* * * * *
[Sidenote: The trail of vanished space ships leads Grant Pemberton to
a marvellous lake of fire.]
Grant Pemberton sat up suddenly in his berth, every sense straining
and alert. What was it that had awakened him in the deathly stillness
of the space-flier? His right hand slid under the pillow and clutched
the handle of his gun. Its firm coolness was a comforting reality.
There it was again. A tiny scratching on the door as though someone
was fumbling for the slide-switch. Very quietly he sat, waiting, his
finger poised against the trigger. Suddenly the scratching ceased, and
the panel moved slowly open. A thin oblong patch glimmered in the
light of the corridor beyond. Grant tensed grimly.
A hand moved slowly around the slit--a hand that held a pencil-ray.
Even in the dim illumination, Grant noted the queer spatulate fingers.
A Ganymedan! In the entire solar system only they had those strange
appendages.
Pemberton catapulted out of his berth like a flash. Not a moment too
soon, either. A pale blue beam slithered across the blackness,
impinged upon the pillow where his head had lain only a moment before.
The air-cushion disintegrated into smoldering dust. Grant's weapon
spat viciously. A hail of tiny bullets rattled against the panel, and
exploded, each in a puffball of flame.
But it was too late. Already the unknown enemy was running swiftly
down the corridor, the sucking patter of his feet giving more evidence
of his Ganymedan origin. Pemberton sprang to the door, thrust it open
just in time to see a dark shape disappearing around a bend in the
corridor. There was no use of pursuit; the passageway ended in a spray
of smaller corridors, from which ambush would be absurdly easy.
* * * * *
HE glanced swiftly around. The corridor was empty, silent in the dim,
diffused light. The motley passengers were all sound asleep; no one
had been disturbed by the fracas. Earthmen, green-faced Martians,
fish-scaled Venusians, spatulate Ganymedans and homeward-bound
Callistans, all reposing through the sleep-period in anticipation of
an early landing in Callisto.
All were asleep, that is, but one. That brought Pemberton back to the
problem of his mysterious assailant. Why had this Ganymedan tried to
whiff him out of existence? Grant frowned. No one on board knew of his
mission, not even the captain. On the passenger list he was merely
Dirk Halliday, an inconspicuous commercial traveler for Interspace
Products. Yet someone had manifestly penetrated his disguise and was
eager to remove him from the path of whatever deviltry was up. Who?
Grant gave a little start, then swore softly. Of course! Why hadn't he
thought of it before! The scene came back to him, complete in every
detail, as though he were once more back on Earth, in the small,
simply furnished office of the Interplanetary Secret Service.
The Chief of the Service was glancing up at him keenly. Beside him was
a tall, powerfully shouldered Ganymedan, Miro, Inspector for Ganymede.
Grant looked at him with a faint distaste as he sat there, drumming on
the arm of his chair with his spatulate fingers, his soft-suction
padded hoofs curled queerly under the seat. There was something
furtive, too, about the red lidless eyes that shifted with quick
unwinking movements.
* * * * *
But then, Pemberton had small use for the entire tribe of Ganymedans.
Damned pirates, that's all they were. It was not many years back since
they had been the scourge of the solar system, harrying spatial
commerce with their swift piratical fliers, burning and slaying for
the mere lust of it.
That is, until an armada of Earth space-fliers had broken their power
in one great battle. The stricken corsairs were compelled to disgorge
their accumulations of plunder, give up all their fliers and armament,
and above all, the import of metals was forbidden them. For,
strangely enough, none of the metallic elements was to be found on
Ganymede. All their weapons, all their ships, were forged of metals
from the other planets.
It was now five years since Ganymede had been admitted once again to
the Planetary League, after suitable declarations of repentance. But
the prohibitions still held. And Grant placed small faith in the
sincerity of the repentance.
The Chief was speaking.
"We've called you in--Miro and I," he said, in his usual swift,
staccato manner, "because we've agreed that you are the best man in
the Service to handle the mission we have in mind."
Grant said nothing.
"It's a particularly dangerous affair," the Chief continued. "Five
great space-fliers, traveling along regular traffic routes, have all
vanished within the space of a month--passengers, crews and all. Not a
trace of them can be found."
"No radio reports, sir?"
"That's the most curious part of the whole business. Everyone of the
fliers was equipped with apparatus that could have raised the entire
solar system with a call for help, and yet not the tiniest whisper was
heard."
* * * * *
The Chief got up and paced the floor agitatedly. It was plain that
this business was worrying him. Miro continued to sit calmly,
seemingly indifferent. "It's uncanny, I tell you. Gone as though empty
space had swallowed them up."
"You've applied routine methods, of course," Grant ventured.
"Of course," the Chief waved it aside impatiently. "But we can't
discover a thing. Battle fliers have patrolled the area without
success. The last ship was literally snatched away right under the
nose of a convoy. One minute it was in radio communication, and the
next--whiff--it was gone."
"Where is this area you mention?" Already Pemberton's razor-edged
brain was at work on the problem.
"Within a radius of five million miles from Jupiter. We've naturally
considered placing an embargo upon that territory, but that would mean
cutting off all of the satellites from the rest of the system."
Miro stirred. His smooth slurred voice rolled out.
"And my planet would suffer, my friend. Alas, it has already suffered
too much." He evoked a sigh from somewhere in the depths of his barrel
chest, and tried to cast up his small red eyes.
Grant suffered too, a faint disgust. Damn his eyes, what business had
an erstwhile pirate, not too recently reformed, being self-righteous?
"Miro thinks," the Chief continued unheeding, "that the Callistans
know more about this than they admit. He has a theory that Callisto is
somehow gathering up these ships to use in a surprise attack against
his own planet, Ganymede. He says Callisto has always hated them."
"Damn good reason," Grant said laconically.
* * * * *
Miro's lidless eyes flamed into sudden life. "And what do you mean by
that, my friend?"
Pemberton replied calmly. "Simply that your people have harried and
ravaged them for untold centuries. They were your nearest prey, you
know."
Miro sprang to his feet, his soft suction pads gripping the floor as
though preparatory to a spring. Gone was the sanctimonious unction of
his former behavior; the ruthless savage glared out of the red eyes,
the flattened fingers were twisting and curling.
"You beastly Earthling," he cried in a voice choked with rage,
"I'll--"
The Chief intervened swiftly. "Here, none of that," he said sharply to
Miro. "Don't say anything you'll regret later." Then he turned to
Grant, who was steadily holding his ground: "There was no reason,
Pemberton, to insult an inspector of the Service. Consider yourself
reprimanded." But the edge of the rebuke was taken off by the slight
twinkle in the Chief's eye.
Somehow a truce was patched up. Grant was to ship as an ordinary
passenger on the _Althea_, the great passenger liner that plied
between Callisto and the Earth. It was not his duty to prevent the
disappearance of the vessel, the Chief insisted, but to endeavor to
discover the cause. It was up to Grant then to escape, if he could,
and to report to Miro on Ganymede immediately with his findings. Miro
was leaving by his private Service flier at once for Ganymede, to
await him. Grant thought he saw a faint sardonic gleam in the
Inspector's eyes at that, but paid no particular heed to it at the
time.
* * * * *
Now, as Grant stood in the corridor of the great space-flier,
listening intently for further sounds from his hidden foe, it flashed
on him. Miro knew he was on board. It was a Ganymedan who had
treacherously attacked him. The puzzle was slowly fitting its pieces
together. But the major piece still eluded him. What would happen to
the ship?
As he turned to go back to his room, a ripping, tearing, grinding
sound came to his startled ears. It was followed by a sudden swishing
noise. Grant knew what that meant. A meteor had ripped into the vitals
of the space-flier, and the precious air was rushing through the
fissure into outer space. He whirled without an instant's hesitation
and sprang down the long corridor toward the captain's quarters. If
caught in time, the hole could be plugged.
Even as he ran, there was another grinding smash, then another, and
another. Good Lord, they must have headed right into a meteor shower.
Panels were sliding open, and people, scantily attired, thrust
startled heads out into the corridor. Someone called after him, but he
did not heed or stop his headlong race. He must get to the control
room at once.
Already the air in the corridor was a sucking whirlpool that beat and
eddied about him in its mad rush to escape. It sounded like the
drumbeat of unsilenced exploders. A meteor shower of unprecedented
proportions! In the back of Grant's mind as he ran, hammered a
thought. Every swarm of meteors in the solar system was carefully
plotted. The lanes of travel were routed to avoid them. There was no
known shower in this particular area!
He collided violently with a strange ungainly figure. In his desperate
haste he did not give much heed, but tried to push his way past. The
figure turned on him, and then Grant stopped short, an exclamation
frozen to his lips. Red unwinking eyes stared out at him from goggles
set in a helmet. The body was completely inclosed in lusterless
creatoid. It was a Ganymedan in a space-suit!
* * * * *
Grant saw the quick movement of the other toward an open side flap. He
did not hesitate an instant. His fist shot out and caught the
Ganymedan flush in the throat, while his left hand simultaneously
seized the creatoid-covered arm that gripped a pencil-ray. The
helmeted head went back with a sickening thud. But the Ganymedan was
a powerful brute. Even as he staggered back from the force of the
blow, vainly trying to release the pencil-ray for action, his right
foot jerked forward. The next moment both were rolling on the floor,
twisting and heaving in silent combat. Frightened passengers rushed
down the corridor, screaming with terror, half carried along by the
hurricane wind, clambering over the combatants in an insane desire to
get away, where, they knew not; and still neither relaxed his grip,
seeking a mortal hold.
Pemberton was certain that his silent unknown foe held the clue to the
mystery he was trying to fathom. He fought on, silently, grimly. The
cold creatoid fabric was slippery, but a sudden jerk of an arm, a
certain quick twist that Grant was familiar with, and his enemy went
limp. Grant's breath was coming in quick, labored gasps. There was
very little air left now. But he did not care. He tugged at the
fastenings on the helmet. He must see who his captive was, wrest from
him the heart of the mystery.
There came a clatter of feet behind him, a sudden rush of space-suited
figures that overwhelmed and passed over him with trampling strides.
He was torn loose from his prey, rolled over and over, gasping for
air. When he staggered to his feet again, bruised and shaken, the
corridor was swept clean of figures. His assailants had carried his
opponent away with them.
A wild surge of anger swept through him. More Ganymedans, these
rescuers, all accoutered for airless space. They had been carefully
prepared for this. Heedless of all else, he swayed groggily after
them, intent only on joining battle once again. The illumination was
dim now, the cries of fear that had rung through the ship were gone;
only a deathly silence reigned now. His lungs were burning for want
of air; even the whirlwind had died down for lack of fuel. But still
he kept on, like a bloodhound on the trail.
* * * * *
He rounded a corner. A slight figure, swaying like a reed, collided
with him and would have fallen if he had not thrust out a supporting
arm. It was a girl. Even in the shadowy light he saw that she was
beautiful. Her delicately molded features were drained white, but her
deep pooled eyes were level in their gaze, unafraid.
"I'm sorry," he managed, finding utterance labored, "Are you hurt?"
"Quite all right," she said, with a wan smile, "if only I had some air
to breathe."
The essential bravery of her touched him. He forgot all about the
escaped Ganymedans.
"We'll have to try some other portion of the ship. Maybe some of the
bulkheads are uninjured."
She shook her head. "I just saw the captain," she enunciated faintly.
"Every bulkhead is riddled. Said--I--should get space-suit--in
stateroom--though no use--doomed. Something wrong--wireless--not
working...." Her voice trailed. She had fainted.
Grant caught up her slight form and lurched unsteadily into the
nearest cabin. The blood was roaring in his ears now, his heart was
pumping madly, but he forced himself on. His eyes strained toward the
compartment where the emergency space-suit was neatly compacted. Thank
God. It was still there. The inmate had evidently rushed out at the
first alarm to join the terror-maddened crush.
Pemberton worked with feverish haste. Somehow he thrust the
unconscious girl into the suit, tightened the helmet into position,
opened the valve that started the steady measured flow of life-giving
oxygen. Then, with dark spots dancing before his eyes, he deposited
her gently on the floor, and managed to force himself in the now
almost total darkness toward another room.
* * * * *
His swelling hands fumbled. The compartment was empty. Despairing,
conscious only of a desire to lie down, to rest, he tried another. It,
too, was empty. He stumbled over sprawled bodies, fell, managed to get
up again. Again he fumbled into a compartment. The clammy feel of the
creatoid never was more welcome. His breath was coming in whistling
gasps. It seemed ages of strangulation before the first cool rush of
oxygen expanded his tortured lungs. For a full minute he stood there,
inhaling deep draughts. Then once more he was himself, his brain
functioning with keen clarity.
He must find the Ganymedans and come to grips with them. There was no
doubt in his mind that somehow they had been responsible for the
cataclysm. Just how, he did not know, but he would find out.
But the girl. He could not leave her. Duty and something else stirred
into conflict. He hesitated. In the flap of the suit was an emergency
flash. Throwing the beam on the walls and flooring, he managed to
retrace his steps to the cabin where he had left her. As he flashed it
inside, his heart gave a great bound. She was standing now.
"Feel all right?" he spoke into the tiny transmitter that was part of
the regulation equipment.
"Fine." Her warm, rich voice spoke in his ear. "But I'm not thinking
of myself. Are the others on board safe? What happened?"
"I'm afraid we are the only ones alive," he told her gravely. "As to
what happened, I can only guess. We seem to have hit an unusually
heavy meteor shower that riddled us through and through, though--" He
paused.
"Though what?"
He ignored her question. "The first thing we've got to do is find out
where we are." His flash sought the window switch and found it. He
went over and pressed it. A section of the beryllium-steel casing slid
smoothly open, disclosing a thick flawless quartzite port. He stared
out at the dark pattern of space. Long he gazed, then a stifled
exclamation reached the girl.
"What is it?" she cried.
"Come and look," he told her gravely, and made room for her.
* * * * *
At first she saw only the unwinking stars of space. Then her eyes
shifted forward. Jupiter lay ahead, a vast cloud-girt disk. It was
ominously near. Somehow it gave the effect of rushing straight at her.
Right along the equator floated, or seemed to float, a huge red
oval--the Great Red Spot of Jupiter. She had heard of it before. But
what caught her immediate attention was a tiny flare of intense
illumination, right in the very heart of the Spot. Bright orange it
was, tinged with yellow, dazzling even at this distance. She watched
it eagerly. Then she gave a sudden start.
"You've seen it." Grant's voice sounded quietly in her helmet.
"Yes. Why, it--it pulsates!"
"Exactly. Now look along the hull of the ship."
She did so, and gasped again. The steel-shod sides were bathed in an
unearthly orange glow.
"Why, that must be the light from the orange spot down there."
Grant nodded. "Yes, and more than that. They are power waves of a
nature that we've known nothing of before. We are being pulled down
along that beam straight for Jupiter, straight for the source of that
light!"
"But that means there are intelligent beings on Jupiter."
"No doubt."
"But--but everyone know that there's no life on Jupiter. It's a frozen
waste swathed in impenetrable whirlwind clouds."
"How does everyone know?" Grant retorted. "Has anyone ever penetrated
through those clouds?"
"No," she admitted; "though there have been plenty of expeditions that
tried, and never came back."
"That of course doesn't prove anything. Mind you," he added. "I didn't
say there was native life existing on Jupiter. I merely said there
were intelligent beings operating that illumination."
"Who could it be then?"
"We'll find out when we get down there."
* * * * *
The very calmness of his matter-of-fact statement brought her back
abruptly to their precarious situation.
"But, great heavens, we'll smash and be killed. Can't we do
something?"
"We'll not smash." Grant said positively. "Though very likely we shall
be killed. As for doing something, we can only wait and take our
chances, if the gentry who are hauling us in will only give us an
opportunity. You know," he added with a fine inconsecutiveness, "I
don't even know your name."
She bubbled with sudden laughter. "Nona--Nona Gail. I was on my way to
Callisto, to meet my father," she explained. "He's an engineer, doing
some construction work for Interspace Products. But now that I've told
you all, what and who may you be?"
He was frank. There was now no need for concealment. "Grant
Pemberton, an unimportant unit of the Interplanetary Secret Service."
"Then you knew that the trip would be dangerous," she challenged.
"Yes."
"Why did you come?"
"It is part of my duties."
There was silence between them. He turned to stare out of the quartz
port-hole again. Jupiter was perceptibly nearer; an enormous, convex
globe that blotted out half the heavens. They were being drawn at a
frightful velocity toward the mysterious pulsating point, now blinding
in its brilliance.
They both saw it simultaneously: a space-suited figure, far out in the
depths of interstellar space, caught up in a sudden flare of orange
illumination. The strange figure seemed to whirl around, straighten
up, and shoot at breakneck speed headlong for Jupiter. Behind it, and
in a direct line with the winking flame in the Great Spot, another
space denizen glowed luridly, startlingly, out of the blackness
beyond, whirled, and shot down the long invisible path.
Nona cried out: "Grant, tell me quickly, what are they; what is
pulling them?"
Even as she spoke, more and more figures were blazoned in that orange
ray, until a long file of beings were catapulting in a single straight
line past the space-ship, outdistancing it until they became faint
specks in the distance.
* * * * *
Pemberton's hand was upon her shoulder, his eyes literally blazing
through the goggles, while his voice shouted in her ears. "Come with
me: We haven't a second to lose."
"But," she gasped, "you haven't told me--"
"No time," he interrupted, and, shoving her in front of him, he rushed
her through corridor after corridor until they came to the air-lock
of the liner.
"If only we have time," he groaned, and cursed himself for a bungling
fool for not having surmised the maneuver earlier.
Just as he had expected, the great lock was open. The ship was as
silent as the grave. There was no air anywhere, only the unutterably
cold airlessness of space. Without pausing in his headlong rush, he
pushed the bewildered girl through the open port, out into the
overwhelming, intangible blackness. Nona's smothered cry of fear came
to him as the next instant he stepped forward and left the solid
footing to float in sudden weightlessness in a vast sea of
nothingness.
The girl reached out and caught his arm convulsively. Even through the
fabric of their suits he could feel her trembling. Pemberton had taken
good care to retain a hold on the edge of the open air-lock. The two
swung unsteadily.
"What is the reason for this?" Grant sensed, rather, than heard, the
tremor in her voice. She was making a desperate effort to control
herself. "We'll be lost--out here in space."
"Don't worry," he said soothingly. "I'll explain in due course. In the
meantime you'll have to trust me. Did you see where that invisible ray
held when it illumined the last Ganymedan?"
"Ganymedan?" she echoed in surprise. "What makes you think--"
"Never mind that. Did you?" he insisted.
"Yes," she admitted, "it was about over there." She indicated the spot
with an outthrust arm. "About a hundred yards, I should judge."
"Exactly," he agreed. "Well, young lady, our lives, and far more,
depend upon our reaching that exact line in space immediately."
"I don't know what you are talking about, but even so, how can we
make it? I'm not a rocket."
"It's difficult, I admit, but we must. Now hold on tight to my arm,
and press your feet firmly against the wall of the ship." She obeyed.
"Now when I count three, shove off violently, and pray that we're
going straight. Are you game?"