Their nerves were ragged. Days and days of fruitless search for a
phantom ship that seemed to have vanished from space, and an equally
elusive pirate whose whereabouts were hidden in the depths of
fathomless space.
To all but Captain Brooke, this was a new adventure, their first
assignment to duty in a search that went beyond the realm of the
inner planets, where men spent sleepless nights in eternal vigilance
against stray asteroids and outlaw crews of ruthless vandal ships. Even
their cruiser was a new experience, the long, tapering fighter lacked
the luxurious offices and appointments of the regular I.S.P. Patrol
spacers. It placed a maximum on speed, and all available space was
hoarded for fuel. The lightning fast tiger of the space-lanes, was a
thing of beauty, but of grim, sleek beauty instinct with power, not the
comfortable luxury that they knew.
Day after day they went through their drills, donning space suits,
manning battle stations; aiming deadly atom-cannon at empty space, and
eternally scanning the vast empty reaches by means of the telecast.
And suddenly, out of the void, as they had all but given up the search
as a wild goose chase, a speck was limned in the lighted surface of the
viso-screen in the control room. Instantly the I.S.P. cruiser came to
life. In a burst of magnificent speed, the cruiser literally devoured
the space leagues, until the spacer became a flashing streak. On the
viso-screen, the speck grew larger, took on contours, growing and
becoming slowly the drifting shell of what had been a transport.
Presently they were within reaching distance, and Captain Brooke
commanded through the teleradio from the control room:
"Prepare to board!"
Every member of the crew wanted to be among the boarding party, for
all but George Randall, the junior member of the crew had served his
apprenticeship among the inner planets, Mars, Venus and Terra. He felt
nauseated at the very thought of going out there in that vast abyss of
space. His young, beardless face, with the candid blue eyes went pale
when the order was given. But presently, Captain Brooke named those who
were to go beside himself:
"You, Tom and Scotty, take one emergency plane, and Dallas!"
"Yes, Captain!" Dallas Bernan, the immense third lieutenant boomed in
his basso-profundo voice.
"You and I'll take a second emergency!" There was a pause in the voice
of the Captain from the control room, then: "Test space suits. Test
oxygen helmets! Atom-blasts only, ready in five minutes!"
George Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He watched them bridge the
space to the drifting wreck, then saw them enter what had once been a
proud interplanetary liner, now soon to be but drifting dust, and he
turned away with a look of shame.
Inside the liner, Captain Dennis Brooke had finished making a detailed
survey.
"No doubt about it," he spoke through the radio in his helmet. "Cargo
missing. No survivors. No indication that the repulsion fields were
out of order. And finally, those Genton shells could only have been
fired by Koerber!" He tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inwardly
he seethed in a cold fury more deadly than any he had ever experienced.
Somehow he had expected to find at least one compartment unharmed,
where life might have endured, but now, all hope was gone. Only a great
resolve to deal with Koerber once and for all remained to him.
Dennis tried not to think of Marla, too great an ache was involved in
thinking of her and all he had lost. When he finally spoke, his voice
was harsh, laconic:
"Prepare to return!"
Scotty Byrnes, the cruiser's nurse, who could take his motors through a
major battle, or hell and high water and back again, for that matter,
shifted the Venusian weed that made a perpetual bulge on his cheek and
gazed curiously at Captain Brooke. They all knew the story in various
versions, and with special additions. But they were spacemen, implicit
in their loyalty, and with Dennis Brooke they could and did feel safe.
Tom Jeffery, the tall, angular and red-faced Navigator, whose slow,
easygoing movements belied the feral persistence of a tiger, and the
swiftness of a striking cobra in a fight, led the small procession of
men toward the emergency planes. Behind him came Dallas Bernan, third
lieutenant, looming like a young asteroid in his space suit, followed
by Scotty, and finally Captain Brooke himself. All left in silence, as
if the tragedy that had occurred aboard the wrecked liner, had touched
them intimately.
* * * * *
Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser, a surprise awaited them. It was young George
Randall, whose excited face met them as soon as they had entered the
airlocks and removed the space suits.
"Captain Brooke ... Captain, recordings are showing on the new 'Jet
Analyzers' must be the trail of some spacer. Can't be far!" He was
fairly dancing in his excitement, as if the marvelous work of the
new invention that detected the disturbance of atomic jets at great
distance were his own achievement.
Dennis Brooke smiled. His own heart was hammering, and inwardly he
prayed that it were Koerber. It had to be! No interplanetary passenger
spacer could possibly be out here at the intersection of angles Kp
39 degrees, 12 minutes, Fp 67 degrees of Ceres elliptic plane. None
but a pirate crew with swift battle cruisers could dare! This was the
dangerous asteroid belt, where even planetoids drifted in eccentric
uncharted orbits.
Dennis, Tom Jeffery and Scotty Byrnes raced to the control room,
followed by the ponderous Dallas to whom hurry in any form was
anathema. There could be no doubt now! The "Jet Analyzer" recorded
powerful disturbance, atomic--could be nothing else.
Instantly Captain Brooke was at the inter-communication speaker:
"Crew, battle stations! Engine room, full speed!"
Scotty Byrnes was already dashing to the engine room, where his beloved
motors purred with an ascending hum. Aboard the I.S.P. Cruiser each
member of the crew raced to his assigned task without delay. Action
impended, and after days and nights of inertia, it was a blessed
relief. Smiles appeared on haggard faces, and the banter of men
suddenly galvanized by a powerful incentive was bandied back and forth.
All but George Randall. Now that action was imminent. Something gripped
his throat until he could hardly stand the tight collar of his I.S.P.
uniform. A growing nausea gripped his bowels, and although he strove to
keep calm, his hands trembled beyond control.
In the compact, super-armored control room, Captain Brooke watched
the telecast's viso-screen, with hungry eyes that were golden with
anticipation. It seemed to him as if an eternity passed before at
last, a black speck danced on the illuminated screen, until it finally
reached the center of the viso-screen and remained there. It grew by
leaps and bounds as the terrific speed of the cruiser minimized the
distance long before the quarry was aware of pursuit.
But at last, when the enemy cruiser showed on the viso-screen,
unmistakably for what it was--a pirate craft, it showed by its sudden
maneuver that it had detected the I.S.P. cruiser. For it had described
a parabola in space and headed for the dangerous asteroid belt. As if
navigated by a masterly hand that knew each and every orbit of the
asteroids, it plunged directly into the asteroid drift, hoping to lose
the I.S.P. cruiser with such a maneuver. Ordinarily, it would have
succeeded, no I.S.P. patrol ship would have dared to venture into such
a trap without specific orders. But to Dennis Brooke, directing the
chase from the control room, even certain death was welcome, if only he
could take Koerber with him.
Weaving through the deadly belt for several hours, Dennis saw his
quarry slow down. Instantly he seized the chance and ordered a salvo
from starboard. Koerber's powerful spacer reeled, dived and came up
spewing Genton-shells. The battle was on at last.
From the banked atom-cannon of the I.S.P. Cruiser, a deadly curtain
of atomic fire blazed at the pirate craft. A ragged rent back toward
midship showed on Koerber's Cruiser which trembled as if it had been
mortally wounded. Then Dennis maneuvered his cruiser into a power
dive as a rain of Genton-shells swept the space lane above him, but as
he came up, a lone shell struck. At such close range, super-armor was
ripped, second armor penetrated and the magnificent vessel shook under
the detonating impact.
It was then that Dennis Brooke saw the immense dark shadow looming
immediately behind Koerber's ship. He saw the pirate cruiser zoom
desperately in an effort to break the gravity trap of the looming mass,
but too late. It struggled like a fly caught in a spider-web to no
avail. It was then that Koerber played his last card. Sensing he was
doomed, he tried to draw the I.S.P. Cruiser down with him. A powerful
magnetic beam lashed out to spear the I.S.P. Cruiser.
* * * * *
With a wrenching turn that almost threw them out of control, Dennis
maneuvered to avoid the beam. Again Koerber's beam lashed out, as he
sank lower into the looming mass, and again Dennis anticipating the
maneuver avoided it.
"George Randall!" He shouted desperately into the speaker. "Cut all
jets in the rocket room! Hurry, man!" He banked again and then zoomed
out of the increasing gravity trap.
"Randall! I've got to use the magnetic repulsion plates.... Cut all the
jets!" But there was no response. Randall's screen remained blank. Then
Koerber's lashing magnetic beam touched and the I.S.P. ship was caught,
forced to follow the pirate ship's plunge like the weight at the end of
a whiplash. Koerber's gunners sent one parting shot, an atom-blast that
shook the trapped cruiser like a leaf.
Beneath them, growing larger by the second, a small world rushed up to
meet them. The readings in the Planetograph seemed to have gone crazy.
It showed diameter 1200 miles; composition mineral and radio-active.
Gravity seven-eighths of Terra. It couldn't be! Unless perhaps this
unknown planetoid was the legendary core of the world that at one time
was supposed to have existed between Jupiter and Mars. Only that could
possibly explain the incredible gravity.
And then began another type of battle. Hearing the Captain's orders to
Randall, and noting that no result had been obtained, Scotty Byrnes
himself cut the jets. The Magnetic Repulsion Plates went into action,
too late to save them from being drawn, but at least they could prevent
a crash. Far in the distance they could see Koerber's ship preceding
them in a free fall, then the Planetoid was rushing up to engulf them.