The mad dreams of a crazed dictator had reached from
the past and taken root in the dread Tsom Clan on
Neptune, threatening the peaceful existence of a dozen
worlds. There was little Timmy Gordon and Johnny Damokles
could do--for they were prisoners of the Tsom, working
on the monster bomb that was to signal the invasion.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories March 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A cloudlet of dust whirled across Spaceport X and rose in the thin
Callistonian air to beat against the window. The sound was gritty,
abrasive. It hadn't rained for weeks, and the sky, clear of clouds,
hovered blacker than Holofernes' soul. Jupiter touched the horizon. And
far away, Neptune's pale blue light glowed softly.
Timmy Gordon walked to the window. "I've never seen old Neptune so
clear before," he said. "And say, Johnny, where'd they ever get a name
like that for a planet? Neptune! What's it mean?"
Johnny Damokles laid one fat, hairy hand on the bar. He wiped a glass
with his apron and smiled. "Sure, boss," he said. "All the time you
talking space, eating space. What's a good if you don't know why
planets get name?"
"Do you, chum?"
"Sure t'ing, boss. Greeks are all knowings about Neptune."
"Well?"
"She's this way. Neptune are a old Greek god, and he are importants for
rule the ocean. So what happens?"
"I'll bite, Johnny."
"A fellows finds it this planet. She ain't got a names and deesa
fellows t'ink she's all watery. So they name her for Mister Neptune.
Dem times long ago ... two t'ousand year ... t'ree t'ousand. What them
hells!"
"Aw for cripe's sake shut up! You dam' Greeks!"
Timmy and Damokles turned. Shelton Thurner, head pilot of the Jup-Cal
Line was sitting alone at a side table. He was drunk, very drunk, and
a wisp of black hair hung over his forehead. "Shut up!" he screamed,
"talkin' about the past! Dam' dumb Greek dishwasher! Neptune was
discovered 900 years ago, aroun' 1830 ... and who in hell cares what
it's named ... excep' a Greek." Thurner staggered to his feet. Liquor
spilled.
For a little man, Johnny Damokles was both fat and fast. One hand hit
the bar, he vaulted it, and faced Thurner. "What's for you cuss Greek?
She are good braves people...."
"I told you to shut up," said Thurner. He planted a big hand in Johnny
Damokles' face and shoved. Johnny fell, and Thurner kicked him brutally
in the side.
Then the room hit Thurner smack on the jaw.
"Want some more?" asked Timmy. He stared down at the hulking pilot, as
Thurner rolled over and rubbed his face. "Want another?" Timmy repeated.
The door opened, and the Director of Spaceport Operations stood framed
in its classic Callistonian marble columns.
"I want the two of you in my office. Special job for T-Three."
Timmy snapped to attention. T-3 was the one military department which
took immediate command of any pilot under any circumstances. Obedience
to T-3 was unquestioning and immediate. Even Thurner assumed a
semblance of military bearing and shook his head to clear the cobwebs.
He fell in beside Timmy and, scowling, followed the Director out.
Johnny Damokles watched them, wiping greasy glasses on a greasier apron
almost automatically.
The Office of the Director of Operations, shared by the Port Captain,
had been designed in 2475 by Anton Sestrovic.
Stars and planets moved silently across the ceiling in an endless
procession, while glowing dots, marking the positions of spaceships in
transit, crawled in well-defined lanes. Timmy shuffled his feet on the
carpet and waited for the Director to seat himself at his plexi-glass
desk. Thurner threw himself into a chair.
"Well?" grunted the big pilot, "what's T-Three after now? The feathers
from an angel's backside?"
The Director looked at him coldly, "No," he said. "Something a little
more dangerous to procure. Information is what they want."
"Why in hell don't they ask the Greek in the bar? He knows everything!
Ask his side-kick here."
Timmy flushed and knotted his fist. "You ask me ... later," he grunted.
"I can't. I'm on the Jupiter run in an hour."
"No," corrected the Director, "you're not on the Jupiter run. You're
heading for Neptune with Mister Gordon ... in his ship."
"Why pick on me?" interrupted Timmy. "I'm not fussy about whom I share
space with ... but I just cleaned ship ... and I don't like this lug."
"Sorry," said the Director. "Yours is the only ship in the Four Planets
fast enough to make the trip in time, but you're not licensed for
flight beyond Jupiter."
"How about another pilot?" Timmy pulled no punches in letting the
Director know how he, personally, felt about Mr. Shelton Thurner.
"I haven't another," the Director paused. "But you can take a third man
as super-cargo, Gordon. It might quiet down the Kilkenny-cat action."
A slow smile rolled over Timmy's face. "Okay," he said. "I'll take
Johnny Damokles."
Thurner leaped to his feet. "That dam' Greek dishwasher!" he exploded.
"What use is he in space?"
"He can sing ... and read Aristotle in the original Greek ... whoever
Aristotle was."
"Blast the whole job! I won't go!"
"Yes you will, Thurner," said the Director. "Report to Gordon's ship in
half an hour ... or turn in your license."
Thurner stomped out of the room. A slightly vulgar noise, issuing
through Timmy's pursed lips, was the last sound the big pilot heard.
* * * * *
"What's next?" asked Timmy. He turned to the Director as he spoke.
"What's it all about?"
"See those dots on the space map?" The Director pointed ceilingward to
a spot where a cluster of red spots moved on a common center.
"Yes."
"This is a wild hunch. But I suspect them to be Neptunian ships ...
unlisted in our clearance papers."
"You think they're a menace?"
"Definitely!"
"Why?"
Instead of answering the question, the Director rose and walked across
the room to a row of hermetically sealed cases. Like the display units
in small and dusty museums, these held a few yellowed books, chunks of
unclassified rock, and an occasional fossil. But one of them was broken.
"This case," said the Director, "once held an obscure book by a
Twentieth Century warlord. Know the period?"
"I'm a mechanic," said Timmy.
"Most of us are these days. It's something of a pity. But in the middle
Twentieth Century, historians tell us of a semi-civilized chieftain
named Hetlir, or Schicklegrub, who managed to control the mass of
Europa through an intelligent but utterly unscrupulous plan. The seeds
of that plan lie in a book called _Mein Kampst_ ... and this case once
held a copy."
"I see," said Timmy, but he didn't.
"Two years ago," continued the Director, "I entertained a leader of the
Neptunian Tsom clan. When he left, the book went with him."
"How can a book affect us?"
"Easily. Our only defense against the powerful semi-humans of Neptune
has been their own inability to organize any planetary unity. They
trade with us on a basis of toleration ... but they're not friends."
"Why haven't they attacked before?"
"Their clan system, and their wars at home."
"I see," said Tim, and this time he really did. "Then, you figure that
if one clan could dominate Neptune, they'd strike?"
"Yes. And Hetlir's plan calls for precisely the sort of planetary
organization that would suit the Neptunians. A master-race
dominates ... and on Neptune ... that master-race would probably be the
Tsom clan. _They_ have a copy of _Mein Kampst_."
"You believe they've done it?"
"I see no other reason why ships should hover near our Callistonian
frontier for five days."
"Then, I'll go investigate in the _Solabor_."
"Not the ships, Timmy. I want you to check on Neptune from the dark
side. Look for two things. Are there any Neptunian cruisers massing?
Have the planetary wars ended?"
Timmy sprawled back in his chair. "The answers to those questions," he
said, "will tell us our next step."
"Exactly."
"I can leave in twenty minutes."
"Then," said the Director, "hop to it son. And I hope good luck goes
with you." On the ceiling, the ominous dots seemed to grow more clear
as their new significance thrust itself on Timmy. He grasped the
Director's hand, shook it briefly, and walked out.
* * * * *
Downstairs, in the Space Bar, Johnny Damokles sweated over some
unsavory concoction, and swore in six planetary languages, plus old
Greek and a frenzied form of English. His apron strings hung loose,
three knives and a toasting fork peeked out of his pockets.
"What's cookin'?" hailed Timmy.
The little Greek turned around. "West'in on'let," he blurted. "An' this
dam' blast Callisto garlic ... she are not fit for cooking dog meat!"
"A clear and sensible opinion," said Tim, "neatly expressed." He leaned
over the counter, tilted Johnny's frying pan to the floor, grabbed the
Greek's apron and whipped it loose. "Come on, chum," he said. "You've
just resigned."
Johnny looked sadly at the mess on the floor. "What's a matter of you,
dam' idiot? Who are resigned?"
"You did, Johnny. You're going out into space with me as cook ... and
I need somebody to prepare rat poison for my pilot." He stopped, and
watched Damokles' chin drop. "Come on," he repeated, "we're going
places."
"Crazies places?"
"Nope! Space."
Johnny Damokles' face lighted up with something of the glow his
ancestors must have shown at Thermopylae and Salamis. "No kid? You
take me? Oh, Meester Timmy Gordon ... you is a dam sweet feller." His
cap went sailing skyward. His apron followed suit, and he grabbed a
twisted necktie from beneath the counter. "Hey, boy!" he shouted to an
open-mouthed waiter. "I is resigned. Tell her to the boss. Goom bye!"
"Look--" the waiter began.
"You look!" Timmy said, grinning.
Johnny grabbed a handful of tattered books from under the counter,
picked up his toasting fork and knives, slapped a checkered cap on his
head and dashed for the door as Timmy burst out laughing.
"Whassamatter, Meester Tims. You go crazies?"
"Not me ... but you. Come on, Space-hawk. Let's hit the hangar."
* * * * *
Hangar 6, block 8, where Timmy kept the _Solabor_, was one of the
smaller impervium shanties built to accommodate just such independents
as himself. It lay at the end of the field, sheltered from the major
launching-cradle by a thick growth of scrub hedge. Timmy whistled as
he walked toward it, and Johnny Damokles picked up the tune. "Where we
go, Tim?" asked the Greek, and waved his fork in circles. "Maybe go
Jupiters?"
"Nope. Can't tell you till we're aboard ship." The hangar lay just
ahead. The _Solabor_ was ready. Timmy grinned.
And then he stopped.
No, that statement is incorrect. _Timmy was stopped._ His feet dangled
stiffly in air, as steel-strong hands, powerful as an atomic lift,
closed hard on his throat ... and lifted. His shout of warning was a
muttered croak. Then the world faded away in a purplish-gray haze. The
only sensation as darkness fell was a refrigerant chill biting at his
neck. Blackness.
[Illustration: _Steel-strong hands closed about Timmy's throat._]
"Whassamatter, Timmy ... you no sing?" asked the little Greek. He
turned around. His chin dropped with an almost audible thud on his
chest. And then, Johnny Damokles moved forward, blindly, heroically, a
28th Century Leonidas armed with a toasting fork.