_Up From Earth_
Chet had plenty of time in which to acquaint Pilot O'Malley with the
facts. And, when he had told his story, it did his sick and worried
mind good to hear the explosive stream of expletives that came from the
other's lips. Yet, despite the Irishman's anger, it was noticeable that
he closed the tight door of the control room before he said a word.
"Only a skeleton crew," he explained. "Just the relief pilot and the
engineers and a man or two in the galley, and I trust 'em all. But you
can't be too careful.
"The Commander," he concluded, "is gettin' to be more an emperor than a
Commander, and somethin's got to be done. Discipline we must have, 'tis
true; but this kotowin' to His Royal Highness and all o' that--devil a
bit do I like it! If only you could show him up, Mr. Bullard--but of
course you can't."
"I'm not so sure," Chet responded. "What I told the big boss wasn't all
bluff. Haldgren _did_ go out, five years ago this month. We have the
record of a Crescent liner's captain who saw Haldgren's little ship
shoot through the R.A. and go on out as if it were going somewhere. And
now we have these flashes!
"Do you see what that means, Spud? An SOS! Nobody but an Earth-man would
send that, and we wouldn't do it now. We would just press the lever of
our emergency-call, and every receiver within a thousand miles would
pick up the scream of it.
"But we've had this Dunston Emergency Transmitter less than four years.
Haldgren knew only the old S O S. And remember this: three dots, three
dashes and three dots don't just happen. They showed up on the Moon.
They were repeated the next night. _Somebody sent them!_ Who was it?"
* * * * *
And Pilot O'Malley gave the only obvious answer:
"There's only yourself and Mr. Harkness and Pilot Haldgren that could
have got there. 'Twas Haldgren, of course! What a pity that you can't
go; 'tis likely the poor bhoy needs help."
"Five years!" mused Chet. "Five long years since he left! He must have
landed safely--and then what? After five years comes a signal and that
signal a call for help that no pilot worthy the name would disregard....
"Where are we bound?" he demanded abruptly.
"Rooshia," said O'Malley. "I disremember the name--'tis on my
orders--but I know it's a long way up north."
"Spud," said Chet, "you're a rotten pilot; you're one of the worst I
ever knew. Careless--that's your worst fault--and if anybody doubts that
they'll believe it after this trip. For, Spud, if you're any friend of
mine, and I know you are, you're going to lose your bearings, and kick
this old sky-hog a long way beyond that factory she is bound for. And
you're going to set me down in a God-forsaken spot in the arctic where
I'm pretty sure I'll find a ship waiting for me.
"And, if you just stick around for a while after that, you will see me
take off for the Moon. Then, if Haldgren is there--"
Chet failed to finish the sentence; he was staring through a rear
lookout, where, over the arc of the Earth's horizon, could be seen a
thin crescent Moon; about it drifting clouds made a halo.
The eyes of Spud O'Malley followed Chet's, and his imaginative faculties
must have been stimulated by Chet's words, for he gazed open-mouthed, as
if for the first time he visioned that golden scimitar as something more
substantial than a high-hung light. He drew one long incredulous breath
before he answered.
"What position, sir? Say the word and I'll lose myself so bad we'll be
over the Pole and half-way to the equator again!"
"Not that bad," was Chet's assurance. "Just spot this ship over 82:14
north, 93:20 east, and I'll give you local bearings from there."
Then to himself: "'Cold storage,' Walt said; he meant our old shop, of
course. Probably had a hunch we would need it."
But to the pilot he said only the one word: "Thanks!"--though the grip
of his hand must have spoken more eloquently.
* * * * *
The eastbound lanes of the five thousand level saw them plod slowly
along, while faster and better-groomed ships slipped smoothly past; then
the red hull rose to Level Twelve and swung out upon the great circle
course that would bear them more nearly in the direction of the
destination Chet had given. There were free levels higher up in which
they could have laid a direct course, but the Irish pilot did not need
Chet to tell him that the old hull would never stand it. Her internal
pressure could never have been maintained at any density such as human
lungs demanded.
But they were on their way, and Chet's customary genial expression gave
place to one of more grim determination as he watched the white-flecked
ocean drift slowly past below.
Once a patrol ship spoke to them. Daylight had come to show plainly the
silver hull with the distinctive red markings of the Service that
slipped smoothly down from above to hang poised under flashing fans like
a giant humming-bird. Her directed radio beam flashed the yellow call
signal in O'Malley's control room.
* * * * *
Chet was beside him, and the two exchanged silent glances before
O'Malley cut in his transmitter. He must give name and number--this
signal was a demand that could not be disregarded--but on the old
freighter was no automatic sender that would flash the information
across to the other ship; the pilot's voice must serve instead.
"Number three--seven--G--four--two!" he thundered into the radiophone.
"Freighter of the Intercolonial Line, without cargo--"
"For the love of Pete," shouted the loudspeaker beside him in volume to
drown out the pilot's words, "are you sending this by short wave, or are
you just yelling across to me? Calm down, you Irish terrier!"
Then, before the pilot could reply, the voice from the silver and red
patrol ship dropped into an exaggerated mimicry of the O'Malley brogue--
"And did yez say 'twas a freighter you had there? Sure, I thot at th'
very last 'twas a foine big liner from the Orient and Transpolar run,
dropped down here from the hoigh livils! All right, Spud; on your way!
But don't crowd the bottom of the Twelve Level so close. This is
O--sixteen--L; Jimmy Maddux. By--by! I'll report you O.K."
* * * * *
Again Chet looked at the pilot silently before he glanced back at the
vanishing ship, already small in the distance. He repeated the Patrol
Captain's words:
"You will 'report us O.K.'--yes, Jimmy, you'll do that, and if they want
to find us again you can tell them right where to look."
"I'm pushin' her all I can, Mr. Bullard," said Spud. "'Tis all she can
do.... And now do ye go into my cabin--there's two berths there--and
we'll just turn in and sleep while my relief man takes his turn. But go
in before I call him; there's not a soul on the ship besides ourselves
knows that you're here."
And, in the cabin a short time later, Pilot O'Malley chuckled as he
whispered: "I gave the lad his course. And Mac will follow it, but it'll
niver take him near to the part of Rooshia he expects it to. Still, the
record's clear as far as he's concerned; I've got it in the log. Mac's a
good lad, and I wouldn't have him get into trouble over this."
* * * * *
In the freighter's cabin the chronometer was again approaching the hour
of twenty-two; for nearly twenty-four hours the ship had been on her
plodding way. And, lacking the A.D.D.--the Automatic Destination
Detector--and other refinements of instrumental installations of the
passenger ships, Pilot O'Malley had to work out his position for
himself.
And where a faster craft would have driven through with scarcely a
quiver, the big ship trembled with the buffets and suction of a wintry
blast that drove dry snow like sand across the lookout glasses. The
twelve thousand level was an unbroken cloud of snow--a gray smother
where the red ship's blunt and rusty bow nosed through.
O'Malley clung to the chart table as the air gave way beneath them and
the ship fell a hundred feet or more before her racing fans took hold
and jerked her back to an even keel. He managed to check his figures,
then moved to the door of his cabin, opened it and called softly.
Chet was beside him in an instant. It had seemed best that he remain in
hiding, and he knew what the pilot's call meant. "Made it, did you!" he
exclaimed. "Now I'll take a look about and pick up my bearing points."
But one look at the ports and he shook his head.
"That's dirty," he told O'Malley, and his eyes twinkled as he felt the
old ship rear and plunge with the lift of a driving gale; "and how the
old girl does feel it! She can't rip through, and she can't go above.
You've had some trip, Spud; it's been mighty decent of you to go to all
this--"
* * * * *
A flashing of yellow light on the instrument panel brought his thanks to
a sudden halt. A voice, startling in its sudden loudness, filled the
little room.
"Calling three--seven--G--four--two! Stand by for orders! Patrol
O--sixteen--L sending; acknowledge, please!"
Chet's eyes were staring into those of O'Malley. "That's Jimmy Maddux
back on our trail," he said. "Now, what has got them suspicious?"
He glanced once at the collision instrument. "He's right overhead at
thirty thousand," he added; "and there are more of them coming in from
all sides. Now what the devil--"
Spud O'Malley had his hand on the voice switch. "Be quiet!" he
commanded; then spoke into the transmitter--
"Three--seven--G--four--two acknowledging!" he said, and again Chet
observed how all trace of accent had departed from his voice; it was an
indication of the moment's tenseness and of the pilot's full
understanding of their position.
The answering order was crisply spoken; this was a different Jimmy
Maddux from the one who had chaffed the Irish pilot some hours before.
"Stand by! We're coming down! Records at Hoover Terminal show two men
reporting at pilots' gate under the number of your engineer, CG41. Hold
your ship exactly where you are; we're sending a man aboard!"
* * * * *
Chet had moved silently to the controls. The old multiple-lever
instrument--he knew it well! But he looked at Spud O'Malley and waited
for his nod of assent before he presumed to trespass on another pilot's
domain. Then he shifted two little levers, and the ship fell away
beneath them as it plunged toward the Earth.
And Pilot O'Malley was explaining to the Patrol Ship Captain as best he
could for the rolling plunge of the careening ship:
"I can't hold her, sir. And you'd best be keepin' away. It's stormin'
fearful down here, and I can't rise above it! Keep clear!--I'm warnin'
you!" The hum of their helicopters rose to a shrill whine as Chet drove
the ship out and down through the smothering clouds. "You must hear her
fans on your instruments; you can see how we're pitchin'!"
He switched off the transmitter for a moment and faced Chet. "They've
been checkin' close," he stated. "That was my engineer's number I gave
you as we came through the gate. And, of course, he had given it before
when he reported in. Now we're up against it."
The collision instrument was humming with the sound of many motors, and
warning lights were giving their silent alarm of the oncoming ships.
"They're comin' in," Spud went on hopelessly, "like a flock of kites in
the tropics when one of them's found somethin' dead--and it's us that's
the carcass!"
* * * * *
But Chet was not listening. The snowy clouds had broken for an instant;
their ship had driven through and beneath them. Through the wild,
whirling chaos of white there came for an instant a rift--and far across
an icy expanse Chet glimpsed a range of black hills!
He spoke sharply to the pilot. "That's Jimmy Maddux above us--kid him
along, Spud! Tell him we're coming up, don't let him grab us with his
magnets! This is putting you in a devil of a hole, old man. I'm
sorry!--but we've got to see it through now.
"You can never set this ship down, Spud; that patrol would be on our
backs in half a second. And they'd knock me out with one shot the minute
I stepped outside."
The clear space in the storm had filled again with the dirty gray of
wind-whipped snow; off at the right a dim glow of distant fires was the
midnight sun as it shone for a brief moment. One blast, more malignant
in its fury than those that had come before, tore first at the blunt
bow, then caught them amidships to roll the big, sluggish freighter till
her racked framework shrieked and chattered.
Spud pointed through a rear lookout where a silvery Patrol Ship flashed
down through the clouds. "There's Jimmy!" he shouted. "He's takin' no
chances of our landing--he's right on our tail!"
* * * * *
But Chet Bullard, his hands working at the control levers, was staring
straight ahead into that gray blast; and his eyes were shining as he
pulled back on a lever that threw them once more into the concealment of
the whirling clouds above.
"Spud," he was shouting, "have you got a 'chute? You freighters have 'em
sometimes. Get me a 'chute and I'll fool them yet! I saw the shed--our
hangars--our work shop! There's where our ship is!"
They were lost once more in the snow that seemed to be driving past in
solid drifts. Chet heard Spud shouting down a voice tube. And,
curiously, it was plain that the Irish pilot had lost all tenseness from
his voice; he was happy and as carefree as if he had found the answer
to all his perplexing questions. He was calling an order to his relief
pilot.
"Mac--do ye break out two parachutes, me lad! Bring 'em up here, and
shake a leg! No, there's nothin' to worry about--divil a thing!"
Then, into the transmitter, he shouted thickly as he switched the
instrument on:
"Jimmy, me bhoy, kape away! Kape away, I'm tellin' you, or ye'll have me
Irish temper disturbed, and I'm a divil whin I'm roused! What do I know
about your twin ingineers? Wan of thim makes trouble enough for me! Now
take yourself away, and don't step on the tail of this ship or we'll go
down to glory together!--unless we go to another terminal and find
oursilves in hell, and us all covered wid snow. Think how divilish
conspicuous you'd be feelin'--"
* * * * *
A discord of voices silenced his laughing banter; on the instrument
board the warning light was flashing imperatively. Above the bedlam of
voices one stood out, and all other commands went silent before the
voice of authority.
"Silence! This is the Commander of Air! Orders for O--sixteen--L: seize
that ship! Your magnets!--disregard damage!--get your magnets on that
ship and hold her. We are coming down--"
Chet reached for the transmitter switch and opened it that their voices
might not go beyond the control room.
"Lots of company; they seem pretty certain that they're on the right
track. And the big boss himself is coming down to call. Can't you hurry
those 'chutes?"
The control room door was flung open as the figure of a young man
stumbled through and dropped two bundles of cloth and webbing upon the
floor. He clung to the door-frame as Chet threw the big freighter into
a totally unexpected maneuver that rolled them down and away from a
silver-bellied ship above. Then the levers moved again, and the ship
went hard-a-port as Chet caught again one fleeting glimpse of shadow
below that could only be the markings of a building he had known well.
"Hold her there, Spud!" he shouted. "He'll be back in a minute or two!
He'll get us next time!"
Chet was reaching for the straps of a 'chute. He had the webbing about
him when he stopped to waste precious seconds in wide-eyed staring at
the figure of Spud O'Malley.
* * * * *
Spud was pulling at a recalcitrant buckle. He had motioned the relief
pilot to take the controls, and now the bulk of a parachute pack hung
awkwardly behind him.
"Spud!" Chet shouted. "You're not stepping out too! It's no sure thing
with these old 'chutes; they're probably rotten! Stay here! Tell 'em I
stuck you up with a gun!--tell 'em I made you bring me--"
"If you must talk," said Spud O'Malley calmly, and pulled a strap tight
across his chest, "do ye be tryin to work while you talk. Get that
harness on! If I let you stow away on my ship you can do no less than
take me along on yours!"
A crashing impact drove the men to the floor in a sprawling heap; Chet
pulled the last strap tight as he lay there. The lookouts were black
above where the belly of a Patrol Ship clung close.
"Jimmy knows how to obey orders," said Chet as he came to his feet. "No
cable magnets for Jimmy! He just smashed down on top of us, ripped off
our fans and grabbed hold." He was helping Spud to his feet as he spoke.
"Mac, me bhoy," the pilot told his assistant, "the log has it all, the
whole story. There'll be no trouble for you at all."
He yanked quickly at the port-opening switch, and the big steel disk
backed slowly out of its threaded seat and swung wide.
* * * * *
Chet drew back one involuntary step as a blast of icy wind drove
stinging snow into his face. Then, without a word, he gave Spud O'Malley
a joyous grin and threw himself out into the void....
And, later, as he released the 'chute where a wind was dragging him
violently across an icy expanse, he was laughing exultantly to see
another 'chute whirled into the enshrouding drifts, while the chunky
figure of a man came scrambling to his feet that he might shake a fist
into the air toward some hidden enemy and shout into the storm epithets
only half-heard.
"--and be damned to ye!" Chet heard him conclude; then was close enough
to throw one arm about the figure and draw him after where he made his
way toward a building that was like a mountain of snow.
Spud must have marveled at the craft within; at her sleek, shining
sides; the flat nose that ended in a black exhaust port. He was
examining the other exhausts that ringed her round when Chet pulled out
a lever from the streamlined surface and swung open an entrance port.
He motioned Spud into the brilliantly lighted interior, where nitron
illuminators were almost blinding as they shone of gleaming levers and
dials of a control room like none that Spud O'Malley had ever seen.
Chet had thrown the building's doors open wide; a whirling motor had
drawn them back on hidden tracks. Now he closed the entrance port with
care, then glanced at his instruments before he placed his hand on a
metal ball.
* * * * *
It hung suspended in air within a cage of curved bars. It was a
modification of the high-liner ball-control, and it was new. Walt
Harkness had had it installed to replace a more crudely fashioned
substitute that had brought them safely back from the Dark Moon. The
name of that new satellite was on Chet's lips as his thin hand rested
delicately upon the ball.
"It's not the Dark Moon this time, old girl," he told the ship, "though
you've taken me there twice. But we're going up just the same, and I
told the Commander he hasn't Patrol Ships enough to hold us back." His
fingers were gripping the little ball--lifting it--moving it forward....
And, as if he lifted the ship itself, the silent cylinder came roaring
into life. Within the great building was a thundering blast that made
the voice of the storm less than a whispering breath. It came but
faintly through the heavily insulated walls, but Chet felt the lift of
the ship, and that joyous smile was crinkling about his eyes as the
silvery cylinder floated smoothly out of her shelter into the grip of
the wind.
His eyes were on an upper lookout, where clouds were driving away like a
curtain unrolled. More cloud banks were coming, but, for a time, the
heavens were clear where the great red hull of a rusty freighter hung
helpless beneath a red and silver Patrol Ship whose magnets held fast to
its prey.
* * * * *
There were other shapes in the markings of the Service that shot
slantingly down. Chet thought again of the carrion birds; then he saw
the gold star on the bow of a great cruiser and knew from that ship that
the Commander must be seeing their own below. Then he eased gently
forward on a tiny ball--forward and forward, while the compensating
floor of the control room swung up behind them and seemed thrusting up
with unbearable weight.
There were flashes from the cruisers above, and flashes of red on the
ice behind with fountains of shattered ice and rock; detonite works its
most terrible destruction on a surface that is brittle and hard. But of
what avail are detonite shells against a craft whose speed builds up to
something greater than the muzzle velocity of a shell?--a silvery craft
that sweeps out and out toward a black mountain range; then swings
slowly up in a curve of sheer beauty that bends into banked masses of
clouds--and ends.
But within the control room, Chet Bullard, no longer Master Pilot of the
World, but master, in all truth, of space, knew that his ship's flight
was far from ending. He turned to grin happily at his companion.
"We're off!" he shouted. "And it's thanks to you that we made it. If
Haldgren's alive he'll have you to thank; for it's you that has done the
trick so far!"
But Spud O'Malley answered soberly as he stared up and out into the
blackness of levels he had never seen.
"I've helped," he admitted; "I've helped a bit. But it's a divil of a
job of navigatin' that's ahead. And that's up to you, Chet Bullard; 'tis
no job for an old omadhaun like mesilf!"
Chet felt the lift of the Repelling Area as they shot through. Ahead was
the black velvet night that he knew so well; its silent emptiness was
pricked through with bright points of fire.
"I found the Dark Moon," he said slowly, "and that you can't see at all.
This other will be easy."
There was no boastfulness in the tone, and Spud O'Malley nodded as he
glanced respectfully at the young man who threw back his disheveled mop
of hair from a lean face and marked down some cryptic figures on a
record sheet.
Chet Bullard was on the job ... and his passenger, it would seem, was
satisfied that his unbelievable adventure was well begun.