Moon of Madness
And he pushed back the quartzite helmet of his bulger, exposing the
whitest smile, the handsomest face, the laughingest pair of eyes, all
topped by the most unruly mop of cinnamon hair, Gary Lane had ever
seen. A buccaneer the man might be, but he could equally well have been
an artist's model for a gay and laughing cavalier of the Seventeenth
Century.
"Lark O'Day!" gasped Nora Powell.
She knew the name, as did all Earthmen and women with a spark of
romantic imagination in their systems. Lark O'Day was a privateer
whose exploits were so remarkable as to be almost legendary. Though
a tremendous price was offered for his apprehension by the harassed
merchantmen of Earth's fleet, there were few but had a sneaking
admiration for this gallant and quixotic young champion of derring-do,
who, alone in this late day of ultra-civilization, carried on the
traditions of an earlier Robin Hood or Dick Turpin.
Though no rare cargo of precious gems or valuable ores was safe from
the attentions of Lark O'Day, it was not only such things which tempted
his forays. When the traitorous rebel government of the tiny planetoid
Ceres had fled its orb with a ransom of priceless gems ravaged from the
imperial coffers, he it was who had apprehended the traitors, delivered
upon them a swift and merciless punishment, then sent to Ceres'
beauteous Princess Alicia a gorgeous crown encrusted with the finest of
the stolen gems ... retaining only (as his fee for services rendered)
those jewels which found no place in the coronet.
He it also was who, when Earth's government dared not openly
accuse that brilliantly ruthless business tycoon, Jeremiah Draven,
of establishing slave colonies on Earth's lunar outpost, whisked
the trillionaire scoundrel from his private space yacht, held him
incommunicado until a court, declaring him legally dead, broke up
his financial empire ... then returned him to Earth horribly and
ineradicably branded across the brow with a cicatrix which theologians
identified as the biblical Mark of Cain.
And it was Lark O'Day who, for a whim, had stopped on its maiden voyage
the _Orestes_, greatest luxury liner ever built by man, for the sole
purpose of stealing one kiss from the ripe, bewildered lips of the
newly crowned "Miss Universe."
This, then, was the nature of their attacker. And though Gary Lane knew
the man to be a thief, daredevil, and desperado, he could not help but
like him at first sight. Nor was even Captain Hugh Warren, who should
have been furious, more than mildly amused at this latest prank of the
void's piratical playboy.
He chuckled and stripped off the gold braid emblems for which O'Day
asked, tossed them toward the privateer.
"Here you are," he laughed, "and welcome. I'm afraid I have no right to
wear them any more, anyway. At least, that's what my commander would
say."
O'Day glanced at him curiously.
"What? Say, wait a minute! This isn't the _Liberty_? You're not the
ones I heard about on the radio? The ones who stole a brand new cruiser
and--"
* * * * *
He paused, then rocked with infectious laughter. Whatever strain had
existed on the _Liberty's_ bridge disappeared as all joined him in his
mirth. When finally the redhead had regained his composure, he picked
up the fallen epaulettes, returned them to Warren with a courtly bow.
"My apologies, Captain. I am afraid I cannot take these. It appears
we're both in the same boat, figuratively as well as literally
speaking. And, after all, there _is_ 'honor amongst thieves', you know.
But--tell me? All I have heard is the World Council's side of the
story. I'm sure the whole truth must be interesting. Tell me about it."
So they told him the entire tale. Of Lane's discovery, the attack in
the Observatory, the World Council's refusal to grant a ship, and the
subsequent theft of the _Liberty_. Of their recent adventure on Venus.
As Gary spoke, the laughter faded from the corsair's lips and eyes.
A new seriousness gathered about the corners of his mouth and anger
tightened his lean, lithe figure.
He interrupted, frowning. "Just a moment. These calculations of
yours--you're sure they're right?"
"If mathematics is a pure science, yes."
"And the Venusian government--you say it refused to give you the fuel
you need?"
"That's right," said Gary glumly, "and without it, I'm afraid--"
He shrugged. But Lark O'Day turned sharply to his lieutenant. In his
voice was a note which the others had not heard before. It proved
beyond need of demonstration why laughing Lark O'Day could command a
hard-bitten crew as his.
"Call the men, Mark. Get them aboard the _Black Star_ and place every
hand at battle stations. Open the gun ports. Not short range--the
troposphere rotors. Prepare for immediate action. If those damned
fools--"
He spun to Warren angrily. "Captain, may I request the use of your
radioman and signal turret for a short time?"
"Why--why, yes," faltered Warren.
"Good! Then we'll teach those idiots to sacrifice an entire system to
their own selfish greed!"
"What are you going to do?" demanded Gary.
O'Day laughed, a single explosive bark in which was little mirth. "Do?
Why, I'm going to get you that fuel you need, of course! The Venusian
Council knows me of old ... and they know what the _Black Star's_ guns
can do. I'm going to call them now and tell them that unless they load
your fuel bins to the last millimeter I'll blast Sun City off the face
of their stinking planet. Come along if you want!" And he headed for
the radio turret.
What happened after that was anti-climax. The effect of Lark O'Day's
little speech to the Venusian Council was a measure of his greatness.
He talked and they listened. They demurred and he raised his voice a
note. They complained and that note became a warning note. They entered
a half-hearted refusal and he stopped _asking_ and started _telling_
them what they must do ... or else. They capitulated, servilely. A
short time later the _Liberty_ was once again nestling in a Sun City
cradle; this time gorging its belly with the five thousand tons of
_neurotrope_ for which Gary had unsuccessfully pleaded. The only
difference between this arrangement and the one Lane had suggested was
that the Venusians were not paid cash on the line for the vital fuel.
That was Lark O'Day's idea.
"Not a damn cent," he said. "Serves them right for being so stingy with
it before. This will teach them a lesson. And--" He grinned--"if your
conscience bothers you, you can pay them when we come back, if our trip
is successful."
"_We?_" said Nora Powell. "_Our_ trip?"
Lark O'Day grinned at her happily. "Why, sure," he drawled. "You don't
think I'd let an expedition like this get away without _me_ being
aboard, do you? That's my fee for helping out in a pinch. You don't
mind, do you, if I join the party?"
Lane said, "Mind! We're tickled to death to have you." And he really
meant it.
* * * * *
So set the _Liberty_ forth upon the second leg of its quest. Nor was it
now a halting leg upon which they limped. For their bins were filled to
the brim, "With enough fuel--" as Flick Muldoon put it--"to drive us
from here to Hades and back, with lay-overs at Erewhon and Shangri-la!"
This phase of the journey was not so frenzied as had been the brief
shuttle from Earth to Venus. For Mars lay not in conjunction with
Earth, but in opposition to the green planet. Their course bore them
sunward from Venus, inside the orbit of Mercury, then outward again
two hundred million miles to where slow Mars, pursuing its inexorable
course, should meet them in celestial rendezvous.
Thus the first week of their twenty day voyage was a far from pleasant
experience. Nearing Venus they had experienced a sample of Sol's
heat-dealing abilities. Now, as they flashed yet farther sunward, Gary
Lane and his companions realized that this had been indeed but a tiny
taste of what was to come.
Hour by hour the temperature within the _Liberty_ rose as flaming
radiation lashed at the cruiser's hull with scourges of flame. It
scarcely mattered that the refrigerating unit strained and labored like
a floundering Titan. The metal walls were unbearable to touch, and cool
drinks were but a sop to bodies which oozed perspiration from every
pore like desert-parched sponges.
Nor did it matter that the air-conditioning system functioned
perfectly. Its vents and fans had no cool air with which to bathe their
bodies. From its spouts gushed blasts of withering heat, scarcely less
endurable than the thickly stagnant air of unventilated corridors. One
by one the travelers shed layers of useless clothing. At their point
of nearest proximity to Sol, the men on duty labored in sweat-soaked
shorts, while those off duty--and Nora Powell--for modesty's sake
sought the sanctuary of stripped relaxation in their private quarters.
* * * * *
To Gary Lane's unspacetrained eye it appeared that save for this raw
discomfort the period passed without incident. Once, to be true, there
was a time when it seemed they would never swing out, past, and away
from the sky-filling crimson globe which is Earth's sun. And once
there came a breathless moment when it seemed the _Liberty_ choked and
throbbed in mid-flight, shuddered violently ... then ploughed along her
course.
But he was not spaceman enough to read meaning into these episodes. It
was not until much later, when they had recrossed the Mercurial orbit
and already the scorching heat was a fading memory, that Captain Hugh
Warren told him how near they had come to disaster.
"Nip and tuck there for a while," he confessed, "just as we reached
perigee. Even at our rate of speed I didn't think we were going to make
it for a minute. And we might not have, either, if it hadn't been for
O'Day."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Lane.
Warren grinned. "Heard of sun-baths, haven't you? Well, all of us
nearly took one. Only not in the sun's rays, but in old Sol itself.
Remember that time day before yesterday when the ship stalled for a
minute, then trembled and went on?"
"Yes. I thought something had gone wrong with the motors."
"It did," grunted Warren. "Solar rays locked 'em. Hysteresis, you know.
If O'Day hadn't jumped to those controls and done something--God knows
what--Sol's gravitation might have pulled us in and then ... blooie!
"I'm telling you, I'm glad he's along on this trip. Frankly, I don't
know whether I could have pulled us out of it myself."
Gary said, "And _I'm_ glad I didn't know about it until it was all
over! It is all over? We're in good shape now?"
"Yes. Though I'm afraid the jets may be a bit warped from the beating
they took. Not enough to cause us any trouble, I guess, but we'll have
to have them fixed up when we get to Mars."
"And that should be--?"
"Oh, at least another ten days. Might as well relax and enjoy yourself.
Speaking of which--" Warren's tone altered suddenly--"there's something
I'd like to mention. I hardly know how to say it, but--"
Gary stared at him puzzledly. "Well, go ahead."
"It's about Nora ... Miss Powell. I mean--I never quite understood the
setup between you two. I don't want to poach on a friend's preserves,
but in this instance--"
Gary said slowly, "Why--I have no strings on Nora, if that's what you
mean, Hugh. We're friends, but--"
"But there's no understanding between you?"
"No."
Warren laughed relievedly. "Well, in that case, you wouldn't have
any objection if I--well, sort of showed her around a little? Maybe
pointing out, meanwhile, that a certain Hugh Warren isn't a bad sort of
guy?"
"No," said Gary even more slowly. "No, of course not, Hugh. You have
every right in the world to do so."
It was all very open and above board. Nora was a fine girl and Gary
admired her greatly. Hugh was a great guy and an old friend. In view of
these facts, it is strange that when Warren, that night after dinner,
took Nora's arm in his and wandered off with her to the observation
deck of the _Liberty_, young Dr. Lane should have found himself
suddenly seized with a restlessness and impatience quite outside the
usual emotional experience of an earnest scientist with a burning
mission before him....
* * * * *
So the long hours rolled by, becoming days, and the slow days passed
until at length the sun lay far behind them, a dwindling ochre glow
in the black of space. And before them, increasingly larger with each
hour of flight, lay a huge crimson sphere, scored with a multitude of
crisscross scars, about which endlessly circled a pair of hurtling
satellites. The planet Mars.
Toward that they flashed at constant driving speed, filled with a
gathering impatience now that the second stage of their quest was so
near completion. Only three men seemed in any way perturbed by the
approaching nearness of the red planet. They, significantly enough,
were the three trained spacemen upon whom evolved the duty of guiding
the _Liberty_ from orb to orb.
Flick Muldoon who, mechanically inclined, had shown intense interest in
the technique of spaceflight throughout the journey, was surprised, on
that day when finally their destination loomed directly before them,
to note a growing apprehension in the eyes and actions of the three
astrogators.
O'Day was in the pilot's seat, his fingers poised and ready above the
innumerable banked studs. Of him Flick asked, "What's up, Lark? You're
as fidgety as a yogi on a cactus mattress."
O'Day dismissed the query with a swift, impatient shake of the head.
"Not now, Flick, if you don't mind. I'm busy."
Muldoon transferred his questioning to Warren.
"Busy? What's all the fuss about? All we've got to do is slide into
Mars and make a landing, isn't it?"
But Warren, too, showed no inclination to talk. He said to the man at
the controls, "Co-ordinates look good, O'Day. Both moons are on this
side. Of course, that may or may not mean anything. You never can
tell."
"What _is_ this?" demanded the now completely baffled Muldoon of the
only remaining space officer. "You guys act like you're expecting
trouble. What's the matter? Do you think the Martians are hostile?"
Lieutenant MacDonald smiled thinly. "It's not the Martians we're
worried about, Flick. It's those damned moons."
"What about them?"
"Well, we want to make sure we clear them, that's all. You see, Mars
has two moons, Deimos and Phobos. They're tricky little gadgets to
calculate when you're plotting a landing on the mother planet. Both of
them travel like bats out of hell. The inner one, Phobos, takes only
seven hours and thirty-nine minutes to make a complete revolution.
Deimos scoots along even faster. Though it's three times as far from
its primary as Phobos, it gallops through its orbit in thirty hours and
twenty minutes."
"So," Muldoon said, "What? You're not afraid of one of them hitting us,
are you? We're traveling faster than they are. And if you know where
they're going to be at any given moment--"
"No, we don't expect one of them to hit us. The thing we have to guard
against is _our_ hitting one of _them_. You see, those satellites have
peculiarities. One of them is that every once in a while, for no known
reason, they suddenly cease being tiny balls of inert matter hurtling
about their primary, and for a brief period become tremendously potent
magnets.
"Technicians have been studying the problem for a long time, but so far
haven't discovered the solution. All we know is that the oddity exists.
And so long as it does, Deimos and Phobos remain a constant hazard to
spacecraft approaching Mars."
"Magnets?" said Muldoon. "You mean they exert force on us? Drag us down
to them like--"
"Like," interrupted Captain Warren with a sudden bellow of dismay,
"_this! Lark, throw clear!_"
* * * * *
For in the split of a second a change had marred the smooth, even
flight of the _Liberty_. There came upon Muldoon a swift and sickening
sensation of increased weight. Despite himself he lurched and tumbled
forward to his knees aware that the ship's nose had spun dizzily off
course, and that the cruiser itself was streaking at increased speed in
a direction unplotted by the pilot.
Then everything happened at once. Great beads of perspiration springing
from his brow, Lark O'Day began pounding his controls like a master
organist playing the keyboard of a delicate instrument. Captain Warren
leaped to the audiophone, barked sharp commands to the men in the
engine room below. And over the intercommunicating system MacDonald was
crying hurried instructions to crew and passengers alike.
"_Go to emergency quarters immediately! Hammock yourselves for crash
landing!_"
"Crash landing!" gasped Muldoon.
"Here!" Warren grasped his arm, threw him into one of the well-padded
percussion chairs of the control turret. "Lock your safety belt and
relax. Everything's going to be all right ... I hope."
He turned questioning eyes to Lark O'Day. The one-time privateer took
time from his labors for an encouraging grunt.
"I think so. We're hooked, but I think I can bounce her down on a
slant. Hold tight, everybody."
Then in the vision lens which mapped that segment of space immediately
before them, Flick Muldoon glimpsed the rapidly swelling globe which
was Deimos, lesser moon of Mars. Like a great, gaunt blood-red rock
it looked; quartering, then halving, then completely blotting out the
vision plate.
Muldoon was momentarily aware of razor-sharp cliffs, high rocky
plateaus, and jagged tors unsoftened by a blade of vegetation. Then
the motors whined in shrill and screaming protest. The _Liberty's_
nose came up, and the ship struck with a resounding crash. Struck ...
bounced ... shook itself angrily ... and ground to a grating stop....