[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories December
1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: Like a ghost in the night a whole Mono train vanished. And it
was up to Jeff Blake to find out where it had gone...]
[Illustration: Blake forced the hatch up with all his strength. A few
seconds delay would mean disaster]
"Jeff Blake!" Holly O'Toole's knotted hand reached out and grasped the
right hand of the passenger descending from the rocket transport. "This
is a hell of a night to come home, when a man's been away as long as you
have."
Jeff Blake laughed, and swung down to his side to stand on the wind- and
rain-swept dock. He towered above O'Toole, lanky and smooth skinned. His
face was tanned a deep brown from space travel and little wrinkles
curled out from the corners of his mouth. Wrinkles that indicated a
willing smile. There was a cheerful warmth of sincerity in his voice.
"Weather doesn't seem to bother me much any more. I've been in and out
of a lot of it. This rain isn't much compared to those space turn-overs
we've had around moon the last few weeks."
They walked together toward the lighted office. Once inside, Holly
O'Toole tossed his coat across the warm elector-rad heater and turned
admiring eyes on Jeff Blake's tall frame.
"They sure made a man of you in space service," he said. "The last time
you left Hope you were a half-baked kid with a yen for a ray gun."
O'Toole sat back comfortably as Blake removed his jacket and threw it
over the heater. Blake was hard, and yet as Holly watched him, there
seemed to be a touch of softness in his eyes that hadn't been there when
Blake was a kid. A little more of Wade Blake, maybe. When two men were
born identical twins, they were bound together in a lot of odd little
ways.
The faintest suggestion of a bitter smile started across Jeff Blake's
young face. Then he relaxed, sat down. Lighting a cigarette he sucked
deeply and let the smoke drift from his lips.
"The last time I saw you, O'Toole, you were a little red-headed Irishman
who stirred up more trouble than my brother and I could get out of in a
month. What is it now?"
Holly O'Toole's dark face grew concerned. At once Blake knew his trip
would be interesting. Knew that the trouble he had been expecting was
close at hand.
"It's your brother, Wade," O'Toole went on. "Wade's in hot water again,
and he's in over his head."
That same sardonic smile flitted across Blake's face, and faded
immediately. O'Toole was under a terrific strain. The man was only
forty-five, yet the once brilliant battle flag of red hair had grown
thin in spots. His eyes, once clear and snapping, were a washed-out
blue.
"Go on," Blake said kindly. "When I got your message it wasn't easy to
drop everything and come. I expected something like this."
O'Toole stared at him, hating to say what he knew he had to.
"Wade is planning to marry Dauna Ferrell."
"Dauna?" Blake was plainly puzzled. "Why, Dauna was a tow-headed brat
when I left Earth. But if Wade wants her, why not?"
O'Toole shook his head a little impatiently.
"It isn't that he wants her," he said. "I can't explain everything now.
Let's just say that Wade is giving up every chance he'll ever have of
owning the 'Hope to Horn' line. He's stirring up trouble between Dauna
and her father and making a dangerous ass of himself in the bargain."
* * * * *
Blake flicked the long ash from his cigarette.
"He must be a busy man," he admitted. "But where do I fit into this
puzzle?"
Holly O'Toole was plainly bewildered.
"I wish I knew," he admitted. "I can't handle every angle alone, and if
some changes don't come in a hurry, Wade, Dauna and Walter Ferrell will
lose everything they have, including their sanity. You're the only man
who can pound any brains into Wade's head. I figured you might be
willing to try it, before it's too late."
He stood up rather stiffly, drew his belt up over his rounded paunch.
Blake watched him with narrowed, speculative eyes. O'Toole looked at his
watch.
"Where is Wade now?" Blake asked.
"At South Station since last night," O'Toole said.
"Does he know I'm on Earth?"
O'Toole looked doubtful.
"I'm afraid he does," he admitted. "I sent your radio-wave last week and
he was in the office at the time. I can't explain why, but I have the
feeling he checked up after I left and found out who I had radioed."
Blake followed O'Toole to the door, drew on his heavy coat.
"Let's get it over with," he shrugged his shoulders. "I've had to take
Wade in hand a couple of times. Once more won't do any harm. We'll go to
South Station."
O'Toole hesitated. He had something else to get off his chest.
"Jeff," he spoke gravely. "It's only fair to tell you that being Wade's
twin may get you into some pretty heavy trouble."
Jeff grinned queerly.
"Good!" he said. "I sort of like the stuff."
The door slammed behind them and the light from the single window faded
against the dark field.
* * * * *
A swift shadow of a man darted from between the empty space docks. The
stranger's arm went high and jerked straight. A wicked knife flicked
from the steeled fingers. It missed Blake's neck by inches; struck the
heavy door behind him. Blake took two swift steps forward, realized the
man was already lost in the night. He stopped and pivoted. O'Toole had
already jerked the knife from the door, was staring at it with tight
lips.
"Playful bunch of goons you've got around here," Blake said mirthlessly.
"I'm afraid that's some of the trouble I mentioned," O'Toole replied. "I
told you Wade is stirring up a pack of trouble and I'm afraid you're
dropping right into the middle of it."
He held the knife out toward Blake and the younger man took it.
"My brother must have changed a lot since I saw him last. Ten years ago
he spent most of his time playing the violin and raising flowers."
"Still does," O'Toole answered in a far-off voice. "But he has a few
other hobbies now. Games that he's learned to play too well for his own
good."
Blake was studying the knife that had missed his head. He ran a thumb
lightly over the razor edge of the weapon.
"Games that you play with knives?"
O'Toole nodded.
"Unless I'm greatly mistaken," he answered grimly. "That nice little
fellow who tossed the bread knife at you is one of Grudge Harror's play
boys."
"Now," Blake said, "we're getting some place. Who is Grudge Harror and
what's he got against Wade?"
"I'll try to tell you what I know of Harror while we're on our way to
make that next mono-train," O'Toole said. He took another quick glance
at his watch. "She pulls out in half an hour, so keep away from lights
and let's get to the station before we miss her."
* * * * *
They went out of the fenced space-field, bending double against the
storm. For several minutes O'Toole led Jeff Blake through deserted
streets. Reaching the lighted dome that was the Hope Mono-Terminal, he
explained.
"Grudge Harror," he said, "is the leader of a gang of cut-throats who
have been holding up and wrecking trains from here to the border. He's
got Walter Ferrell on the verge of bankruptcy. If something doesn't
happen soon to stop him, the Hope to Horn[A] line will fold up like a
busted space-kite."
"And Wade?" Blake questioned. "Where does he fit in the picture?"
"Ferrell depended on Wade to track Harror down and tear his gang apart.
You mentioned that Wade liked to raise flowers. Well! Thus far, he's
still at it. So for six months Harror has torn the business apart, train
by train."
Blake looked through the great entrance into the warmly lighted
Mono-Terminal. It was nearly deserted.
"It's a rotten shame that a cheap bunch of punks have spoiled a business
as fine as Walter Ferrell's mono line," he said slowly. "It looks as
though he has picked the wrong man for the job of getting Grudge Harror.
Maybe we can do something about it."
Holly O'Toole whacked him heartily across the back.
"I knew you'd say that, Jeff." Something of the old fight was coming
back into the Irishman's eyes. "I'll admit I'm stumped, but maybe with
your help...."
* * * * *
The mammoth dome of Hope's mono terminal was glowing warmly under a
rainbow of fluorescent light, when Blake and O'Toole entered the
rotunda. Crowds jostled toward the open gates that led to the V-Gaps
that held the single-tracked mono train upright when they were at the
station docks.
They followed down the long ramp to the dock and waited. A mono train
scraped slowly around the V-Gap and stopped. On its blunt, plastic nose
a single numeral was printed--6. The train was decorated in a sleek
contrast of silver and brown. Inside, porters rushed about making the
train ready for its return trip south.
Once on board, Blake stretched out and relaxed into deep air cushions.
"It's a good feeling to have some luxury again," he admitted. He lighted
a cigarette from his crushed package and O'Toole accepted another. They
watched quietly as a few despondent looking passengers filed in and sat
down. A tense undercurrent of feeling was at once evident to Blake's
keen eye. These travelers were here because of necessity. Not for their
own pleasure.
He was totally unprepared for what happened in the next ten minutes. A
girl came in. Before Blake could register surprise, she had uttered a
little cry of joy, plunked her smart little body down at his side and
thrown her arms around his neck.
"Oh! Darling! This is a surprise." He felt rich, warm lips press tightly
to his own, brown eyes staring lovingly into his.
Suddenly the eyes widened in surprised horror and she stiffened. Her
fingers went limp against his neck. Her lips tightened. She jumped up
and sank limply into the chair opposite him.
"Oh!" She blushed profusely. "Oh! Heavens, I thought...."
Blake's face burned. Blood rushed to his cheeks and emotions he hadn't
felt for years came rushing back into his body.
"I--I didn't expect...." he started.
The girl had collected her wits.
"I'm--I'm sorry," she said. "You look so much like someone I know...."
Blake looked her over quickly, and decided she was the most attractive,
clean cut young thing he had ever seen. She was dressed in sleek brown
traveling clothes. A pert, tight-fitting hat allowed the wealth of
shining brown hair to escape its edges and flow down the straight,
smoothly-molded shoulders. Her lips were still slightly curved in that
attractive oval of dismay.
"Do you always kiss strange men who look like people you know," he
asked, and immediately realized he was being cruel. "Forgive me, it
_was_ unexpected."
A look of recognition flooded her face.
"You must be Jeff Blake!" She stood up and clasped his hand warmly. "If
it weren't for that coat of space tan, I'd have sworn you were Wade."
"Dauna Ferrell," he said with a gasp. "Golly, but you've grown up since
I saw you last."
Her face turned a lovely pink.
"You won't have a very nice opinion of me after what I did?"
"Forget it." He leaned forward. "I've heard you're in love with Wade. If
I was fortunate enough for only that one kiss, to take Wade's place with
so beautiful a young lady, my life is one kiss richer than I deserve."
"I _do_ love Wade," she said. "But if his brother insists on throwing
such compliments at me, I'm sure he's going to be fine for my spirit.
Thank you, sir."
* * * * *
Her eyes traveled suddenly beyond him, toward the car entrance. Blake
turned and his face lighted at the sight of the tall, elderly man coming
toward them. Walter Ferrell had aged since he last saw him, but the
snow-white head, slim waist and wiry legs were the same. Ferrell came
forward, a look of cold hostility in his eyes. Then he recognized the
easy figure slouched in the chair opposite his daughter. A keen smile
lighted his features.
"Jeff Blake!" His hand shot out. "My God, boy, you're good to look at."
Blake was on his feet, one hand in Ferrell's, the other on the older
man's shoulder.
"And you!" he said. "The man who went to riches while I was kicking
around as a space tramp in every port of the universe."
Dauna moved gracefully, swiftly to her father's side.
"Tell Dad how I greeted you," she blushed prettily. "Dad, I think Jeff
had better go back to the moon. He and Wade will be quarreling over me
if I go on acting the same way I started out today."
Ferrell paid no attention to Dauna's outburst. Yet, the mention of
Wade's name sent smouldering fires into his eyes. He changed the subject
abruptly. Drawing Blake down to the chair beside him he said.
"Tell me boy, what's happened since you left? I want to hear the whole
story."
Blake talked. As he related the story of his past ten years away from
earth, he watched O'Toole and Dauna, seated together a few seats away.
They were discussing Wade, he knew. Although he talked with Walter
Ferrell, Blake's thoughts were with O'Toole, Wade and the girl, Dauna.
"Walter," he asked suddenly. "What's wrong with Wade? Has he been in
trouble?"
Ferrell tipped a tired head back against the cushion of his chair.
"Nothing," he said slowly. "At least, nothing I can put my finger on."
"Then," Blake insisted, "from what O'Toole says, you've both been pretty
tough on him. That is, if you're telling me the truth."
"Damn it, Blake," Ferrell exploded. "When I say nothing, I mean we
haven't caught him violating any laws. It's--well, I just never had any
admiration for Wade. He's what the younger generation would call a cream
puff. Soft, flabby and a mind that refuses to grasp any problem fitted
to a man of his age."
Blake stared out the window, waiting. The mono had pulled out of Hope.
Outside nothing was visible in the night except an occasional jagged
peak outlined against a cloudy sky. Troubled by Ferrell's continued
silence, he turned again to his friend.
* * * * *
"You haven't told me much," he protested. "O'Toole called me home
because he thought important things were going to take place. He thinks
I ought to knock Wade around a little, but I've got to know why."
Ferrell swore softly.
"O'Toole is always sticking his neck out where it gets clipped every now
and then. He's a swell Irishman, but his mountains are actually mole
hills."
Blake nodded and said covertly, "Someone tried to heave a knife into me
at the space-port. Was that one of O'Toole's mole hills?"
Ferrell's body jerked upright, and the muscles in his face stood out
tautly.
"The hell you say!"
"Truth--ask O'Toole."
Blake's voice died. His eyes turned to slits. The coach door had opened
quickly and a man had stepped inside. He was dressed from head to foot
in skin-tight black leather. His eyes were covered with a flashing,
silvery mask. Blake's gaze was on the small, ugly electro-gun in the
bandit's hand.
"A visitor," Blake said laconically. At the same time he pushed his feet
far back under the chair and braced them, like bent springs.
The masked man crouched at the waist and the gun whipped around,
covering the few passengers in the car.
"Stand up--all of you." He spoke harshly and with deadly precision. "On
your feet, and make it fast."
Blake waited. A low monotone of voices protested, died out to a whisper
of fear, and the passengers, including Ferrell stood with arms raised.
The electro gun came around slowly toward Blake.
"Up on your corns," the bandit spat at him. His eyes were black, diamond
slits in the silver mask.
Blake's gaze never wavered. Silver Mask came toward him slowly.
"You heard me."
A scorching flame seared Blake's cheek as the electro gun exploded and
part of its force burned his skin. Blake's face whitened with rage and
he dove desperately forward. Smashing a hard fist into Silver Mask's
face, he watched the fellow's body go limp. Two swift reflex actions,
one savage and murderously threatening, the other desperately defensive,
had brought lightning developments.
Blake heard Dauna scream in terror and turned like a flash. But the
heavy butt of a new electro gun swept down on his head. There was a
sudden sickening jolt and bright flashes of light went tearing into his
brain. He pitched forward across the first bandit's limp body, and the
car, spinning before his eyes, went blank.
* * * * *
When Blake came around, he was stretched out full length on the floor, a
pillow under his head. He looked up into Dauna's eyes.
"If you're wondering about the silver masked man who struck you," she
said, "There are dozens of them on the train. They have us all under
guard."
He sat up a little weakly, felt his head clear. Ferrell and O'Toole sat
across from his make shift bed.
"They won't let me make a dash for the door, Jeff," O'Toole said in an
unhappy voice. "Once in the hall, I could clean up on a snag of those
black devils."
"And get your head bashed in, like Jeff did," Ferrell added. "You're
sitting right here with me, _Mr._ O'Toole until we find out what this is
all about."
Ferrell turned to Blake.
"You asked for trouble, Jeff," he said tersely. "You've got it. These
are the same Silver Masks that have practically ruined my business.
Looks as though this might do it. Wade was told to clean out this tribe
of black devils six months ago. I detailed fifty men to work with him.
I'll bet you a ten spot that at this moment Wade Blake is at South
Station watering his flower bed, or some equally insane occupation."
Dauna was on her feet, arms akimbo, cheeks blazing.
"That's not fair, Dad," she flared. "He just isn't the type of boy to
handle this problem. You saw what happened to Jeff...."
"Wait a minute," Blake begged. "O'Toole is all for knocking Wade's head
against his garden wall. Ferrell, you want him to keep us out of trouble
when he's eight thousand miles away, and Dauna is protecting him when
I'm not altogether sure he deserves it. For the time being let's worry
about what is to become of us. Later, there'll be time to fight over
Wade."
Ferrell looked abashed.
"You're right," he admitted more quietly. "But you're a better man than
I am if you can make sense out of this. Why don't they take what they
want, kill us and be on their way?"
Blake looked out of the window. The sky was clear now. The rain had
stopped and the moon and stars were visible.
"I think I can answer that," he said. "From my following the stars, we
are now heading directly east, into the heart of the mountain country.
If I'm correct on directions, the monoline runs directly north and
south. Right?"
O'Toole pushed past him and strained his face to the glass. He turned,
face shining.
"By golly," he said. "Jeff's right. We must be flying or something.
There isn't any track that's laid in this direction!"
* * * * *
Ferrell stood at O'Toole's shoulder, looking out into the blackness. He
turned toward them, face stark with terror.
"It--can't--be!" he spoke slowly. "Vancouver is south of us, and
yet...."
"And yet you're going east." The strange voice cut in on them harshly.
Blake wheeled about to face the third Silver Mask he had seen tonight.
The man towered above them, a full seven feet tall. His thick lips,
visible below the mask, were curved in a cruel, delighted smile.
"You've bought one way tickets," he said gruffly. "Tickets that will
take you--nowhere."
Continuing, he turned to Ferrell.
"Walter Ferrell, and his daughter, Dauna Ferrell. Am I right? We are
fortunate in picking our company tonight."
"As owner of this rail line," Ferrell demanded in an even voice. "I want
to know what this is all about. Where are we going?"
Outside the sounds of the wheels had faded. The train wasn't moving. It
seemed to tip at a slight angle, as though leaning on some support.
"My name is Harror," Silver Mask said. "You're not going anywhere for
the time being, and while you are here I'll thank you to call me _Mr._
Harror. Don't try to leave this car. My men are stationed all around the
train with orders to shoot and look afterward. Take a look outside in a
few minutes. You may be surprised."
He turned and stooped to go through the door.
Blake turned to Ferrell and O'Toole.
"I haven't got the drift of all this yet," he admitted. "But we're in
for trouble and plenty of it."
* * * * *
Blake was sitting quietly in the smoker, head reclining on the window
ledge, eyes half closed in a cloud of smoke. The girl and her father
were asleep. O'Toole pretended to be, but Blake wasn't sure of the
Irishman. O'Toole slept with one eye open most of the time.
The deep silence and blackness outside of the window could indicate only
one thing. They were in some sort of a cave. The giant Harror had said
if they looked out, they might be surprised. Yet, hours had passed, and
the place was quiet and black as a tomb.
The door opened and a newspaper flopped on the floor. Blake went forward
and picked it up.
"Thought you'd like to see the big news." It was Harror's heavy voice
rumbling from the doorway. "Flown in from South Station. We've been
waiting to see what reaction the kidnaping of a train might have."
Blake listened quietly, and without a word turned on his heel and
returned to his chair. The door closed on them again.
Blake glanced at the headline. Then the full significance of Silver
Mask's latest move hit him between the eyes. The headline of the South
Station Star was in letters six inches high: