Slowly, horribly, men died in that outer-space
Devil's Island. Carter already could feel the
slow-gnawing, Emerald Death. What had he to lose,
even on a crazy-wild, 100-to-1 shot Pluto prison-break?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Faint and distant, the sun fell swiftly behind the close horizon
and three warm moons of Pluto climbed from the jagged rocks. Their
pale, green light spread upon the rearing crags of dusty silica in a
scintillating blanket of emerald, and gleamed richly upon the patches
of white lichen.
As Rusty Carter strode down the winding trail from his cave, he gave
no thought to the prismatic scene. Even his analytical eyes, veteran
of ten years with the Tele-news, were not concerned. He had seen it in
daylight, when the freezing winds swept across the glaring monotony
of crystal sand, when men fought and killed for sheer sport, and when
the Bugs came. The cold horror of day paled the beauty of night. And
Rusty Carter was weary of both, after these Plutonian months. His heart
quickened as he remembered this was his last evening.
Rounding a bend, he approached the squat, transparent target building
gleaming above the restless crowd of men. They stood about in small
groups, talking noisily.
Rusty glanced at his watch. It was twenty revs before the monthly ship
was due. And this time it would not merely hover to drop drift-tubes
containing more doomed men and newsprints from a ruthless Y.M.P.A.
This time it would land--take him back to Earth. His heart sang at the
thought. Lord, but it would be good to have real soil underfoot again,
even the impassive pavement of New York!
As he pushed his way through the motley mob, Rusty's mind flashed far
across space to his desk in the great New York Tele-news plant. He
remembered Skipper Russell, his city editor, coming over, the twinkle
in his sagacious eyes as he told him to go out and rob a bank. Then
the eyes had changed to cool efficiency as he outlined his plan. Rusty
was to enter the Planetary National, armed with a vib-ray gun. He was
to menace the employees, then be trapped by pre-informed police. In
feigned terror, he was to turn the gun upon the crowd, fire. Actors had
been hired for the part. The vib-ray loaded with a harmless vibration,
they were to fall before him. He would be captured, and with the best
lawyers _against_ him, sent to Pluto for life. Stories about this dread
penal colony were dreadful, but mostly speculative. Forbidden entrance
by the Interplanetary Control, Tele-news agencies had few facts. A
first-hand story would be worth millions. It was Rusty's job to get it.
And here he was, the job done. The false arrest and its purpose was
known only to Skipper and himself. Even the actors whose "bodies" were
immediately claimed by their families, knew nothing of their work's
significance. After two months, the city editor would confess to the
hoax, pay whatever fine was imposed, and Rusty would be released--with
a priceless story.
The two months were over, and the story _was_ priceless. Dealing
intimately with the primitive simplicity of souls without hope and
their degenerate abandon of all that civilization had bestowed, his
tale would weave a pattern of remorse that such conditions should exist
anywhere in the universe. Pluto and its four moons were billions of
miles from home, anybody's home. Three of its satellites, of about
equal size and in close juxtaposition, were the planet's only source of
warmth for the sun of the life line planets was dim, far away.
* * * * *
The flat emergency field was crowded with hulking forms from every
planet; talking, gesticulating excitedly, curious vultures awaiting the
new broken spirits, black-souled as themselves.
Rusty neared the low target building, saw his dim reflection in a
glassy wall; tall and thin despite the cumbersome furs. He had lost
weight, he observed. His bronzed seventy-five inches of slender,
handsome youth had shed the surplus flesh that he had accumulated in
Earthian cities. His body was now trimmed to bare muscle, sinews of
steel. One _fought_ to live here. One fought the cold, the Bugs, crazed
men--but the hopelessness of the struggle could not be fought, and one
died and was glad to die. One of their number in every other respect,
Rusty had _hope_--and he had been forced to keep this thought ever
before him as the contagion of omnipresent despair clutched at him also.
He ran a long hand through his leonine hair; badly in need of cutting,
it swirled, dark sorrel, about his hawk-like features.
The huge Vulcanian, Lothar, approached. Massive head bent, he leaned
toward Rusty as he passed.
"We leave at noon," he muttered. "Meet at White Cliff, if you go!"
Familiarity had bred disinterest in the strange forms from other worlds
but the nearness of his departure gave new light to the things about
him. Lothar, the Vulcanian! Rusty looked at the great creature, and
thought of the excitement Vulcan's discovery had occasioned. In the
orbit of Mercury, behind the sun, making it ever invisible to Earth,
it was the first planet to be found by interstellar exploration.
Occurring long before Rusty was born, it was another Stanley-Livingston
affair in the annals of feature news. Of course, Vulcan's existence
had been calculated by its effect on Mercury's perihelion as early
as the nineteenth century by--what was his name?--Leverrier! Who had
been disproved by Einstein, twentieth century, who was himself later
disproved. Rusty smiled. Get the facts! Soon he would be back at the
old job again....
He watched Lothar's monstrous bulk shuffle away into the crowd;
suddenly he remembered the secret plan for escape that night. There
would be five of them: Lothar, two Martians, a Venusian and Spike.
Spike was from his own planet and his only friend here, if he might
be called that. The short, chunky Earthian owed his life to Rusty.
He had saved him from the Bugs a few days after his arrival, an
exploit unheard of here where everyone saw to his own brief existence.
But Spike had never forgotten. And when the little boat had been
constructed from salvaged drift-tubes, he had inveigled the others into
agreeing to take Rusty along.
Rusty Carter felt a twinge of conscience at not confiding his now
propinquent departure. He had tactfully avoided a direct refusal,
knowing if word of his pardon got around his life would be worthless.
A jealous horde would have made short work of him. The others didn't
matter; but, whatever heartless creature Spike was, Rusty hoped he got
away.
* * * * *
There came a shout from the upturned faces of the grisly crowd and
Rusty saw a red dot, high in the dim sky. It was the jet-blast of the
coming ship. It was coming for him!
His heart leaped as he watched the crimson point grow, a line of flame,
a dazzling comet upon the tinted moon glow. The light lengthened and a
dark hulk appeared at its head. Then, with a roar, a burst of sparks,
the ship entered the Plutonian atmosphere, floated gently downward on
idling jets.
The crowd of wretches clamored, jostled one another. Rusty stood apart,
tingling with excitement. He planned his journey, his homecoming, with
a child-like joy. First he would radio Skipper. Then he would take
a long luxurious bath--he could feel the warm water now--then go to
sleep, with no nightmare of yellow insects crawling unseen toward him.
Then he would....
The ship lowered, drifted to a stop high above them. The smile slowly
left Rusty's face and his eyes widened.
Glistening in the dim light, the ship remained motionless. Three long
objects came into view, gliding slowly from its underside--drift-tubes.
Rusty started forward, eyes fixed to the shining hull, panic leaping
into his heart.
In a burst of flame, the ship zoomed upward. There was a faint tingle
of ozone in the air, as it ascended, grew smaller in the glowing sky.
Rusty wanted to scream at the disappearing light. He leaned weakly
against the wall and a sickness within him was cold and numb, a
deadening blow. Then he grinned faintly. Of course! They were sending a
special plane--maybe Skipper was coming himself. Of course.
The drift-tubes had landed and the crowd was gathered about them,
encircling the newcomers, shouting questions about the outside worlds,
inspecting the less formidable for chance possessions. Rusty pushed his
way through the mass of foul bodies. At the edge of the group was a
smaller, unopened tube--the Tele-news can.
Rusty opened the container, pulled out the roll of thin, printed
sheets. It was like Skipper to send a special plane. Sure he
would--this was a big story.
Idly glancing through the pages, weeks old, he was surprised to catch
the familiar name. Then Rusty tensed, color gone from his face, as the
full meaning of the headline came to him.
"PROMINENT EDITOR PASSES: S. K. Russell, Editor of the New York
Tele-news for over thirty years, died at his home today, the victim
of a heart attack. Russell, called 'Skipper' by all that knew him,
was stricken--"
Rusty dropped the page from his hand. He stared, unseeing, into
the night, his mind following a torturing logic to its inescapable
conclusion. Skipper was dead--Skipper was the only one that knew--no
one else would know of his innocence....
He snatched up the paper, read the column, his warrant of doom. Skipper
had died three weeks ago, suddenly, before he could even make a will.
His wife was sole heir to the Tele-news plant.
Rusty sank down to a rock.
A sense of wild terror gripped him as he realized he was trapped here,
for the rest of his life--he had been legally convicted of robbery,
murder. Skipper was the only person who could save him. But Skipper was
dead!
Men howled, laughed as they passed him. And Rusty Carter knew he was
now one of them. No more was there the glow of a secret thought, that
soon he could leave--he was to stay until he died just as these others
died, screaming or with a voiceless stare in the cold glare of Pluto.
Their laughter faded away and he was alone.
* * * * *
Walking aimlessly, Rusty left the deserted clearing, plodded up a
sparkling path. He wandered amid the ghastly spangled crags, neither
knowing nor caring where he went. It did not matter and nothing
mattered, for he was dead inside. The three moons of Pluto hung low
in the east and the enormous Great Moon, the nearby satellite of the
planet, arose beside their departing light, a darker green.
Soon, another day. The cold wind. The Bugs. Haunted, restless sleep.
The scream of a lonely soul in dreaming delirium. But what matter the
cold and the Bugs? They _could_ bring death. Was it not better so?
Rusty came to a long declivity, the rocks sloping down to a wide
crater. In the center was a pale wall of lichen, smoothly white on the
side of a towering peak. It was White Cliff. Largest landmark on the
narrow-horizoned planet, it reared for hundreds of feet into the thin
air. Upon its vast sides was a thick blanket of the plants, giving the
cliff an unbroken, white distinctiveness and its name. Never visited by
day because of the Bugs, it was rarely approached even at night. The
reflecting vegetation surrounding it in a dim glow, the Bugs lingered
even then. Foot-long obscenities of fuzzy yellow, razor-tipped tendrils
before formless maws, by day they swarmed from every crevice of the
distorted terrain. Subsisting chiefly upon the rabbit-like veedles,
they would also eat a man.
Rusty stared at the ghostly scene, suddenly remembering the words of
Lothar, the Vulcanian. Preferring the Bugs to curious eyes, it was here
that the drift-tubes had been stored, the escape ship built. Escape!
Why hadn't he thought of it before? As criminal as they now, he must
take a criminal's chance--the odds were all against their survival--a
swift death in the suffocating void of space, the sudden burn of a
patrol's flame-gun. But each was a feeble fear. Death here was slow,
gnawing for years at a weakening brain. Any chance was worth taking.
He glanced over his shoulder at the rising shape of the Great Moon, and
sped across the quartz dust to the cliff.
Rounding the rise, Rusty came upon a dark form in a little clearing. It
was the ship. Startled figures whirled as he burst upon them, relaxed
as he was recognized. The great bulk of Lothar was stark against the
dim light.
"Hello!" came a husky Earthian voice, and Rusty was relieved to see the
barrel shape of Spike appear, his mop of black hair haloed in the green
glow.
Rusty looked at the squat hull of the oddly constructed boat. The
others gathered around him.
"Crude but crafty," admired Spike.
Rusty glanced at the others. The tall Martians stood at the side,
slender silhouettes. The Vulcanian towered above him, long incisors
gleaming between drooping lips.
"I think you know the rest," said Spike. "Here's Fish."
Rusty noticed for the first time the frail form of a Venusian in the
shadows. He moved silently to Rusty, extended a finny hand in the
Earthian clasp adopted by the Universe.
Venusians were an eternal surprise to Rusty. Half the height of an
average man, limbs thin and tipped with prehensile spines, they were
covered with fish-like scales, a delicate lavender in color. A single
eye in the middle of the forehead, throughout the Universe they carried
optional misnomers, "Cyclops" or "Fish."
Rusty shook the cold hand and for a moment forgot his plight, as
he felt his usual presentiments. These weird creatures from the
cloud-hidden planet never failed to arouse unreasoning tingles of
distrust.
"When do we leave?" asked Rusty. He must have action. The thought of
his abandonment here would soon drive him raving mad.
"All ready," said Spike. "Waiting for the moon to get in position."
Lothar tapped Rusty on the shoulder, his huge, four-fingered hand
almost knocking him down.
"Make words," he boomed in his throat. "You go. Must be one with
us--steal moon ship--pirates."
"He means we head for the Great Moon, steal a plane there and see what
we can pick up in the Earthian traffic lanes," Spike translated. "It
took me a long time to persuade them that you were okey, so be nice!"
"Sure," said Rusty. He had barely heard the words. "Sure."
Lothar stared at him with his slanting, narrow eyes. He finally nodded,
moved away.
* * * * *
The little ship was crudely made, Rusty noticed, of cans in which the
prisoners had been dropped. It was held down by ropes stretching over
the hull. The thick, insulated drift-tubes were simple antigravitic
units of low power. With the engineering skill of the Martians, six
of these had been fixed together, forming a squat hull, blunt at one
end. Powered by fuel salvaged from countless near-dry tubes, it was
planned, he was told, to wait till the nearby satellite was directly
overhead, then release the ship, allowing it to drift upward. After a
few miles--with an over-load of fuel they would drift fast--they would
be caught by the pull of the larger planet, sucked into it. The gravity
of the Great Moon would overcome their diminished power and they would
drift down. There was, of course, no oxygen equipment and they would
doubtless lose consciousness. But it would be only a few moments in
space and they should revive in the dense atmosphere of the moon. It
was a chance they would have to take.
Creeping comets! thought Rusty. Wouldn't he have a story if he ever
reached the Tele-news plant again! But would he ever see Earth again?
He felt little optimism when he looked up at the planet slowly swinging
toward them. Gigantic, almost as large as Pluto, its rugged land
and dark seas were quite visible across the few thousand miles. The
triplet-moons were dead, of their own radiations, but the Great Moon,
in a separate orbit, was eternally tropical. A regular transit to the
eccentric orbit of the warming spheres, it received a degree of heat
that Pluto's greater distance denied. Its atmosphere was thin, tinged
with ozone, but breatheable. It rotated slowly, a perceptible movement.
A smooth patch came into view upon its green surface and Rusty
remembered it was the only inhabitable portion of the planet. The rest
was insect-infested jungle, shallow oceans. If they waited till it was
overhead, they could not miss the moon. But they _must_ hit that little
spot upon its surface.
"We're waiting till the Plain comes around again," Spike answered
Rusty's thoughts. "Have to leave navigation to the Martians. They have
an uncanny sense of precision."
"What--" began Rusty.
He heard a slithering in the plants behind them.
They turned. Rusty saw three Bugs crawl into the dim light. Yellow
horrors, they moved swiftly. Sharp feelers waving, they advanced like
giant cockroaches. Others came behind them. They swarmed into the
clearing.
He turned to run. There was no fighting them. There was no running
away--Bugs poured from all sides. Lord! must he die now? When a chance
was so near? They were surrounded. He stood staring, the others behind
him, weaponless.
Rusty remembered one man he had seen after their work. He sickened
at the picture. Blood was what they smelled, what they sought. Those
feelers chopped at one's legs, severed the feet, hovered with sucking
mouths about the face of the victim, still alive.
The Bugs came on.
One neared Rusty. A tendril knifed at him. He kicked madly into the
yellow mass, felt the pulpy insect crush under the blow. The ground was
a blanket of writhing yellow, spreading toward them. He hoped it would
be quick. But it never was. One died slowly. The life sucked from him.
Rusty kicked at another. The others were stamping wildly.
"Into the ship!" yelled Spike.
The tubes! They would be safe there. Rusty leaped a slashing wave as
there was a rush for the ship. He went into the ochre, crawling things
with one bound, into a drift-can with another. He clanged the port over
him, heard the others slam shut.
Rusty lay in the silent darkness, unable to move in the cramped
cylinder. They would have to wait for the Bugs to leave. It might be
days! The air was slowly becoming bad. He would have to open the port
soon. He might be able to open it just a fraction, but those tendrils
were thin, they might whip in. The place was stifling. His throat
ached. There was bursting panic in his lungs.
Suddenly he was pressed against the bottom of the tube by an invisible
force. They were moving.
But why? How? The Great Moon was not in position yet! They would miss
it! He raised a hand to the port-lock. It would be better to jump. And
the air--he could not breathe. He fumbled with the lock, could not open
it. Weakly he clawed at the port. They would--drift--into--space....
Slowly, his mind relaxed into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
Rusty opened his eyes and breathed deeply of exquisite air. He saw
green foliage above him. He was lying upon a verdant substance, soft
and moist. It was very hot. His furs had been removed.
"It's time you came to!" said a voice, and Rusty sat up, saw the rotund
Earthian approaching. He glanced around, saw the drift-lube nearby,
half-buried in the mud. The others were standing beside it, their odd
appearance increased by the removal of their heavy clothing.
They had made it. They had escaped! He was free!
"What happened?" he asked, head dizzy.
"Fool Bugs cut the ropes," said Spike. "We floated off Pluto. Several
of them must have held on the rope-ends for a while. Their weight
slowed us down till the moon came over, but we hit in the jungle--an
ocean, either way, between us and the Plain."
"Lord!" said Rusty. "No man ever crossed this part of the planet on
foot!"
"Nobody ever escaped from Pluto either," said Spike. "Until ten minutes
ago." He yanked Rusty to his feet.
Rusty looked at the dense wall of plants about them. There was barely
room for a man to pass between the twisted trunks and vines. Overhead
was the same thick mass of green. Faint light seeped through. But here
was a single, tangible thing--something one could grasp with the hands,
fight for life--a goal at the end. There was a hope! It was better than
Pluto.
The others came up.
"What now?" said one of the Martians in his toneless voice.
"Cross jungle, cross sea," said Lothar.
"Let's get going," said Spike. He turned to the seemingly impenetrable
growths surrounding them.
Rusty followed. His heart stopped.
A great white thing fell slowly in front of them. It dangled in
mid-air. It was a spider--bigger than an Earthian cow. Green, checked
eyes bulging, it hung from a thick strand of translucent material.
Spike sprang back as the monstrosity reached out a hairy tendril. Rusty
stood hypnotized by the pale hideousness of the creature.
With a quick movement it swung toward them.
Rusty broke his trance. He leaped aside. A tentacle slapped across his
face as he sprawled into the mire.
He started up, saw the insect crouched upon the writhing form of a
Martian. Shrill, animal screams cut the air as the red man struggled
frantically to escape the tightening white claws. The gaping man drew
close.
"Get him, Lothar!" shouted Spike from the edge of the jungle.
The eight-foot Uranian plodded to the thing, short legs working
rapidly. With a massive hand, he caught one stalk-like feeler, and
wrenched and twisted it from the globose body.
Holding the wriggling Martian, the spider flung itself upon Lothar. It
landed upon him with all its pulpy weight. The Martian quit screaming,
lay still. His eyes protruded and Rusty saw that his face, normally
light red, was slowly darkening.
The ghastly pale insect lay upon the Uranian body, covering his chest
and arms. It did not move. The eyes glazed. Then slowly the creature
rolled over upon crumpled legs. It twitched feebly.
Lothar arose, his upper body a mass of pink, gelatinous fluid. Rusty
revolted at the gory figure.
The Martian was dead. His fellow red man searched his pockets, shrugged
and did not look at him again.