Bruce Ross, on the Earth-Moon run, asked a
simple question, "How are the stars behaving,
Harry?" But Harrell Moore could only stare
at him in horror. For the stars had run
amok--cosmic engines of destruction in the
hands of the twisted genius of the Moon!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1939.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A faint quiver ran through the great hull of the rocket ship, and
passed. The harsh drumming of her motors died to a singing drone.
Flight-Commander Bruce Ross nodded absently. The ship had shaken off
the Earth-drag, and the speed indicator climbed fast. Eleven, twelve
hundred miles an hour, the flagship of the rocket-ship fleet sped on
its way to the Moon.
He moved to the forward telescope at the side of the control cabin and
squinted at their objective. The pale circular bulk of the Moon loomed
larger than when he had last observed it. He twisted to look through
the rear telescope, and saw with satisfaction that the other seven
ships of his fleet were following in echelon, each a mile and somewhat
to the right of the one before it.
Ross grinned with pleasure. It wasn't his first trip to the Moon, but
on that earlier occasion, when Magnus, King of the Moon People, had
pledged a truce with the Earth's Council of Seven, he had commanded
only the flagship. Now he had his own flagship, larger and more
powerful than that outmoded rocket ship of five years ago, and seven
more fighting ships besides. He strolled over to stand behind his
navigator, plump, bespectacled Harrell Moore, who was squinting
strainedly through the star-scope.
"How are the stars behaving, Harry?"
Moore's forehead was corrugated with concern. Without taking his eye
from the scope he muttered softly, "Something funny going on, Bruce."
He moved back to let his chief step to the eye-piece. But before the
flight-commander could take the seat a sliding door opened with a bang.
The two turned, startled.
In the opening swayed a white-faced clerk. "Sir," he gasped, "there's
trouble with communications!"
"Well?" snapped Ross.
The clerk brushed sweat off his brow. "The ray-type machine's gone
dead, sir, and the ray-phone's crippled. We get only a weak muffled
voice from the Council of Seven Headquarters!"
"How about the blinkers from the other ships?" snapped Ross.
"Blinkers are working, sir--" The clerk stopped short as Ross jumped to
the rear of the control room.
"Jorgens!" snapped Ross. "Signal each ship, and ask if they've--they
can get Seven Headquarters on the ray-type!"
"Aye, sir!" The signal chief hastened to the blinker buttons and began
to rap out the message. He was half through it when a dull boom echoed
like a sigh through the control room.
* * * * *
Ross and Moore exchanged startled glances. Jorgens, white of face,
looked up, his hand poised as if paralyzed over the buttons. Then Ross
jumped to the rear telescope, which commanded a view of his following
seven ships.
There were only six. Where the seventh--the last in the
staggered-line--should have been, a faint glow filled the air. Ross
stared at it, heart-sick. Was that blow the last sign of his rear
guard? A rocket ship blotted out--destroyed! But how? How?
"Jorgens!" he snapped. "You had the Moon on the ray-type a while ago!
Try to get that Peak One station again!"
"Aye, sir," breathed Jorgens shakily. He tapped the black key,
rattling the call signal feverishly, then snapped on the receiver. The
prong-like type fingers made no move.
"The ray-phone!" rasped Ross.
The signal chief plugged the yellow cylinder into its gray socket,
and flashed the light beside it. "First Fleet, calling Peak One!" he
chanted. "Peak One, answer First Earth Fleet!"
Ross, Moore and Jorgens held their breath. No sound came through the
ray-phone trumpet. Jorgens lifted a gray face toward Ross.
The fleet commander smiled wryly. "Let it go, Jorgens. Check all the
batteries and connections before you try again."
As Jorgens nodded and disappeared to trail the snaky coils of insulated
ray-tubes to their battery reserves, Ross turned to Moore. "Number
Eight's gone," he said softly.