Vulcan held the weirdest secret of the ages,
one of eternal life that Rick Norman had to
find to save his friend from death. But it held
another secret, too--one that was so vicious,
even knowing it meant Rick Norman was doomed.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"It's too risky for you to go alone, Johnny," Rick Norman said. "Wait
till I get through showing the Senator around the mine. Then if you
still think your gravity gadget can get us to Vulcan against Sun drag,
we'll go look into this Fountain of Youth business together." He knew
Johnny wasn't paying any attention to his argument, however, and as
he talked his big fingers were busy under the table unfolding the wax
paper from the two small green capsules--Martian knockout drops. Two
of them would be enough to put Johnny out for a week.
Johnny Gordon's black hair gleamed in the nightclub's orange light.
When he laughed, his tanned face was surprisingly boyish--surprising
because his name was linked with adventure in headlines on many
planets. "You think the patrol's going to be laying for me off
Mercury," he laughed. "Well, I'd like a little excitement."
Norman dropped the wax paper on the floor and hid the capsules in
his big palm. Johnny was right--they would've had a lot more fun if
they'd never bumped into that dead comet off Neptune. But how were
they to know that cold hunk of drift metal would turn out to be solid
platinum? That was three years ago and now their income was a number
like the circumference of Jupiter in feet. To him it was a devil of a
responsibility. To Johnny it was just plain boring.
But he couldn't let Johnny get himself killed running away from a full
dress suit. "Okay," he said, faking resignation. "You win." Roughly
handsome, Norman's hell or high water smile was as much a part of him
as his long legs. He filled their glasses as the orchestra started
moaning _Martian Moon_, dropped the capsules into the bubbly green wine
in Johnny's glass. "Here's to the Twenty-First Century Ponce de Leon,"
he smiled, raising his glass.
Johnny reached across the table and picked up the bottle. "Here's to
the boredom of a million dollars," he said and drank the toast straight
from the bottle. He wiped his chin, grinning. "You ought to know you
can't catch me on a Martian mickey. They stop the bubbles."
As Norman stared at the suddenly lifeless wine in Johnny's glass, he
realized there was only one thing left to do. He knew a couple of boys
who were pretty handy with a blackjack and he knew an old hunting lodge
in the Adirondacks where they could lock Johnny up for a week.
* * * * *
The next morning as Norman was packing his bags, one of his "boys"
appeared at the door. His eyes were black and swollen. Embarrassed, he
held out an envelope. Norman tore it open.
"_You'll find your other playmate locked in my bathroom. I'll bring you
a jug full of the Fountain of Youth._" The note was written in Johnny's
careless scrawl! Norman flicked the ampliphone button in the little
table beside his bed.
"Interstellar Spaceport!" he ordered the invisible telemike as he
pulled a handful of bills from his pocket and shoved them at the
battered gentleman in the door. "Thanks for trying, Spike. Go kick
Johnny's bathroom door down. Joe's locked up in there--"
"Spaceport," the wall speaker said.
"John Gordon," Norman asked, waving Spike out, "has he been there?"
"Mr. Gordon took off half an hour ago, sir," said the ampliphone. "For
Mercury."
"Thanks...." As Norman clicked off the receiver, premonition crept over
him like a shadow. His hand moved to the receiver again--to call for a
ship and follow Johnny. Then the ampliphone buzzed under his hand.
It was the Senator. He was waiting at the capital.
As he started throwing shirts into his bag, Norman knew it was against
his better judgment. But after all, Johnny could take care of himself.
Spike's hamburger face proved that.
It was with this thought that he picked up the plump Senator and left
for the platinum comet. When the sleek private cruiser nosed into the
little world's artificial air three days later, the mine foreman met
them with a radiogram in his hand.
Silently cursing the static that had interfered with space reception
on the way over, cold fear clutched at Norman's heart as he read the
message. "The platinum's yours," he told the astonished mine foreman.
"Show the Senator around."
As their bewildered faces stared after him, he took off for Earth again
immediately.
The trip back was maddening and he ignored all speed laws as he roared
full-throttle into the bright mountain range that was New York City.
Newsboys were still shouting the headlines on the street when he
reached the hospital.
"FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH IN TRAGIC REVERSE! JOHN GORDON FOUND IN
DRIFTING SPACE BOAT! INVENTION MISSING!"
Norman shoved a bill at the driver, jumped out of the taxi and ran up
the hospital steps. The girl at the desk recognized him. "Room 947, Mr.
Norman. Dr. Smyth is expecting you."
He hurried to the elevator where a mob of reporters were also waiting.
"What do you think happened to him, Mr. Norman? Do you think he reached
Vulcan? What do you think became of his cruiser with the anti-gravity
invention?"
"Later, boys," Norman said, his familiar smile a little shaky now.
"I've got to see Johnny first."
A black-bearded doctor opened the door at his knock. From within the
room came an odd babbling sound like a child talking to itself. Looking
over the doctor's shoulder, Norman saw an old man lying on the white
bed. He stepped past the doctor into the room.
Propped up on pillows, the old man lay there like an ancient withered
mummy. Only his skull-like eyes were alive, yellow and wild as he
stared at his disfigured hands. His hands were more like paws for
each finger and thumb had been severed close to the palm, the scars
well-healed as if the mutilation had happened years ago.
"They found his pilot's license in his pocket," the doctor said, "and
the blood test proved his identity."
"No!" Norman said, turning back to the bed. "This is impossible!"
"I've given him a thorough examination," the doctor said. "He has every
condition of advanced senility. We can't say how he lost his fingers
nor how they healed so quickly. We only know this," his voice dropped
to a whisper, "that he is very near death of old age...."
Norman's eyes were damp. Through the window the afternoon sun lined the
old man's sunken cheeks with deep shadows, gleamed on his thin, white
hair. His voice was a high-pitched quaver. "My hands... my hands...."
Norman sprang to the bed, knelt beside the ancient creature. "Johnny!
It's me! Rick! Tell me what happened!"
But the old man stared at him blankly, then looked back down at his
hands again.
Norman got to his feet slowly. "Okay, Johnny," he said through tight
lips. "But I'll find out what happened to you. And I think I know where
to start."
Twenty minutes later, however, the pudgy Gorig Sade, Ambassador from
Mercury, could offer little information. He leaned back in his gilded
chair and raised his hand toward the sunset at the window. His right
hand was artificial, an electric member in flesh-like plastic. "Behind
that Sun," he said, a slight smile on his thick lips, "lies a planet
without a human footprint. Within the Mercurian Zone of Protection,
Vulcan is closely guarded by the Mercurian Zone Patrol. Vulcan is a
death trap--too close in the Sun's gravitational field. We cannot
answer to the safety of those who slip past the patrol and enter the
whirlpool."
Norman smiled, as a fighter smiles at his opponent when he comes out at
the bell. "That's enough of that line, Sade. When did your patrol last
see John Gordon? They were waiting for him off Mercury. You've had your
paid killers after him ever since he refused to sell out to you. Now
his gravitational counteractive turns up missing. It would have meant a
lot to Mercury--or to you, rather, since your rotten politics owns the
place."
Sade got to his feet like a disturbed bull. "Get out!" His electric
hand hummed as he raised it toward the door. "I shall see the Secretary
of State about your insult!"
Norman's left hand shot out like a striking snake, clutched the
Ambassador's collar and dragged him out of his chair.
"Okay, Sade," he smiled, "but there's one thing maybe you don't know.
Johnny built _two_ ships, a smaller one before he equipped the cruiser
he left in. I'm taking that ship to try to reach Vulcan. Johnny's
spectroscope proved a lot about this Fountain of Youth business and
now it's the only chance to save his life. Anyway, I'll find out what
happened to him, and if you had anything to do with it, I'm going to
tear your yellow throat out."
He slammed the sputtering Ambassador back into his chair, and left the
office. Now Sade would forget the Secretary of State and order his
patrol to be waiting for him. A burst of flame in desolate space and
who would know.
* * * * *
Ten minutes outside the Mercurian Zone of Protection, Norman welcomed
the misty glow as live nebulae engulfed the transparent dome
surrounding him. It brightened the monotonous blue light in the pilot
room and erased his lonely reflection in the foot-thick thermo-glass
that darkened the white-hot glare of space ahead.
Traveling near Mercury was like walking a tight rope. A few degrees
off course and the delicate balance between worlds would totter--jerk
him away to a charred plunge into the Sun. Also, Sade's wolves might
appear any moment now. But he'd get through them, he thought, slapping
the trigger grip of his panel guns. The picture of Johnny back there
in the hospital, however, was an ache in his throat that dulled his
excitement--an excitement reminiscent of hundreds of tight spots they'd
squeezed through together before they'd struck it right and traded
adventure for tea cups. Helpless, crazed, eighty years old before his
time--why hadn't Johnny waited! But he was bull-headed and bored,
anxious to prove what his spectroscope hinted--that Vulcan, close in
the arms of the mother Sun, was a spawning place for life itself. Ponce
de Leon again, in 2063....
Grinding out his cigarette, Norman glanced at the chart in his lap,
eyed the circle that was Vulcan, a white circle--_unexplored_. Deep in
the whirlpool of the Sun's gravitation, it had lured countless ships to
a hurtling destruction until a trade-wise Mercury placed guards around
the area and its siren world.
Norman glanced up from his musings as the filter's blue light darkened
the room again. The nebulae outside had vanished. Almost human, that
glass! The hotter it became outside, the darker the glass became--not
only shielding the pilot's eyes but perfectly maintaining the
insulation of the control room. Suddenly he jerked his head up, chilled
as he stared at the mirrored wall in front of him.
Reflected in the glass, a ghostly figure stood behind him in the galley
door.
"Hello."
It was a feminine voice. Slowly, Norman swung his long legs around
and stared at the girl, too astonished to speak. She was just a kid,
about fifteen years old, wearing baggy white coveralls. A mop of
honey-colored hair framed her pert freckled face.
She held up her hands as if to keep him away. "Now don't get excited."
Her blue eyes were like a kitten's. "I'm Dorothy Gray. My father owns
the _Daily Times_ and I work on the paper during vacation. I played
stowaway because you're on the trail of the news story of the century.
While you were checking out with the dispatcher," the girl grinned,
"I emptied your food locker and crawled in myself. I know you must be
trying to find out what happened to your friend. You're the type that
gets things done."
Grinding his teeth, Norman turned back to the control panel and
reached for the turn lever. Now he had to take this brat to Earth--when
Johnny's life depended on haste in the opposite direction. No! He'd put
her in a space suit and kick her out. Johnny was his best friend. His
anger hovered an instant over the decision. And in that instant he saw
the girl step aside. His mouth fell open as _another_ figure appeared
from the galley.
* * * * *
This time it was a grown woman--breath-takingly grown. She walked in
like she owned the place, smoothing a tweed skirt above bare legs
that could have graced a glassilk hose advertisement. Above a crimson
blouse, her hair was black as sunless space against her cloud-like
skin. She was obviously Venusian, with the orchid-like beauty of all
women of the emerald planet. In her hand was a stubby jet of a pistol,
the round hole of its barrel staring into Norman's bewildered eyes.
"Hello, handsome," she said, ignoring the girl beside her. "I was in
your ammunition locker. I'm Keren Vaun. Just stick at those controls.
I'm here to make sure that the patrol gets you." She sat down on the
metal box beside the galley door. She crossed her trim legs and held
the pistol steady on one rounded knee.
"Okay," Norman smiled. "If that's the way you want it." He turned
around, clamped his long legs under the control seat, and flipped the
stabilizer switch. Their little world turned upside down, sprawling
both females across the floor in a mass of contrasting legs and arms.
When the switch flipped back into contact, the ship righted itself
instantly and Norman stepped across the room and picked up the pistol.
He stepped back and squeezed his panel triggers. Dead guns. "So you've
carted out all my ammunition and Sade is really after me."
The Venusian woman pulled herself up off the floor. "You'll find out
when the patrol sights you." Her black eyes looked as deadly as her gun
had.
"Let 'em come," Norman said.
As if his words were a cue, a bell tinkled in the room. He jumped to
the panel and turned a dial, lighting the blue filter to scan the void
outside. The magnetic detector warned of something outside--a patrol
cruiser!
* * * * *
Norman fingered his triggers instinctively, then left the dead guns in
a rage as black as the Venusian's hair. The only thing he could shoot
at the patrol were his hull fire extinguishers. He clicked on the rear
view screen--he had to see the patrol first now--outmaneuver them
somehow. But behind him was only the blackness of space.
The raven-haired woman's sparkling eyes grew nervous. "If those fools
shoot--" She lit a cigarette, exhaling quickly.
The bell rang frantically. Something was coming at them, fast. He
traversed the screen again but around them was no visible thing. The
sun was too bright. There was only one thing to do. His hand fell on
the wheel, twirled it around to swoop off course--try to dodge the
patrol, wherever they were--take a chance on fighting his way back
against Sun drag.
A flash of red light burst into the room. The pilot room keeled over.
He fell to the room's glass ceiling that had suddenly become the floor.
The women landed in a perfumed heap on top of him.
He stood on the slick curve of glass, eyeing the cut-off on the control
panel which was now overhead. A patrol boat had come in from the Sun's
blind spot. They'd chanced a long shot. Jammed the exhaust tube and
thrown the stabilizer off balance. Seconds off course. Norman could
perhaps have brought her back. Minutes--the Sun was an inexorable pull.
Madly, Norman jumped to reach the cut-off--to cut the unbalanced rocket
blast that held the ship on its back in the increasing speed of their
dive. Out of control, they were streaking toward the Sun under full
power.
The diameter of the Sun is 108 times that of Earth. Its mass is 324,000
times as great. Mathematics could calculate easily the speed of falling
into that molten inferno but Norman knew only the thundering of his
heart in that silent room. He jumped three times for the cut-off
lever--and fell back. Then with fear like steel coils in his legs, he
floundered up once more, leaped from the glass and the tips of his
fingers brought down the clutch.
The room slowly moved out from under him, sliding the girls across the
smooth glass. He was at the controls before the ship righted itself.
Sweeping the panel, he jerked every rocket into reverse.
And nothing happened. The power of his blasts was nothing against the
direct pull of the Sun, this close. The ship hurtled toward its fiery
mass at terrific speed.
Among the battery of instruments on the panel was a small stratometer,
calibrated in seconds. Norman saw the pointer moving with the speed of
the second hand on a watch. With each jump of the pointer, they fell
thousands of miles. Despite the thermo-glass, heat grew in the room
like a live thing. In less than three minutes, he realized, the ship
would begin to _melt_. He sprang from the controls, bent over the long
coffin-shaped box beside the galley door. His fingers were frantic
thumbs as he set the dials. It wasn't merely a test of the gravitation
counteractive now. The mechanism _had_ to work or they would boil like
lobsters in the steam of the very air they breathed.
Dorothy Gray stood sensibly out of the way, watching his frenzied hands
switch the delicate instrument. The Venusian woman cursed softly,
straightening her twisted skirt. "Wait till I see Sade again!" she
said. "Ordering his men to fire when he knew I was in here--Hey!" she
demanded. "Why's it getting so hot in here?"
Dorothy pointed toward the instrument panel. "See that little clock,"
she said, oddly observant for one of her few years. "That's a
stratometer. My dad's shown 'em to me on the big passenger lines. It
says we're falling mighty fast. It's getting hot in here because we're
falling into the Sun."
Seconds thundered by as Norman twirled the rheostat knobs in the
counteractive, fighting to bring the delicate focus of its power
into play against the dread suction that was dragging them down. The
thermo-glass was jet black now against the solid heat outside. With
apparently a knowing hand, Dorothy set the air conditioning unit up to
maximum as drops of moisture formed on the ceiling and dampened the
pilot room like hot dew. The thermo-glass began to bulge slightly at
its invisible seams, first in thin ridges around the ceiling, jutting
out more and more as the mad heat increased. Protection against the
extremes of temperature in space, it was constructed to follow these
lines of expansion. But for how long?
Keren screamed, razor-edged above the electric tension in the room.
"Give me a parasuit!" she cried. "Get me out of here!"
Norman's fingers played the rheostats like a piano. Suddenly an
electric eye blinked red as the counteractive fell into focus on the
true gravity force sector of the Sun. As he leaped to the controls, his
eye caught a glimpse of the stratometer's small death-white face. They
were sixty seconds from cremation....
Slowly, with nerve-tight slowness, he turned the brake wheel a fraction
of an inch as the hand of the clock moved on. The room was dim, the
panel lights casting weird shadows along the black ridges in the seams
of the thermo-glass. The ridges jutted inward over an inch now, spaced
two feet apart like braces or rafters around the room.
Suddenly Keren threw herself upon Norman, locked her arms around
his neck, dragging his sweaty hands from the wheel. "Stop us!" she
whimpered hoarsely. "Stop us, handsome! I don't want to die!"