Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance
to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose
ships were the scourge of the Void. But his
luck had run its course, and now he was
marooned on a rogue planet--fighting to save
himself from a menace weapons could not kill.
[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.]
"_And so, my dear_," Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase, "_I'm
afraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets--or
is it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,
you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,
there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I've
accepted. I did love you.... Good-by._"
Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's last
letter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, they
never failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender as
the palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with a
perpetual wonder--limpid as a child's.
The barbaric rhythms of the _Congahua_, were a background of annoyance
in Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercurian
dancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,
began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,
in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise left
him cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughts
in silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, not
to speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boom
upon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only one
solitude--the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.
Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.
When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss of
Marla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could not
fill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.
True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been his
fault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous Jovian
Chamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have been
ready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisers
that almost surrounded the space pirate.
A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Every
dream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful use
of hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared as
if by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man's
soul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm reality
under the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.
It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, a
fortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than a
sheaf of credits--it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., and
most of his heart in Marla.
Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of the
insidious _Verbena_, fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frosty
glass of Martian _Bacca-glas_, and as he did so, his brilliant hazel
eyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of a
young Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred in
those eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?
Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Danger
brought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties could
instantly denote.
His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowed
slightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of this
Martian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latter
had edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriad
semi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, in
a final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap and
tilted back invitingly.
Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at the
handsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came the
tinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,
and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on his
feet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to one
side as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of Dennis
Brooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girl
cried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis was
not there.
* * * * *
Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoided
the murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly and
planted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of all
Martians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as the
Martian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chin
that staggered and all but dropped him.
The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered back
and sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But he
was not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight for
Dennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis took
it, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride over
with all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw and
spun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowly
sagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor.
Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the international
police arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,
the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under his
left arm-pit--an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout the
interplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates still
without the law were known to possess them.
"Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,
Brooke!" The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. "If
I'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.
Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and have
in his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete records
on that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps they
have details on this dandy!" He eyed admiringly the priceless Martian
embroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border of
red, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black _acerine_ on his finger.
Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put to
shame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curved
his generous mouth. "I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture of
Koerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again--you don't know
Bertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!"
He reached for his glass of _Verbena_ but the table had turned over
during the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming
_Bacca-glas_ shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of the
venomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of the
guests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor who
was shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusive
Palace.
"Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis," the lieutenant said
gently. "We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, the
credit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is a
hoodoo!"
* * * * *
The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminil
desk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six foot
four frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, as
if uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to a
decision, he were forcing himself to speak:
"Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, for
two reasons. The first one you already know--your capture of one of
Koerber's henchmen--has given us a line as to his present orbit of
piracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's not
really why I've brought you here." He frowned again as if what he had
to say were difficult indeed.
"Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her--a
delicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, and
very clever young lady could perform. And," he paused, grimacing,
"somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringing
her and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.
Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three days
overdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untold
millions, the spacer itself--seem to have vanished."
Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazel
eyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slits
that smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,
while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruel
precision.
"Marla!" He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the power
of Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like an
atom-blast.
"Commander," Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths of
emotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself--and
that grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another known
every change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.
"Commander, give me one ... _one_ chance at that spawn of unthinkable
begetting! Let me try, and I promise you ..." in his torture, Dennis
was unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surface
of the priceless desk, "I promise you that I will either bring you
Koerber, or forfeit my life!"
Commander Bertram nodded his head. "I brought you here for that
purpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, where
the last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death!"
He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast set
on his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. "You'll now see
a visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that left
Venus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vessel
in space. This, Dennis," the Commander emphasized his words, "is your
chance to redeem yourself!" He fell silent, while the viso-screen began
to show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacer
up-tilted in its cradle.
* * * * *
They watched the parabola it made in its trajectory as it flashed into
space and then fell into orbit there beyond the planetary attraction of
Venus. On the three-dimensional viso-screen it was uncannily real.
A flight that had taken many hours to accomplish, was shortened on
the viso-screen to a matter of minutes. They saw the great, proud
interplanetary transport speeding majestically through the starry void,
and suddenly, they saw her swerve in a great arc; again she swerved
as if avoiding something deadly in space, and point upwards gaining
altitude. It was zig-zagging now, desperately maneuvering in an erratic
course, and as if by magic, a tiny spot appeared on the transport's
side.
Tiny on the viso-screen, the fatal spots must have been huge in
actuality. To the Commander of the I.S.P., and to Captain Brooke, it
was an old story. Atom-blasts were pitting the spacer's hull with
deadly Genton shells. The great transport trembled under the impact of
the barrage, and suddenly, the screen went blank.
Commander Bertram turned slowly to face the young I.S.P. captain, whose
features were a mask devoid of all expression now, save for the pallor
and the burning fire in his eyes.
"And that's the sixth one in a month. Sometimes the survivors reach
Terra in emergency spacers, or are picked up in space by other
transports ... and sometimes son ... well, as you know, sometimes
they're never seen again."
"When do I leave, Commander!" Dennis Brooke's voice was like a javelin
of ice.
"Right now, if you wish. We have a new cruiser armored in beryloid with
double hull--a new design against Genton shells, but it's the speed
of the thing that you'll want to know about. It just about surpasses
anything ever invented. Get the figures and data from the coordination
room, son; it's serviced and fueled and the crew's aboard." He
extended his hand. "You're the best spacer we have--aside from your
recklessness--and on your success depends far more than the capture of
an outlaw." Bertram smiled thinly. "Happy landing!"