Named after the Greek god of the underworld, desolate, lifeless and
forbidding as Hell itself, Pluto revolved in its tremendous orbit,
between thirty-seven hundred million and four thousand million miles
from the Sun. Such distances are staggeringly inconceivable when we
attempt to use human yardsticks. Men cannot stand the strain of such
voyages without special precautions. Suspended animation is usual on the
long hops, and Duncan had made use of the cataleptic drug he found at
hand in the cruiser’s emergency supply locker.
For a long time the three men had been unconscious as the ship, with
increasing acceleration, hurled itself toward Pluto. Duncan had
carefully measured the Sherman units of the drug, calculating so that he
would awaken hours before the others. But he forgot one thing—the
terrific resistance _khlar_ builds up within the human body.
So it was Rudy Hartman who first opened his eyes, groaned, and stared
uncomprehendingly about him. He was strapped in a bunk, Duncan and
Olcott near by. Memory came back.
Sick and weak from the long period of catalepsy, Hartman nevertheless
forced his aching limbs into motion. Staggering, he presently reached
Duncan and took the latter’s gun. That done, he searched for a means of
binding his captive securely.
The bunk-straps were of flexible metal—not long enough, but they might
serve a purpose. Hartman, scarcely conscious of his actions, fumbled at
a panel and slid it back. Within the cubicle space-suits were stacked,
each with its Varra Helmet, Olcott had ordered them removed when Hartman
was repairing the vessel, but the scientist had not obeyed. He had not
felt entirely certain that the cruiser would not be detected by the
Plutonians, and perhaps he had felt a twinge of compunction at the
thought of sending a helpless man to possible suicide, if his theory
proved wrong. So he had concealed the Helmets behind a panel. Now he
blessed the lucky chance that had made him do so.
Duncan was still unconscious. Hartman rolled him out of the bunk and
dressed him in a suit, fitting the Varra Helmet in place. With the
flexible straps he bound Duncan’s arms to his side; a makeshift job, but
it would serve. Finally he pried the intertron knob from the Helmet and
sighed with relief.
Hesitantly he went to the controls. The star-map told him little, except
that they were approaching Pluto. Should they begin deceleration?
Hartman’s fingers hovered over the studs—Damn! He dared not alter the
course. He wasn’t a pilot, and it took trained hands to control a
spaceship.
Well, that didn’t matter. There was another way—with the Varra Helmets.
* * * * *
He broke an ammonia capsule under Olcott’s nose and applied artificial
respiration. After a time Olcott stirred.
“Hartman?” His tongue was thick. “Where—what’s happened?”
“A great deal. Lie still and get back your strength. I’ll tell you—”
But Olcott struggled to rise. “Duncan!”
“He’s safe.” Hartman nodded toward the bound figure. Then he sucked in
his breath and sprang up. Duncan’s eyes were open.
“Stay where you are,” Hartman said, showing the gun. “I won’t hesitate
to kill you, you know.”
Duncan grinned. “Go ahead. You can’t pilot this ship. I can wait.”
Olcott got up unsteadily. “You’ll pilot it—back to Earth. Damn you,
Duncan—”
“I’ll pilot it to Pluto. Nowhere else.”
Hartman intervened. “Wait. Listen, Duncan. We have several Varra Helmets
aboard. You didn’t know that.”
“So what?”
“We do not need you as a pilot. If we make connections with the Varra,
we can chart a course back to Earth by letting them instruct us.”
Duncan’s eyes changed.
He said, “You’re crazy.” But his voice lacked conviction.
“The Varra!” Olcott scowled. “But—”
Hartman whirled on him. “I know! It will mean giving up the radium. But
there’s no other way. We’re near Pluto. The Plutonians may detect us at
any moment. If they do—” He shrugged. “We can keep the radium and die
here. Or we can use the Helmets, summon the Varra, and have them guide
us back to Earth.”
“Can they do that?”
“Easily. If they had tangible bodies, they could pilot spaceships as
well as Duncan, or anyone else. As it is, they can tell us how to handle
the controls.”
“We’ll lose the radium. It’ll mean prison too.”
“Not necessarily. Our lives are worth more than the radium—eh? And the
Varra can’t read minds. Suppose we have a convincing story to tell? We
planned this space-flight as a scientific expedition, nothing more. We
didn’t know Duncan was an escaped convict. We didn’t know he planned to
hi-jack the _Maid_—”
Olcott rubbed his mustache. “Plenty of holes in that. But you’re right.
We can fix up some sort of story. And there’ll be no legal proof—”
He looked toward the helpless Duncan. “Except him. We don’t want him
talking.”
Hartman touched the gun, but Olcott shook his head. “No. Listen. Duncan.
You’re licked. We can get back to Earth, with you or without you. But if
we get the Varra to help, we lose the radium. Why not be smart? Play
along with us, and you’ll still get your half a million credits.”
“Go to hell!” Duncan suggested.
Hartman said, “We’ve no time to waste. We’re not far from Pluto—” He
didn’t finish, but there was a suggestion of panic fear in his voice.
“Right. This ship’s got an escape hatch, hasn’t it? Good.” Olcott
hurriedly began to don spacesuit and Varra Helmet. At a gesture, Hartman
followed his example.
“Don’t use the power yet. Help me.” Olcott picked up Duncan by the
shoulders. Grunting and straining, the two men carried their captive
into the air-tight bow chamber, sealing the valve behind them. The
magnetic projector, looking like an oversized cannon, faced the circular
transparent port through which they could see the starry darkness of
empty space.
“Know how to work one of these?”
“They’re simple,” Hartman said. “This switch—” He indicated it.
“Obviously it closes the circuit. Yes, I can operate this.”
* * * * *
Duncan remained silent as he was roughly thrust into the projector’s
gaping muzzle, feet-first. Olcott bent over him.
“You’ve got auxiliary-suit rockets and enough oxygen. And you can untie
yourself, if you work fast, before you hit Pluto. You can make a safe
landing—till the Plutonians find you. Well?”
Duncan didn’t answer.
Olcott said, “Don’t be a fool! You’ll die rather unpleasantly on Pluto.
You know that. Will you take us back to Earth?”
There was a long silence. Abruptly, with a muffled curse, Olcott snapped
Duncan’s faceplate shut, and then his own. Hartman did the same, and,
with a wry face, touched the power-button on his Helmet that would
summon the Varra.
In a moment the intertron knob began to glow, with a cold, unearthly
brilliance. Olcott hastily turned the power on in his own Helmet. Now
there was no time to waste. Soon the Varra would come....
Cold eyes dark with fury, Olcott gestured. Hartman, in response, swung
the projector’s muzzle into position; both men closed their faceplates.
The transparent shield of the bow port slid aside, and the air within
the escape hatch blasted out into space.
Hartman moved a lever. Electro-magnetic energy blasted out from the
projector, blindingly brilliant. One flashing glimpse the men had of
Duncan’s bound, space-suited body hurtling into the void—and then it
was gone, racing toward Pluto at breakneck speed.
Hartman closed the port and pumped air back into the tiny chamber.
Abruptly a voice spoke within his brain.
“Who are you? Why do you summon the Varra? And why are you so near to
Pluto?”
Olcott had heard the message too. He framed the thought: “You are a
Varra? We need help.”
“We are Varra. What help do you require?”
Olcott explained.
* * * * *
He had fallen for many minutes. Beneath him the jagged darkness of Pluto
lay, cryptic and forbidding. It was time to use the rockets, but still
Duncan hesitated, though he had freed himself from his bonds. The flares
would certainly attract the attention of the Plutonian mind-vampires,
and then—
A shadow occulted the stars. For a moment Duncan thought it was a
meteor; then he recognized the cruiser. Jets screened, almost invisible,
it was still driving on its course toward Pluto!
He did not stop to ponder the reason. Instinct sent his gloved fingers
to the studs built into his suit. The tiny emergency rockets burned
white in the darkness of space. Duncan was hurled toward the cruiser.
Involuntarily he held his breath, looking downward at the vast circle of
Pluto. Would he die now?
The rockets had flared only briefly; perhaps they had not been noticed.
He did not use them again. Instead, he waited, moving steadily onward
with no atmosphere to slow him down by its friction. The gravitation of
Pluto pulled at both man and ship, but each fell at the same rate—no!
The cruiser was pulling away! That meant its masked tubes were still on.
Duncan risked another jet. This time his space-boots thumped solidly on
the hull. He levered himself toward the side port, which could be opened
from without, unless it had been locked. True, when the valve slid
aside, the ship’s air would be lost in space, and anyone within the
cruiser would die. Duncan grinned savagely. Bracing himself awkwardly,
he tugged at levers.
The port opened. Duncan was almost flung away from the ship by the blast
of air that gusted out. He recovered his balance, swung himself across
the threshold—
At his feet lay two space-suited bodies, Olcott and Hartman. The
faceplates of their Varra Helmets were open, but they had not died of
lack of oxygen. That was evident. The frozen, strained whiteness of
their features told a different story that Duncan read instantly. The
Plutonians had brought death to Hartman and Olcott; they had died in the
same manner as Andrea.
Duncan closed the port behind him, his face expressionless. Inwardly he
was tense as wire, in momentary expectation of cold fury striking at his
brain. He stood waiting.
The star-map on the instrument panel flared. That meant atmosphere
ahead. Duncan was at the controls in two strides. His number might be
up, but he had no intention of dying in a crash—not while there was
still a possibility of revenging himself on the Plutonian creatures.
He checked the ship’s course, decelerating as much as he dared. So
keyed-up were his nerves that he jumped sharply when a voice spoke
inside his brain.
“Who are you, Earthman? Why are you here?”
Before Duncan could frame a response, he felt a thrill of sudden urgency
flame through him. Something, cold and deadly as space itself, reached
into his mind. There was an instant of sickening giddiness—
It was gone. The sky-screen flamed crimson. The cruiser was within
Pluto’s atmosphere blanket.
* * * * *
Duncan gasped for breath. He was scarcely conscious of manipulating the
cruiser, leveling off into a long, swooping glide. Death had touched him
very nearly—and had been avoided miraculously by a fantastically small
margin. The implications of what had happened turned Duncan white with
incredulous shock.
For the thing that had been _en rapport_ with his mind had tried to kill
him. And that thing had been not a Plutonian, but a Varra! Duncan was
certain of that. In his space-piloting days he had been in close touch
with the Varra, and had learned the distinctive _feel_ of the
creatures—there was no other word—within his mind.
But the Varra were friendly to Earthmen!
The rough terrain of Pluto lay below. A cold, bluish radiance, almost
invisible, seemed to flicker here and there. Duncan set the ship down
with trained skill, landing on a broad plateau at the base of a high
range of alps.
He was on Pluto, shunned and feared by Earthmen for a hundred and fifty
years. He was in the very lair of the mind-vampires.
And nothing happened.
Slowly Duncan rose and turned the valves on the oxygen tanks. He
divested himself of his spacesuit and made a careful examination of the
two bodies. Both Olcott and Hartman had been killed, apparently, by the
Plutonians. They had the stigmata.
But Duncan was thinking a rather impossible thought—that there were no
Plutonians.
With half of his mind he made tests. There was atmosphere, almost pure
chlorine. Nor was it unduly cold. An electroscope gave him the answer.
Pluto was a radioactive planet, warmed from within by the powerful
radiations of the ore.
Duncan took the dead Olcott’s helmet and adjusted it upon himself.
Turning on the power made the intertron knob glow, but there was no
other result. The Varra, of course, could not safely venture within the
Heaviside Layer of any planet, and Pluto had a Layer, since it had an
atmosphere. Chlorine—radium—Duncan shook his head, trying to fit the
puzzle together.
There were no Plutonians. Why, then, had the Varra fostered the legend
of the mind-vampires? Creatures composed of pure energy could not exist
on a radioactive planet; the radiations would be fatal to their
complicated electronic structures.
Duncan thought for a long time. At last he had the answer, so
astoundingly simple that he found it difficult to believe. But it
checked. And that meant—
He rose and went slowly to where Andrea’s body lay, still in the
spacesuit, her face composed and lovely in death. Duncan’s lips twisted.
He knelt.
“Andrea—”
She was trying to tell him something, he thought. What?
“Tell Earth what I’ve found out? Is that it?”
He hesitated. “It’s no use. We’re forty thousand million miles from the
Sun. The radio won’t carry that far, even if it’d get through the
Heaviside Layer on Pluto. There’s no way to send a message back.”
There was no way. Nor could the cruiser retrace its course. There was
not enough fuel left. The jets would be exhausted before Saturn’s orbit
was reached, and the speed would increase as the ship plunged Sunward,
increase to a point where deceleration would be impossible.
“There’s no way, Andrea. I can’t send the message—”
Duncan stopped. There was a way, after all, though it meant death.
* * * * *
He seated himself before the radio-recorder and adjusted it to
automatic-repeat. His message would be imprinted on metal wire-tape, and
continue to be sent out into the void till the ship itself was
destroyed.
Duncan pulled the microphone toward him. His voice was coldly
emotionless.
“CQX. CQX. Recorded on Pluto. All ships copy. Relay to proper
authorities. Pluto is uninhabited. Its atmosphere is pure chlorine. No
life-form known to science can exist in a chlorine atmosphere or on a
radioactive world. The Plutonian mind-vampires do not exist. The legend
was created by the Varra for their own purposes. The actual
mind-vampires are the Varra themselves.”
Now it would be theorizing, but Duncan was certain that his guess was
correct.
“The Varra live on life energy. When man conquered space, they foresaw
danger to themselves. They are vulnerable, and if Earth suspected their
motives, they’d be relentlessly destroyed. So—as I see it—they
pretended to be friendly, and blamed the mind-vampirism on imaginary
creatures living on Pluto. The Varra can communicate with us without the
need for Helmets. They can kill too. But they seldom do that. Instead,
pretending to protect space-travelers from the Plutonians, they drain a
certain amount of life-energy from each person wearing a Helmet. We’re
like cattle to them. We think they’re friendly, and so far we haven’t
suspected the truth. As long as we didn’t suspect, the Varra were safe,
and could keep on vampirizing us, without our knowledge. Once in a while
a Varra badly in need of energy would drain too much, which would kill
its host.”
That was what had happened to Andrea. The Varra had tried to stop her
from wrecking the _Maid’s_ radio, and—Duncan’s teeth showed.
He went on telling his story, explaining what had happened. He made no
excuses; there was no need for them now.
Finally he said: “The Varra can be destroyed. And we can protect
ourselves against them. That’ll be up to the scientists. If this ship
gets through, it will mean that the Varra couldn’t stop me. I’ve got
radium aboard. So I’ll put a Heaviside Layer around the cruiser—and
blast off Sunward.”
Duncan clicked the switch. No need to say more. Earth would understand,
would believe.