Astounding Stories of Super-Science, May, 1930 Read online

  "Accursed luck! That you and I should find each other too late, Venza. We could have a mighty lot of fun in Great-New York together."

  "Snap, we will!"

  As I turned away, I murmured: "And, pray God, so will Anita and I."

  The girls slept together in a small room of the main building. Often during the time of sleep, when the camp was stilled except for the night watch, Snap and I would sit in the corridor near the girls' door-grid, talking of that time when we would all be back on our blessed Earth.

  * * *

  ur eight days of grace were passed. The brigand ship was due—now, to-morrow, or the next day.

  I recall, that night, my sleep was fitfully uneasy. Snap and I had a cubby together. We talked, and made futile plans. I went to sleep, but awakened after a few hours. Impending disaster lay heavily on me. But there was nothing abnormal nor unusual in that!

  Snap was asleep. I was restless, but I did not have the heart to awaken him. He needed what little repose he could get. I dressed, left our cubby and wandered out into the corridor of the main building.

  It was cold in the corridor, and gloomy with the weak blue light. An interior watchman passed me.

  "All as usual, Haljan."

  "Nothing in sight?"

  "No. They're looking."

  I went through the connecting corridor to the adjacent building. In the instrument-room several of the men were gathered, scanning the vault overhead.

  "Nothing, Haljan."

  I stayed with them awhile, then wandered away. The outside man met me near the admission lock-chambers of the main building. The duty-man here sat at his controls, raising the air-pressure in the locks through which the outside watchman was coming. The relief sat here in his bloated suit, with his helmet on his knees. It was Wilks.

  "Nothing yet, Haljan. I'm going up to the peak of the crater to see if anything is in sight. I wish that damnable brigand ship would come and get it over with."

  Instinctively we all spoke in half whispers, the tenseness bearing in on us.

  The outside man came out of his helmet. He was white and grim, but he grinned at Wilks.

  "All is usual." He tried the familiar jest at Wilks, but his voice was flat: "Don't let the Earthlight get you!"

  Wilks went out through the portes—a process of no more than a minute. I wandered away again through the corridors.

  * * *

  suppose it was half an hour later that I chanced to be gazing through a corridor window. The lights along the rocky cliff-edge were tiny blue spots. The head of the stairway leading down to the abyss of the crater floor was visible. The bloated figure of Wilks was just coming up. I watched him for a moment making his rounds. He did not stop to inspect the lights. That was routine; I thought it queer that he passed them.

  Another minute passed. The figure of Wilks went with slow bounds over toward the back of the ledge where the glassite shelter housed the treasure. It was all dark off there. Wilks went into the gloom, but before I lost sight of him he came back. As though he had changed his mind he headed for the foot of the staircase which led up the cliff-face to where, at the peak of the little crater, five hundred feet above us, the narrow observatory platform was perched. He climbed with easy bounds, the light on his helmet bobbing in the gloom.

  I stood watching. I could not tell why there seemed to be something queer about Wilks' actions. But I was struck with it, nevertheless. I watched him disappear over the peak of the summit.

  Another minute went by. Wilks did not reappear. I thought I could make out his light on the platform up there. Then abruptly a tiny white beam was waving from the observatory platform! It flashed once or twice, then was extinguished. And now I saw Wilks plainly, standing in the Earthlight, gazing down.

  Queer actions! Had the Earthlight touched him? Or was that a local signal-call which he had sent out? Why should Wilks be signalling? What was he doing with a hand-helio? Our watchmen, I knew, had no reason to carry one.

  And to whom could Wilks be signalling across this Lunar desolation? The answer stabbed at me: to Miko's band!

  I waited another moment. No further light. Wilks was still up there!

  * * *

  went back to the lock entrance. Spare suits and helmets were here beside the keeper. He gazed at me inquiringly.

  "I'm going out, Franck, just for a minute." It struck me that perhaps I was a meddlesome fool. Wilks, of all Grantline's men, was, I knew, most in his commander's trust. The signal could have been some part of this night's ordinary routine, for all I knew.

  I was hastily donning an Erentz suit. I added, "Let me out. I just got the idea Wilks is acting queerly." I laughed. "Maybe the Earthlight has touched him."

  With my helmet on I went through the locks. Once outside, with the outer panel closed behind me, I dropped the weights from my belt and shoes and extinguished my helmet-light.

  Wilks was still up there. Apparently he had not moved. I bounded off across the ledge to the foot of the ascending stairs. Did Wilks see me coming? I could not tell. As I approached the stairs the platform was cut off from my line of vision.

  I mounted with bounding leaps. In my flexible gloved hand I carried my only weapon, a small bullet projector with oxygen firing caps for use in this outside near-vacuum. The leaden bullet with its slight mass would nevertheless pierce a man at the distance of twenty feet.

  I held the weapon behind me. I would talk to Wilks first.

  I went slowly up the last hundred feet. Was Wilks still up there? The summit was bathed in Earthlight. The little metal observatory platform came into view above my head.

  Wilks was not there. Then I saw him standing on the rocks nearby, motionless. But in a moment he saw me coming.

  I waved my left arm with a gesture of greeting. It seemed to me that he started, made as though to leap away, then changed his mind and waited for me.

  I sailed from the head of the staircase with a twenty-foot leap and landed lightly beside him. I gripped his arm for audiphone contact.

  "Wilks!"

  Through the visors his face was visible. I saw him, and he saw me. And I heard his voice.

  "You, Haljan! How nice!"

  It was not Wilks, but the brigand Coniston!

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Imprisoned!

  he duty-man at the exit locks of the main building stood at his window and watched me curiously. He saw me go up the spider-stairs. He could see the figure he thought was Wilks, standing at the top. He saw me join Wilks, saw us locked together in combat.

  For an instant the duty-man stood amazed. There were two fantastic, misshapen figures swaying in the Earthlight five hundred feet above the camp, fighting desperately at the very brink. They were small, dwarfed by distance, alternately dim and bright as they swayed in and out of the shadows. Soon the duty-man could not tell one from the other. Haljan and Wilks—fighting to the death!

  The duty-man recovered himself and sprang into action. An interior siren-call was on the instrument panel near him. He rang it, alarming the camp.

  The men came rushing to him, Grantline among them.

  "What's this? Good God, Franck!"

  They saw the silent, deadly combat up there on the cliff. The two figures had fallen together from the observatory platform, dropped twenty feet to a lower landing on the stairs. They lay as though stunned for a moment, then fought on.

  Grantline stood stricken with amazement. "That's Wilks!"

  "And Haljan," the duty-man gasped. "Went out—something wrong with Wilks—acting strangely—"

  The interior of the camp was in a turmoil. The men awakened from sleep, ran out into the corridors, shouted questions.

  "An attack?"

  "Is it an attack?"

  "The brigands?"

  * * *

  ut it was Wilks and Haljan in a fight out there on the cliff. The men crowded at the bulls'-eye windows.

  And over all the confusion the alarm siren, with no one thinking to shut it off, was screaming with i
ts electrical voice.

  Grantline, stricken for that moment of inactivity, stood gazing. One of the figures broke away from the other, bounded up to the summit from the stair-platform to which they had fallen. The other followed. They locked together, swaying at the brink. For an instant it seemed to Grantline that they would go over; then they surged back, momentarily out of sight.

  Grantline found his wits. "Stop them! I'll go out to stop them! What fools!"

  He was hastily donning one of the Erentz suits which stood at the lock entrance. "Shut off that siren, Franck!"

  Within a minute Grantline was ready. The duty-man called from the window:

  "Still at it! By the infernal, such fools! They'll kill themselves!"

  The figures had swayed back into view, then out of sight again.

  "Franck, let me out."

  Grantline was ready. He stood, helmet in hand.

  "I'll go with you, Commander."

  But the volunteer was not equipped. Grantline would not wait.

  "I'm going at once. Hurry, Franck."

  The duty-man turned to his panel. The volunteer shoved a weapon at Grantline. "Here, take this."

  Grantline jammed on his helmet.

  * * *

  e moved the few steps into the small air-chamber which was the first of the three pressure locks. Its interior door-panel swung open for him. But the door did not close after him!

  Cursing the duty-man's slowness, he waited a few seconds. Then he turned to the corridor. The duty-man came running.

  Grantline took off his helmet. "What in hell—"

  "Broken! Dead!"

  "What!"

  "Smashed from outside," gasped the duty-man. "Look there—my tubes—"

  The control-tubes of the portes had flashed into a close-circuit and burned out. The admission portes would not open!

  "And the pressure controls smashed! Broken from outside—!"

  There was no way now of getting out through these pressure-locks. The doors, the entire pressure-lock system, was dead. Had it been tampered with from outside?

  As though to answer Grantline's amazed question there came a chorus of shouts from the men at the corridor windows.

  "Commander! By God—look!"

  A figure was outside, close to the building! Clothed in suit and helmet, it stood, bloated and gigantic. It had evidently been lurking at the porte-entrance, had ripped out the wires there.

  It moved past the windows, saw the staring faces of the men, and made off with giant bounds. Grantline reached the window in time to see it vanish around the building corner.

  It was a giant figure, larger than a normal Earthman. A Martian?

  * * *

  p on the summit of the crater the two small figures were still fighting. All this turmoil had taken no more than a minute or two.

  A lurking Martian outside? The brigand, Miko? More than ever, Grantline was determined to get out. He shouted to his men to don some of the other suits, and called for some of the hand bullet projectors.

  But he could not get out through these main admission portes. He could have forced the panels open perhaps; but with the pressure-changing mechanisms broken, it would merely let the air out of the corridor. A rush of air, probably uncontrollable. How serious the damage was no one could tell as yet. It would perhaps take hours to repair it.

  Grantline was shouting. "Get those weapons! That's a Martian outside! The brigand leader, probably! Get into your suits, anyone who wants to go with me! We'll go by the manual emergency exit!"

  But the prowling Martian had found it! Within a minute Grantline was there. It was a smaller, two-lock gateway of manual control, so that the person going out could operate it himself. It was in a corridor at the other end of the main building. But Grantline was too late! The lever would not open the panels!

  Had someone gone out this way and broken the mechanisms after him? A traitor in the camp? Or had someone come in from outside? Or had the skulking Martian outside broken this lock as he had broken the other?

  The questions surged on Grantline. His men crowded around him. The news spread. The camp was a prison. No one could get out.

  And outside, the skulking Martian had disappeared. But Wilks and Haljan were still fighting. Grantline could see the two figures up on the observatory platform. They bounded apart, then together again. Crazily swaying—bouncing—striking the rail.

  * * *

  hey went together in a great leap off the platform onto the rocks, and rolled in a bright patch of Earthlight. First one on top, then the other, they rolled, unheeding, to the brink. Here, beyond the midway ledge which held the camp, it was a sheer drop of a thousand feet, on down to the crater-floor.

  The figures were rolling: then one shook himself loose, rose up, seized the other and, with a desperate lunge, shoved him—

  The victorious figure drew back to safety. The other fell, hurtling down into the shadows past the camp-level—down out of sight in the darkness of the crater-floor.

  Snap, who was in the group near Grantline at the windows, gasped.

  "God! Was that Gregg Haljan who fell?"

  No one could say. No one answered. Outside, on the camp-ledge, another helmeted figure now became visible. It was not far from the main building when Grantline first noticed it. It was running fast, bounding toward the spider-staircase. It began mounting.

  And now still another figure became visible—the giant Martian again. He appeared from around the corner of the main Grantline building. He evidently saw the winner of the combat on the cliff, who now was standing in the Earthlight, gazing down. And he saw, too, no doubt, the second figure mounting the stairs. He stood quite near the window through which Grantline and his men were gazing, with his back to the building, looking up to the summit. Then he ran with tremendous leaps toward the ascending staircase.

  Was it Haljan standing up there on the summit? Who was it climbing the staircase? And was the third figure Miko?

  Grantline's mind framed the questions. But his attention was torn from them, and torn even from the swift silent drama outside. The corridor was ringing with shouts.

  "We're imprisoned! Can't get out! Was Haljan killed? The brigands are outside!"

  And then an interior audiphone blared a call for Grantline. Someone in the instrument room of the adjoining building was talking:

  "Commander, I tried the telescope to see who got killed—"

  But he did not say who got killed, for he had greater news.

  "Commander! The brigand ship!"

  Miko's reinforcements from Mars had come.

  CHAPTER XXV

  The Combat on the Crater-top

  ot Wilks, but Coniston! His drawling, British voice:

  "You, Gregg Haljan! How nice!"

  His voice broke off as he jerked his arm from me. My hand with the bullet-protector came up, but with a sweeping blow he struck my wrist. The weapon dropped to the rocks.

  I fought instinctively, those first moments; my mind was whirling with the shock of surprise. This was not Wilks, but the brigand Coniston.

  His blow wrenched him around. Awkward, fighting in the air-puffed suits, with only a body-weight of some thirty pounds! Coniston stumbled over the rocks. I had still scarce recovered my wits, but I avoided his outflung arms, and, stooping, tried to recover my revolver. It lay nearby. But Coniston followed my scrambling steps and fell upon me. My foot struck the weapon; it slid away and fell down a crag into a six-foot pit.

  We locked together, and when I rose erect he had me around the middle. His voice jangled with broken syllables in my receiver.

  "Do for you now, Haljan—"

  It was an eery combat. We swayed, shoving, kicking, wrestling. His hold around my middle shut off the Erentz circulation; the warning buzz rang in my ears to mingle with the rasp of his curses. I flung him off, and my tiny Erentz motors recovered. He staggered away, but in a great leap came at me again.

  I was taller, heavier and far stronger than Coniston. But I found
him crafty, and where I was awkward in handling my lightness, he seemed more skilfully agile.

  * * *

  became aware that we were on the twenty-foot square grid of the observatory platform. It had a low metal railing. We surged against it. I caught a dizzying glimpse of the abyss. Then it receded as we bounced the other way. And then we fell to the grid. His helmet bashed against mine, striking as though butting with the side of his head to puncture my visor-panel. His gloved fingers were trying to rip at the fabric around my throat.

  As we regained our feet, I flung him off, and bounded, like a diver, head-first into him. He went backward, but skilfully kept his feet, gripped me again and shoved me.

  I was tottering at the head of the staircase—falling. But I clutched at him.

  We fell some twenty or thirty feet to the next lower spider landing. The impact must have dazed us both. I recall my vague idea that we had fallen down the cliff—my Erentz motors smashed—my air shut off. Then the air came again. The roaring in my ears was stilled; my head cleared, and I found that we were on the landing—fighting.

  He presently broke away from me, bounded to the summit, with me after him. In the close confines of the suit I was bathed in sweat, and gasping. I had had no thought to increase the oxygen content of my air. But I sorely needed more oxygen for my laboring, pounding heart and my panting breath. I fumbled for the oxygen control-lever. I could not find it; or it would not operate.

  I realized I was fighting sluggishly, almost aimlessly. But so was Coniston!

  * * *

  t seemed dreamlike. A phantasmagoria of blows and staggering steps. A nightmare with only the horrible vision of this goggled helmet always before my eyes.