Death hid behind a smile in the white-and-gold
city of Gral-Thala. Gibson, Earth-spy off the
derelict strathoship, well knew his captive-fate.
But if he died, then the Good Green planet
perished from the Gray Death.... If he died, then
died Diana, fair Goddess of the Moon.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Tokyo-to-New York Stratholiner swept down toward the Manhattan
Municipal Airport early on a winter evening, with the port-holes
gleaming all along the 300-foot length of her polished steel body.
Rockets cut off well above the city in accordance with the strict
American traffic regulations, she came down with half a dozen big
props spinning under the drive of her powerful Diesel auxiliaries. A
dozen whirling helicopters had been upthrust to take the strain. She
came down to a city that lay murmurous and uneasy under the greatest
threat that mankind had ever faced--the threat of the Gray Death!
A band was playing in the liner's saloon, and passengers in the
smoking-room were hurriedly gulping down the last of their drinks.
There was a forced and unnatural gaiety on board. Most of the
passengers had taken more than a few drinks on the way across from
Tokyo--for the news of the spread of the Gray Death was ominous. It
is hard to retain peace of mind when a strange new epidemic rages
unchecked from Alaska to Cape Horn and from Nova Zembla to New Zealand.
Men and women were dying like flies, and all the medical science of
this Twenty-fourth Century seemed helpless before the deadly plague.
It was the steady vibration of the Diesels that brought Larry Gibson
back to an awareness of his surroundings. Their resonant hum was
distinctly different from the pounding blast of the rockets, and any
experienced stratho-pilot could tell the difference in a second. Larry
tossed off the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of
an unsteady hand. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up, swaying
as he tried to hold his balance on the slightly tilted floor of the
descending liner. A man at the next table glanced curiously up at him.
"Guess we're landing, friend," he said. "Y'know, they say that there
are a thousand deaths a day here in New York City now. They're digging
graves in the cemeteries with electric shovels, I understand."
"Life," said Larry with alcoholic gravity, "is cheap. Too cheap.
One hundred lives equals a man's career. It's all been worked out
mathematically. Good evening."
Larry left the third-class bar where he had been sitting, and walked
slowly along the corridor. Mechanically he turned the collar of his
frayed coat up around his neck and pulled the brim of his wide hat well
down over his eyes. There was always the possibility that someone would
recognize him, and in these past months he had learned to keep in the
shadowy byways of life. The time would come when men would forget that
an unlucky person named Larry Gibson had ever existed, but in this year
2332 there were still plenty of people who would recognize his face.
* * * * *
Gibson was not traveling in the first-class section of the big liner,
in those luxurious quarters built into the giant wings to which his
rank had once given him free entry. Back in the days when he had been
Chief Pilot of all the Strathofleet he could ride there as a matter
of course. Now he could not afford it. He could not even afford
the second-class accommodations amidships. Instead, he rode in the
third-class quarters back in the tail. When a man knows that he has no
possible chance of getting another job, he has to hoard the money he
has saved up.
The giant airliner came down to an easy landing, and rolled across the
field on her big wheels. The lights of the airport burned as brightly
as ever, but anyone accustomed to New York could tell that there was
something wrong. There were no crowds of spectators at all, and the
few people who met the incoming travelers looked harassed and nervous.
Even the airport attendants went about their business in a listless and
somehow furtive manner.
It had been ten days ago that the blight first struck a peaceful
World that believed it had at last made life safe and pleasant for
its inhabitants. A few peasants in Honan province in China had taken
convulsions and died while their skins turned a peculiar silver gray.
Within twenty-four hours similar deaths were reported from points as
widely separated as Bergen, Norway and Santos in Brazil.
Since then the strange new epidemic had raged unchecked. All the
medical and financial resources of the Confederated Nations of Earth
had been thrown into the fight without effect. The Gray Death struck
quickly, men and women alike dying within six hours of the appearance
of the first tell-tale patches of silver on their skin. The population
had not yet started to panic, except in a few isolated instances, but
the nerves of all men were ragged and jumpy from the strain.
Standing in the crowd of third-class passengers that had just alighted
from the liner, Larry Gibson heard two of the airport attendants
talking.
"He claims he's going to take that old rocket-ship to the Moon!" one of
them said, and his companion chuckled.
"Crazy, all right."
"Guess he is. But what I'm wondering is how he got a crew to go along
with him."
"Have you seen them? They're the damnedest bunch of derelicts I ever
saw."
For a moment Larry was tempted to ask the attendant for the name of
the vessel they were discussing. It sounded like the one place where a
disgraced and black-listed officer might get a berth. Then he shrugged
and turned away. Nothing mattered very much, any more.