be frightened. Let me help
you.” He had adjusted the bulky Helmet. “The power won’t be turned on
till we hit the Heaviside Layer. The Varra can’t safely enter our
atmosphere, you know.”
“I didn’t know. It seems so strange—”
The officer chuckled. “Not really. It’s like being in radio
communication with somebody. You see, when the juice is turned on, a
Varra instantly hooks itself up to your Helmet. You can even talk to
him—it—if you like. They’re intelligent; nice people, in fact.”
“Can they read thoughts?”
“Everybody asks me that. No, they can’t. The idea is that without a
Helmet, you’d be exposed to the Plutonian mind-vampires. As it is, the
Varra throws up a mental shield that protects you.”
Andrea hesitated. “It doesn’t always work, though, does it?”
“Almost always. You were warned of that—” His manner became officially
rigid. “You signed a release blank, in case of accident. But there’s no
danger to speak of. Space flight is exhausting; you’ll feel pretty bad
by the time we hit Mars. Somehow there’s an energy drain that even the
Varra can’t neutralize.”
“The Plutonians?”
“We think so. But without the Helmets—” He grinned in a comforting
fashion. “You’ll be okay, miss.”
Later, at the Heaviside Layer, the power had been turned on in each
Helmet. There was no apparent change, except for the sudden luminosity
of the intertron knobs. But a voice, friendly despite its curious
alienage, had spoken wordlessly inside Andrea’s brain.
“I’m taking over now. Don’t remove your Helmet or turn off the power
till you’re in atmosphere again.”
“Atmosphere—” Andrea had spoken aloud without realizing it. The Varra
answered her.
“Each planet has a Heaviside Layer, an electronic barrage that disrupts
mental-energy vibrations. We find it dangerous to pass that Layer, but
so do the Plutonians.”
Another passenger had told Andrea somewhat more—that the Varra, even
before space travel, were not unknown to science. Charles Fort had been
one of the first to collect data about them—inexplicable balls of fire
appearing on Earth, with their life-forces warped and harmed by the
Heaviside Layer, moving at random out of their native element.
Two hours after crossing the Lunar Line Andrea slipped noiselessly into
the radio room. The long space trip had told on her; like all the
others, she was conscious of exhaustion and mental drain. Glancing at
her chronometer, she realized that in a few minutes Saul would make
contact with the _Maid_.
She clicked off the power in her Helmet. She wanted no Varra spying on
her now.
The radio operator did not turn. He had not seen her or heard her silent
approach. Andrea’s hand poised over an intricate array of wires and tore
the cables free.
A lance of cold fire plunged into her brain. It was too quick for pain.
Her terrified thought, _The Plutonians!_ was cut off instantly. Her mind
drowned, as in dark water, chill and horrible.
The radio operator whirled, startled, at the thud of Andrea’s falling
body.