The Empire of Earth was crumbling. Space-liners fell
prey to savage phantom crews. A weird, green wave
of terror engulfed the Universe. Enslavement of the
Empire was near, and only a handful of men could halt
the final blow ... a handful of men who could not
act--for a single movement would mean their death.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Somewhere aboard the Super Space Liner, _Jupiter_, a resonant gong
sounded three times. Norman Saint Clair started, glanced uneasily
about the magnificent lounge. A gray fear gnawed at his vitals. With
a sinking heart, he watched the crowd, who had come to see off the
passengers, hurry out the port. This was his last chance to get off the
ship.
"Excuse me," said a voice at his elbow.
Norman Saint Clair spun around, recognized a Universal Lines steward,
grinned embarrassedly.
"First trip?" asked the yellow-clad steward.
The young man nodded.
"I wouldn't be too uneasy, sir. We'll pick up our escort this side of
the moon. A full ship of the line, sir. We're carrying radium, you
know. They wouldn't dare attack a ship of the line. May I see your
book, sir?"
Norman Saint Clair fumbled in his wallet, handed the steward his book.
Since Terra's ships had begun to disappear on the Earth to Jupiter run,
the Terrestial Intelligence Service required them of everyone traveling
through space. It contained his photograph, a three-dimensional
likeness showing a gaunt likeable face crowned by short, crisp blond
hair, a photostatic copy of his birth certificate, his description,
nationality, business, fingerprints, history.
Satisfied, the steward said: "This way, sir," and led him to an
acceleration chair at the after end of the lounge. "Strap yourself in,
sir. We start in a few moments."
The young man eased his lank, six-foot-two frame into the seat,
nervously fastened the belt. In spite of the steward's words, he was
not reassured. Ship after ship had vanished into the blue. Nor had the
vaunted Terrestial Navy or the T.I.S. been able to discover any trace
of them thereafter. Somewhere beyond the orbit of Mars their radios
crackled and blanked out. Space opened and swallowed them. It was
unprecedented. Never before in the history of space travel had anything
remotely like it occurred.
His eyes roved among the few passengers strapped in their chairs. They
were subdued. The sailing, unlike the gay hectic affairs before the
coming of the terror, was grim, quiet. No one, he realized, was making
the trip unless it was unavoidable.
With a touch of panic, he considered demanding to be set back on Terra
while there was yet time, but a stubborn streak made him hold to his
course. It was the same stubborn streak which had led him to book
passage aboard the _Jupiter_ in spite of the terror. A hundred times
he had regretted accepting the post of Lecturer on Ancient History at
distant Ganymede. He loved the quiet sanctuary of his library with
its collection of twentieth century authors. He had no ambition to
exchange his secure academic life for the uncertainty of a crude, rowdy
frontier. But the post had offered a good salary, much better than he
could expect on Earth for years.
A party of Colonial Guards swaggering across the lounge drew his
attention. They were a hard-faced lot, recruited from Earth's far-flung
frontiers. They constituted, he knew, a special armed guard, traveling
aboard the _Jupiter_ at the company's request. Universal was taking
no risk with the precious cargo of radium.
* * * * *
From the Colonial Guards his eyes strayed across to the occupant of the
seat next to his. A girl. He stared, lost in admiration. He'd never
seen a creature so beautiful. Her black curly hair framed a pale oval
face. Her eyes were blue, her features delicate, chiseled. She was, he
realized with a start, regarding him with a mixture of amusement and
solicitude.
"First trip?" the girl asked, liking the frank scholarly face of the
young man.
He nodded.
"Just relax in your chair," she advised him. "The acceleration's pretty
fierce at first."
A second gong advised them the port was sealed. Several passengers
hurried into the lounge, flung themselves into acceleration chairs.
A voice, coming over the public address system, announced: "Strap
yourselves in carefully. Acceleration begins in three minutes." Twice
more the warning was repeated.
Norman Saint Clair's pulse beat rapidly. He felt frightened. Then a
faint hum made itself felt rather than heard.