[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories September 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Fireflies on the dark meadow of Earth....
The men and women looking up through the dome in the center of the
crater of Eratosthenes were too stunned to cry out, and some did not
understand all at once the meaning of those pin-points on the shadowy
face of the new Earth, the lights blossoming outwards, then dying. So
bright they could be seen through the cloudmasses covering a large part
of Europe. So bright they could be located as London, Paris, Brussels,
Copenhagen, Leningrad, Rome, Reykjavik, Athens, Cairo....
Then, a flare near Moscow that spread out and out and out....
Some in the dome recovered more quickly than others. Scone and Broward,
two of the Soviet North American officers present at the reception in
honor of the South Atlantic Axis officers, acted swiftly enough to
defend themselves.
Even as the Axes took off their caps and pulled small automatics and
flat bombs from clips within the caps, the two Americans reached for
the guns in their holsters.
Too late to do them much good if the Argentineans and South Africans
nearest them had aimed at them. The Axes had no shock on their faces;
they must have known what to expect. And their weapons were firing
before the fastest of the Soviets could reach for the butts of their
guns.
But the Axes must have had orders to kill the highest ranking Soviets
first. At these the first fire was concentrated.
Marshal Kosselevsky had half-turned to his guest, Marshal
Ramírez-Armstrong. His mouth was open and working, but no words came
from it. Then, his eyes opened even wider as he saw the stubby gun
in the Argentinean's hand. His own hand rose in a defensive, wholly
futile, gesture.
Ramírez-Armstrong's gun twanged three times. Other Axes' bullets also
struck the Russian. Kosselevsky clutched at his paunch, and he fell
face forward. The .22 calibers did not have much energy or penetrate
deeply into the flesh. But they exploded on impact; they did their work
well enough.
Scone and Broward took advantage of not being immediate targets.
Guns in hand, they dived for the protection of a man-tall bank of
instruments. Bullets struck the metal cases and exploded, for, in a few
seconds, the Axes had accomplished their primary mission and were now
out to complete their secondary.
Broward felt a sting on his cheek as he rolled behind the bank. He
put his hand on his cheek, and, when he took it away, he saw his hand
covered with blood. But his probing finger felt only a shallow of
flesh. He forgot about the wound. Even if it had been more serious, he
would have had no time to take care of it.
A South African stepped around the corner of the bank, firing as he
came.
Broward shot twice with his .45. The dark-brown face showered into red
and lost its human shape. The body to which it was now loosely attached
curved backwards and fell on the floor.
* * * * *
"Broward!" called Scone above the twang and boom of the guns and the
wharoop! of a bomb. "Can you see anything? I can't even stick my head
around the corner without being shot at."
Broward looked at Scone, who was crouched at the other end of the bank.
Scone's back was to Broward, but Scone's head was twisted far enough
for him to see Broward out of the corner of his eye.
Even at that moment, when Broward's thoughts should have excluded
everything but the fight, he could not help comparing Scone's profile
to a face cut out of rock. The high bulbous forehead, thick bars of
bone over the eyes, Dantesque nose, thin lips, and chin jutting out
like a shelf of granite, more like a natural formation which happened
to resemble a chin than anything which had taken shape in a human womb.
Ugly, massive, but strong. Nothing of panic or fear in that face; it
was as steady as his voice.
Old Gibraltar-face, thought Broward for perhaps the hundredth time. But
this time he did not feel dislike.
"I can't see any more than you--Colonel," he said.
Scone, still squatting, shifted around until he could bring one eye to
bear fully on Broward. It was a pale blue, so pale it looked empty,
unhuman.
"Colonel?"
"Now," said Broward. "A bomb got General Mansfield and Colonels Omato
and Ingrass. That gives you a fast promotion, sir."
"We'll both be promoted above this bank if an Axe lobs a bomb over,"
said Scone. "We have to get out of here."
"To where?"
Scone frowned--granite wrinkling--and said, "It's obvious the Axes
want to do more than murder a few Soviets. They must plan on getting
control of the bonephones. I know I would if I were they. If they can
capture the control center, every Soviet on the Moon--except for the
Chinese--is at their mercy. So...."
"We make a run for the BR?"
"I'm not ordering you to come with me," said Scone. "That's almost
suicide. But you will give me a covering fire."
"I'll go with you, Colonel."
Scone glanced at the caduceuses on Broward's lapels, and he said,
"We'll need your professional help after we clean out the Axes. No."
"You need my amateurish help now," said Broward. "As you see"--he
jerked his thumb at the nearly headless Zulu--"I can handle a gun. And
if we don't get to the bonephone controls first, life won't be worth
living. Besides, I don't think the Axes intend taking any prisoners."
"You're right," said Scone. But he seemed hesitant.
"You're wondering why I'm falling in so quickly with your plan to wreck
the control center?" said Broward. "You think I'm a Russky agent?"
"I didn't say I intended to wreck the transmitters," said Scone. "No. I
know what you are. Or, I think I do. You're not a Russky. You're a...."
Scone stopped. Like Broward, he felt the rock floor quiver, then start
shaking. And a low rumbling reached them, coming up through their feet
before their ears detected it.
Scone, instead of throwing himself flat on the floor--an instinctive
but useless maneuver--jumped up from his squatting position.
"Now! Now! The others'll be too scared to move!"
* * * * *
Broward rose, though he wanted to cling to the floor. Directly below
them--or, perhaps, to the side but still underground--a white-hot
"tongue" was blasting a narrow tunnel through the rock. Behind it, also
hidden within the rock, in a shaft which the vessel must have taken
a long time to sink without being detected, was a battlebird. Only a
large ship could carry the huge generators required to drive a tongue
that would damage a base. A tongue, or snake, as it was sometimes
called. A flexible beam of "straightened-out" photons, the ultimate
development of the laser.
And when the tongue reached the end of the determined tunnel, then
the photons would be "un-sprung". And all the energy crammed into the
compressed photons would dissipate.
"Follow me!" said Scone, and he began running.
Broward took a step, halted in amazement, called out, "The suits ...
other way!"
Then, he resumed running after Scone. Evidently, the colonel was not
concerned about the dome cracking wide open. His only thought was for
the bonephone controls.
Broward expected to be cut down under a storm of bullets. But the
room was silent except for the groans of some wounded. And the
ever-increasing rumble from deep under.
The survivors of the fight were too intent on the menace probing
beneath them to pay attention to the two runners--if they saw them.
That is, until Scone bounded through the nearest exit from the dome in
a great leap afforded by the Moon's weak gravity. He almost hit his
head on the edge of the doorway.
Then, somebody shot at Broward. But his body, too, was flying through
the exit, his legs pulled up, and the three bullets passed beneath him
and blew holes in the rock wall ahead of him.
Broward slammed into the wall and fell back on the floor. Though
half-stunned, he managed to roll past the corner, out of line of fire,
into the hallway. He rose, breathing hard, and checked to make sure he
had not broken his numbed wrists and hands, which had cushioned much
of his impact against the wall. And he was thankful that the tongues
needed generators too massive to be compacted into hand weapons. If the
Axes had been able to smuggle tonguers into the dome, they could have
wiped out every Soviet on the base.
The rumble became louder. The rock beneath his feet shook. The walls
quivered like jelly. Then....
Not the ripping upwards of the floor beneath his feet, the ravening
blast opening the rock and lashing out at him with sear of fire and
blow of air to burn him and crush him against the ceiling at the same
time.
From somewhere deep and off to one side was an explosion. The rock
swelled. Then, subsided.
* * * * *
Silence.
Only his breathing.
For about six seconds while he thought that the Russian ships stationed
outside the base must have located the sunken Axis vessel and destroyed
it just before it blew up the base.
From the dome, a hell's concerto of small-gun fire.
Broward ran again, leaping over the twisted and shattered bodies of
Russians and Axes. Here the attacking officers had been met by Soviet
guards, and the two groups had destroyed each other.
Far down the corridor, Scone's tall body was hurtling along, taking the
giant steps only a long-time Lunie could safely handle. He rounded a
corner, was gone down a branching corridor.
Broward, following Scone, entered two more branches, and then stopped
when he heard the boom of a .45. Two more booms. Silence. Broward
cautiously stuck his head around the corner.
He saw two Russian soldiers on the floor, their weapons close to their
lifeless hands. Down the hall, Scone was running.
Broward did not understand. He could only surmise that the Russians
had been so surprised by Scone that they had fired, or tried to fire,
before they recognized the North American uniform. And Scone had shot
in self-defense.
But the corridors were well lit with electroluminescent panels. All
three should have seen at once that none wore the silver of Argentine
or the scarlet and brown of the South Africans. So...?
He did not know. Scone could tell him, but Broward would have trouble
catching up with him.
Then, once more, he heard the echoes of a .45 bouncing around the
distant corner of the hall.
When Broward rounded the turn as cautiously as he had the previous one,
he saw two more dead Russians. And he saw Scone rifling the pockets of
the officer of the two.
"Scone!" he shouted so the man would not shoot him, too, in a frenzy.
"It's Broward!"